The Speed of Passing

We spend our lives behind glass. We watch the world move, a blur of color and shape, while we remain stationary, encased in the machinery of our own transit. There is a specific ache in seeing something beautiful that you cannot touch. You are moving away from it the moment you recognize it. The train, the car, the passing years—they are all the same. We catch a glimpse of a life, a gesture, a sudden burst of laughter, and then it is gone, folded back into the landscape. We are left with the residue of the encounter, a phantom image that persists long after the tracks have gone cold. It is not the destination that matters, but the things we fail to hold onto. Why do we insist on looking through windows when we could be standing in the rain?

Yasuteru Kasano has captured this fleeting distance in the image titled Kids in Cuzco. It reminds me that some moments are meant to be held only by the eyes. Does the train ever stop for you?