If highways and roads are the earth’s veins, the hundreds of miles of train tracks are hidden energy flows – sources of emotion. Whether it be happy or sad, it is unimportant. For their abundance means, regardless of their nature, the effect is overwhelming. It consumes the land, yet is unspoken. Some of these tracks are untouched by others, engulfed by silence and a sense of indisputable serenity and sacredness, yet with an overhang of loneliness and misinterpretation. Those we display are polished, made as appealing to the human eye as feasibly possible . Yet those rugged, rusted stretches are what we hold close, leaving their destinations unknown to all but ones self. Forming an almost sick manifestation with a true masochistic relationship.

Most don’t want to revisit what lurks, some could liken this trip down memory lane to a bone chilling ghost train. Haunted by our own ghouls. Showcasing all our imperfections. Unwanted uniqueness. All of which drop us into the category of being human. Too much time and a fleeting dabble with an inquisitive nature will lead to a life on the tracks. Occasionally bursting through the foliage, returning to a known location, characterised by the all to familiar sounds and smells of civilisations. Areas in which all our resources are exploited. With street lights leading to every crevice being excavated and shared with all those that past.

However for some, this encounter with ‘normality’ is brief, they hop aboard the next carriage to lead them to their primeval burnt orange slats. Their familiarity, even though it be morbid, provides a comfort.

It is rare that you see a couple hand in hand unearthing the could be treasures or curses of this complex matrix. Is it wrong to want someone to stand by me, help me place one foot in front of the other and complete my diesel stained voyage of self acceptance and discovery.