Morning Two

New faces and new places are around me every time I wake.

Yesterday, I passed a stop with a marine. Schrapnel through leg and 8 vertebrae broken. Basic infintry became sniping skills. Six years being shuffled around: Iraq, Afghanistan, Iraq. Upon return to this beautiful land of freedom, all their possessions were stolen. The ride from here is toward home.

The night with lifelong friends who alternatively play hockey, drink, ride motorocycles, game, create havoc together. From the northern country, they were heckled and disliked collectively by the train staff. I wonder why this way.

This morning, a family who worked on their own strawbale house and consensus among intentional communities. Virginia was, apparently, full of these. Though how they hid from us is a charm we could not decipher.

I asked two people to watch my things as I went away for a moment. I have done this many times to many people. It’s a sort of introduction. You are my verification in case of some confusion with these posessions I am leaving in your charge. It’s establishing a sort of engagement, an interaction, a contract. Yes or no are acceptable answers. I have always gotten yes, sometimes more.
These two people, from a very secluded background as evidenced to me by their clothing — which I can only assume is intention — hardly touched me at all. Darting eyes and a muttered “oh sure” as if it were one word. And the hardest to find. Upon return, my thanks fell flatly to the ground underneath their table where a card or two may have fallen in their games of cards. I was not an acting player.
Strange. I wonder if you were merely afraid.

In Chicago, it’s either a free night up in the city or a late train out of it.
Only the desk personel will be able to tell.

For now, in Minnesota there is snow still on the ground in big dirty heaps and melting drifts. The water along the edges nearest the track is frozen in thick long veins that reach toward the birds. I’m sure if I look hard enough, I’d see many different forms of tracks. A tractor here, a small car there, a single set of prints I could not identify as we passed by.

The world is white and blue with the edges of green underneath here.
Just the edge of growth, once began, then covered over again.

Symbolism is all kinds of spoiled in me. For me. Through me.
I need some new perspective.
This solitary return journey into the state of being wholly unsolitary is good for me.
Is it good for you?

I hope for the best.
This has so much potential.

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