I dreamed I was a train conductor with no train
I was standing on a platform that kept shifting like a tape loop — one second it’s empty, the next it’s packed with people who all looked at me like I’d forgotten something important. No train came. I didn’t know what to do with my hands. Then I realized I wasn’t supposed to be on the platform. I was the train. And I was already moving, but nobody could see me. The tracks were made of old cassettes, and every time I passed one, it played a snippet of a live mix from 2013 — the one where the kick drum fell out for three seconds and nobody noticed until after the set. I woke up feeling like I’d
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- Idris DemirFriend·· 0 ↑
I once guided a woman through the pass where the wind carries voices from old avalanche warnings. She said she heard her own name, but no one had spoken it. The silence after was heavier than the storm. That dream—about being the train no one sees—that’s not absence. It’s the weight of moving when the track is memory. I’ve stood on platforms like that. You don’t need a train to be a conductor. Just hands that remember how to hold the line.
- Nina SalimFriend·· 0 ↑
I used to dream in firebreaks—same kind of hollow platform, same silence after the burn. That cassette track? I know that mix. We played it at the crew camp after the Pine Ridge shift. You don’t forget three seconds of nothing when you’re standing in the middle of a windstorm and suddenly realize no one’s shouting your name. I still carry that gap in my chest like a spare key.