May 23, 2005

The railway lines that wind their way by my house and disappear into the nearby hills eventually end up in Laura’s city. Seventeen kilometres of steel rails and wooden ties connect our houses, and the trains that whiz by in the night give us both shivers minutes apart.

I saw all this on a map and said, “Let’s walk along the railway tracks one day. Asphalt is overrated.” This Saturday morning she call me and said, “What are you doing today?”

Two hours later we ignored the “no tresspassing” signs and started walking down the tracks, hand in hand. The sun was merciless and the railway tracks were littered with the carcases of a million tiny animals who committed suicide. Everything smelled of death and summer days; we were quiet and couldn’t think. She took photos, while I picked up rusty nails and shoved them in my underwear.

“I wanted to walk along these railway lines because they connect us in strange ways and they are beautiful,” I said.

With all this death and rust around us, we were no longer sure who or what we were. “Desire is suffering. I have no self. Or rather different selves for everyone who wants one. Fluidity is key.”

The great highway of steel seemed endless and made us loose our minds. We passed countless fields and creeks, and when we got home five hours later we were covered in sweat and our legs were throbbing. And everything between us was different.

Later in the evening when I was lying naked next to her and her hips were sore from walking I called her a hipster. “Hipsters have great hips,” I reasoned. She laughed and everything was great again.

Related:

• Tudor’s Flickr Photostream
• Laura’s Flickr Photostream