A slow, soft rumble echoes in the distance. Anticipation stirs the silent night and soon the humming grows louder with pangs and shrill yelps of bells followed by haunting bellows winding through the dark, hollow streets. Industrious chugs matched by screechy wheels and throbbing carts dressed with art and scribble. A lone car sits purring at a flashing red light waiting to cross the tracks to scurry into the cool walls of a garage.
The dawn breaks, and morning glistens on the dew dripped tracks. Cars whir past daring an engine sitting stagnantly to budge after its long night flight. Right at ten minutes to eight, the beast stirs and takes its turn to stretch and slide across its tracks creating a blockade for all of the impatient minivans and eco cars that had sprinted from their burrows, but who squelched to a stop at seeing those damned red lights blinking tauntingly.
The beast moves again and silents the lunch rush hour. The drumming fingers on steering wheels keep time for the painfully shrill wheels and monotonous chugs. The symbol of a past wonder, a past of struggle, pauses the trendy cars and pedestrians to try to make them consider the massive trip it has forgone. The fingers keep on drumming, and sighs escape the mouths of frazzled businessmen in response to the blasting horns. The drum, drum, drum of fingers soon fades into the whump, thump, clump of axes, picks, and shovels being thrown into the dirt from the strong shoulders of the men of 1860.
The labour injustice, and discrimination have long since been buried beneath the worn tracks, and the train passing seems merely too large of an inconvenience for some travelers. Beneath those tracks though, lies an important piece of dark history; an important connector to our modern world and high fashioned life. The old, stout cars are no longer a sign of wealth or freedom to travel to untamed land, but instead are predictable hunks of metal that sit rusting from weathering sun and rain. The cars are like the arms of those men, though, that fought through the torrential winters and treacherous terrain. They buried their blood and bones in those rails, and the tracks now cover their forced labour entirely.
America sought out those impoverished Irish and Chinese men to complete an essential part of her growth. She fed off the weak to get stronger, and encouraged the rich to turn their cheeks to the suffering. The sin of the rich is still buried beneath the tracks. Now even the middle class man groans whenever he hears the blaring horn of a train...
I have to wonder as I stand admiring the majestic train if my life is much like America, though. Am I unforgivingly forcing myself in my weakest places so that the strong parts of my identity can survive? Do I lay tracks over the parts of my character that I feel are worthless, or that I am ashamed of? I am trying to appear so strong and modern - I am the face of the new generation. Alas, though, I only do what anyone would do if faced with the most demanding of situations though... I sacrifice internal justice so that I can appear to be externally strong and industrious. I know it is wrong, but I do it anyway - life must be a thing of control, right?
Wrong. Wrong. Wring. Clang. The train answers for me. Justice must be served, the truth must be revealed, or else my truest self will break in rebellion and strike. I will break free from the tracks I have laid upon myself. No longer will the axes of society pick away at my identity, nor will the hammers of lies plunder upon my shoulders. I will break free, and ride the paths much like the travelers who knew no sort of what was to behold in the unexplored West. Yes, it may be dangerous, but it will be beautiful and momentous. It will connect all parts of me -- the established, and the unestablished. Yes, in the eyes of others I may be seen as a nuisance, and annoyance, but I will stand for my past, and cling to my future, The paths are uncharted and crisp, and soon my whistle will have no enclosures to bounce off of -- I will be entirely free. Have I sacrificed some of myself, yes. Am I proud of this, no. The future lies ahead though, so I will continue to chug forward, with my wheels spinning towards a brighter beginning.
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