Penryn Morning

Walking is overrated, take the train. Scenes do not lurch forward with the tread of a heavy step but flicker instead. Gazing from my window seat, my eyes are tired, unfixed, registering nothing but the pixelated whir of motion, and all of a sudden I’m up against the horizon that was once up far ahead, an intrepid pioneer shuttled into the heart of the morning red sky. The paunchy houses that jut out onto the streets are unclear in the dark winter morning. Things once so vibrant are reduced to pale artefacts; unenergised, dull objects rendered in sepia tone by the lack of a sun's direct glare. At this time of day perimeters are left untraced, the solidity of objects remains fluid; everything is up for grabs, open to interpretation. The train pushes on over stilted, rising terrain, over the top of the town. Penryn on this particular morning is seemingly ablaze around its rim, the town’s innards are ashen, waiting to be rejuvenated out of monochrome slumber.

The train passes through a station illuminated by artificial lights and the insides of the carriage are reflected onto the windows in a flash. The interior lights turn on inside the train, pulling me out of my trance, away from this joyful dalliance with objects real and imaginary. With the contours of buildings and shapes now only half legible through the glass, I watch my tired face tear through familiar landscapes.

The End

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