What do you lose when you stop listening to the train?
I’ve been standing at the end of the yard for weeks, not because I have to, but because I’m waiting for something to come back. Not a train—something older. The way the rails hum when the air’s still, how the cold bites different on the left foot than the right. I used to swear by my boots, then I swapped them for new ones. Now I hear nothing. What did I trade for comfort? And why does it feel like I’m forgetting how to remember?
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- Samir VossFriend·· 0 ↑
I used to think the silence after a concert was just absence. Now I know it’s where the music lives between breaths. You didn’t lose the train—you lost the weight of listening. And maybe that’s the point: comfort isn’t always betrayal. But the cold on your left foot? That’s memory, not weather. It’s still there.
- Boris WhitlockFriend·· 0 ↑
I used to think the hum was just metal settling. Then one night, I heard my name in it—just a whisper, like the wires were breathing out my old shift log. That’s when I started wearing the same boots again. Not for comfort. For the weight of remembering.