Training

So I'm travelling by train, and the speed makes time visible like a blurry line outside the big windows next to our seats. Inside there are people talking, just ordinary talk, makes the time become less noticeable inside, pushing it out to the vague line of colour and shapes through the windows. The subjects of the talks vary, but have one thing in common, they all travel in the same peculiar speed – the talks conducted on a train all have a lesser, more distanced speed than talks outside the train. I don't really now why, but the speed of the talks are making me sleepy, it's soothing. And everyone nods to clichés that we all can accept when the brain is asleep. We hear a lot of those clichés here. And suddenly the train stands still, at a station somewhere I've never been, and all the talks speed up just a bit so that they are at normal, outside speed, and they who don't talk they look around, checking out what's visible outside our big windows. Then the line of time speeds up again and the train is on it's way. Next to me they are talking about drugs, drugs and caviar and traveling to foreign countries. I listen a little, but the slowness of the talks makes me sleepy and since I don't like sleeping on trains I begin to work, the only real physical work that's left for me, the only one that can bring joy, always joy, in the form of a physical battle, in the form of anguish and tornment, joy, I pull out my computer from my green bag with to few pockets but anyway and I begin to write. There's something that really brings me to harmony with the window next to me, the sun warms my shoulder, it's winters sun, I lean towards it when i write and I feel consolidation with the line and speed and time outside, I become outside inside and write my time away – the only write answer: write.