The odd sock that disappears

I'm on the train to London, sunshine and blue skies on the right, but to the left rain laden clouds threaten. The train cleaves down the middle. It would be a powerful metaphor for my path through life.

The train travels through diverse landscapes: suburbia, city centres, industriana, villages, farmland. It is always the villages nestled in the countryside that inspire a longing. Life would be good living there I imagine. The picture perfect setting would engender a similarly tranquil mental landscape where I could be at peace.

It is a common enough urge I suppose - to move away and leave troubles behind. Of course the one thing we take with us where ever we go is ourselves, and it is naïve to suppose that we can leave all our baggage behind.

I guess I have the full matching six piece set of Louis Vuitton luggage by now. For all my journeys I've never yet had any go missing in transit. Some of the contents have shrunk in the wash, and of course there is always the odd sock that disappears. I've come close to my weight limit more than once but have always scraped through. What would it be like to be free of it all and travel light?

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