Hundreds of palm trees crowding out a small mud-house as if waiting for the perfect time to encroach. The house itself lies obliquely along a small hillock overlooking the rail tracks. It seems completely oblivious to the drone of the mechanical monsters that thunder by every day. Evening descends early along these parts as people fold their final chores and a stoic silence engulfs the small houses. The backwaters ripple in perfect cadence with the gentle evening breeze. I see a distorted reflection of the mechanical monster I’m riding all along the backwaters in a perfect rebellion of man against nature. A seagull flies low over the backwaters not realizing how lucky it would be to get a catch. Colors are so vividly green as if telling you that all other colors are only a figment of your imagination. Beautiful little railway stations that would spring up with life even when a single train stopped there through the course of the entire day. Sweet strains of Fleet Foxes’ Blue Ridge Mountains plays on my headphones. Words pour out when you travel in solitude.
I don’t hate people, but I seem to feel better when they’re not around – Charles Bukowski (quote adapted)