Train station
Taipei, Taiwan • Travel
Travelling by train means accepting that the landscape is never fixed. It means learning to love what disappears before you even have time to take it in.
The outside world becomes an endless film, and the passenger a spectator of fleeting beauty that only movement can reveal.
It is a scene that lasts only a moment: 
a fragment of the world captured by the glass, 
where it is no longer clear whether one 
is inside or outside, passenger or observer, 
traveller or dreamer.
Passengers.
The train window becomes an imperfect mirror where reflections and reality blend together. Each reflection, each shadow tells a fleeting story.
Through the windows, the landscapes change, but inside, it is a different geography: one of tiny gestures and shared silences.
Train passengers are familiar strangers: we forget them immediately, but for a moment, they are the silent companions of our journey.
We see a building with worn facades, a reminder of an industrial past, then immediately a jumble of roofs and buildings where the city is crowded together. Between the two, the tracks roll out their vanishing line, tracing a border between what we are leaving and what we are heading towards.
The train does not stop to contemplate;
it forces us to seize the moment in its momentum.
