It's about time

"I'm on a train and listening to florence and the machine and I love you"
　
The text came a few minutes before 10 yesterday morning.
　
We are still friends on trains.  It's the only place you exist to me and the only place where I can still love you.
　
Daydreams take some away to an alternate reality.  Some people have movies or books or music.  I have trains.  On them I sense no passage of time, no stress, no worries or to-dos, no family or friends, no responsibility, no mistakes.  Just me.  Any me I want to be.  Occupying space.  Alone with my thoughts and adventures and surrounded by visions and the sounds of people, imaginary inconsequential people.  Some days there are a lot of these people.  Sometimes they talk to me whilst dressed in business suits, drinking beer out of a brown paper bag, and explaining how their wife won't be happy about their impromptu after work excursion with the boys.
　
The best part of fantasy worlds is not the control we have over things but the beauty of tempo rubato.  The musical term derived from Italian meaning "stolen time."  Rhythmic manipulation and nuance.  Stealing time from one thing and giving it to another.  The bending and shaping of time.
　
My pocketful of hours in the day always runs out before I'm ready for it to.
　
I don't see it as a cruel fact of life.  Today I see it as Debussy performed by someone not ready to play it.  Looking out of Starbuck's window at the intersection of Grant & Academy, I see it all sonically and time is bending all wrong.  It's not being manipulated but it is manipulating us.
　
I did much better when I was living on trains and in their stations. I was at peace with time.  We were friends even.
　
I was happier.
　
And more relaxed.
　
And felt more alive.
　
Now I have a home, which I do love.  And a job, which I enjoy.  And stability, which, well, because I simply cannot afford to live the life of trains.