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  • Writer's pictureflippyhipped

Myanmar, Page 1.



The night sky falls onto the barren fields of grain and dust as the train dances on the tracks. Three young monks across from me hang their heads out the window and stare into nothing but the thick dark air, it fills the dimly lit train. Vendors fill the isles with baskets on head; eggs, grapes, sunflower seeds and cooked fish are sold to the locals. A mother feeds her daughter grapes, spitting the seeds at my bare feet, she looks up with apologetic eyes. I smile. The people bounce up and down and side to side in the rows of wooden slat benches, the overcrowded carriage brings us together in one movement. Mothers, daughters, fathers, sons, foreigners, friends, lovers, the religious, old and young. We are all the same here in ordinary class. We are people. All going to different places on the same floating cart of wood and metal that has ridden the rails of many journey's travelled before. And yet once again we shut our eyes for another night as we await our destinations in silence, dreaming as one human consciousness under one sky of stars. We are. We are.

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