Light in Motion
Auto Train Confessional
There’s a certain kind of light that only exists in motion, that quicksilver shimmer slipping between the window glass and your own reflection. It’s the kind of light that forgives you for a minute, makes everything look softer, even the trail of wreckage you didn’t mean to leave.
I boarded the Amtrak Auto Train at dusk, camera ready, car below, telling myself this was another adventure, not an escape. Technically, I am headed to Florida for work and then Miami for the holidays. Emotionally, I was parked somewhere between memory and anticipation, unfortunately with a big stack of chaos in my rearview. A few people I admire and value still reeling from my inability to tell them truths that would’ve crushed them and others still wondering why my humor doesn’t come with a warning label.
Apologizing isn’t an option anymore; no one seems to care, and I’ve run out of explanations. Justification isn’t my thing these days, but hopefully redemption is still waiting somewhere down the line.
The truth is, no one really wants to hear from me when I break free. It’s never graceful. It’s like shattered glass, sharp, messy, impossible to put back together. A repeat of childhood behavior, I suppose, the same instinct to run before I’m left behind.
Still, there’s that certain kind of light that only exists in motion, forgiving me for a moment, reflecting what’s left, and reminding me that even broken things can catch the light.
The rhythm of the tracks became a metronome for all that unspoken noise in my head, click, sigh, hum. Strangers exhaled into sleep while I watched my reflection fade into the last of the golden light, thinking maybe motion is the only place where I can still make peace with standing still.