#341 - Train Window 5:37pm

I'm on the train now. I'm looking out the dirt window to my left. It's clear (apparently), but I can see my own reflection peering back at me.

The window is roughly 48 inches wide and 30 inches tall. Rather than harsh, right angles, the window's corners are softly rounded. A rubber seal is visible around the circumference. It's soft and black. This seal is protecting me from the elements, but its subtle appearance hides that importance.

The window is quite cold on my fingers. It's very smooth. For a moment I wonder what it's like to be blind and touch this window. Surely I'd know it's a window from past experience. The tactile memory of fingertips must be more powerful than fading images in my brain. Maybe not, though.

A window's purpose is its separation between me and beyond. There's no other point to a window than to divide. On a train though, what lies beyond is constantly changing. One moment giving way to the next. And how do I know I always need this window's protection?

If I were outside the train, looking at its windows, I wouldn't be able to place any one in particular. The windows are largely indistinguishable. The glass would be too dark for my eyes to penetrate; the train would be moving too fast to get a proper glimpse inside.

If I were there and another me here, could I recognize myself as a traveling point or destination? A fleeting interest or a reliable soul? If I spoke, would I (the other I) know my own voice, and would I even care? I can't know the answer, as I'm permanently divided from the outside by this window.

On the train, the stewardess passes me now and offers a glass of beer. It's cold and refreshing. I take a sip and forget about the rest. Tomorrow I'll be somewhere else, and this won't matter anymore.