Quoted By:
I remember when I was about 6 or 7 I wanted to go see the trains and my father took me aside and said he had feelings like that too when he was my age and he understood the confusion but that I wouldn't be accepted and I should be a cager like everyone else. He then took me to drive past the train station to see all the foamers and said if I let the bad thoughts rule my heart I would end up like them. Also he said I shouldn't mention any of it to my mother and if I said what he told me about when he was my age he would deny it.
When I was old enough he taught me to drive and my mother was very proud. That lasted about a year, I just couldn't do it. It was a lie. The whole thing was a lie. So I sold my cage and that was the first step. The police in those days would stop you for not being in a cage and ask you all kinds of questions which are obviously unconstitutional but we didn't think like that back then.
The next thing was when I got into my bi cycle. One day I'd be trainnie and not thinking about the asphalt, and the next day I'd be back on the asphalt pedaling away not thinking about trains at all. We didn't have the internet and no one was there to explain to me that it didn't have to be one or the other. The imposter syndrome was sometimes difficult to bear. Why in the fuck am I shaving my legs? What's gotten into me? This wasn't supposed to be how it turned out. I should just go back to being a cager. Everything would be easier, I thought. But when I'd take a few tenative steps back, pick up an hourly cage near the terminal, an overninght rental, I knew it wasn't for me. The smell of the gasoline made me sick. The delirious bobbing and bouncing of those big pneumatic tires inspired disgust not lust like I was told I should feel. No. I was born a certain way, might as well accept it. Otherwise I'd end up like my dad. A life of ragrets. Not this time, fate!
It's a tough life, that of a trainnie. You sometimes can't find a public toilet to use.
