I'm on my way home again, looking out the window of a quiet train and finding a certain love in the paysage d'hiver. My feet propped on the opposite seat, I don't feel lonely. I remember this time a year ago while I rode the same train; I had displaced my happiness into the hands of someone that wasn't me and I was very lonely. Now I think of him whenever I ride trains and I hate it. The most romantic mode of transportation doesn't deserve such a detestable poster child.
I'm coming home feeling very whole, very balanced. I'm not sure how else to explain it. I'm content with returning home to that same feeling. Creativity and curiosity induced by ennui. The perpetual search of finding meaning in the word "home".
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