The Passing of the Night Freight

Dear Delyara, It’s 2:10 AM, and the deep, seismic rumble of the night freight train is passing behind the perimeter wall, making the water in my plastic bottle vibrate with tiny, concentric rings. I always look up when it passes. I watch the dark silhouettes of the shipping containers cut through the industrial lights, moving toward the docks, moving toward the world outside. There is a violent loneliness in watching things leave. It feels like the entire global economy is moving, trading, and progressing while I am fixed to this specific spot on the tarmac, a solitary guard watching the tail lights of progress disappear into the mist. I close my eyes and listen to the metal rails click until the silence returns, heavier than before.