I'm riding a train.
Not metaphorically, I'm actually sitting on a train. I haven't done this in a while (I have a car, so there's not usually a need).
But there's an odd feeling about whizzing by the trackside homes, furtively getting brief glances into random backyards. I will most likely never see these backyards again. I have no connection to or care for them. They're just somebody else's backyard. I imagine the feeling is shared by my fellow passengers. It's just that way.
I'm reminded of something simple that I forget a lot: the world is big. California is big. Los Angeles is big. And there's a lot of people out there living lives that I'm sure I'll never in any way connect to. I just see a blurry backyard, but someone out there is walking around with a nostalgic memory and fondness for that backyard. They skinned knees, built forts, played tag there. It's their childhood backyard, just as mine is, and just as mine is most likely completely unfamiliar to them.
For some reason, I'm touched by the knowledge I don't know them at all. It's a scary and comforting fact: comforting because I get this sense I'm not alone in this big confusing journey, scary because I'm reminded of something that's also so forgettably simple.
I'm quite small.