Train Window

Looking out the window, it feels as if the scenery is moving. Even as a child, I understood that it was I who was in motion, yet the sensation remained mysterious. In a car, the view includes the direction of travel, but on a train, unless you are in the front car, you only see the landscape passing by from the side. Perhaps that makes the experience different.

In the 1980s, my father once took me to a bookstore in Yokohama. It was likely one of the few stores where he could order the specialized books he needed for his work. It was a well-established, large bookstore, one he had probably frequented since his youth. Yet, I never had the chance to hear his memories of it.

On the way home, the train gradually carried us from Yokohama into the suburbs. Through the window, I watched the sky and clouds, the roads and people, birds, and dogs being taken for walks—ordinary moments of daily life, unfolding like the closing credits of a film. There was so much I didn’t know. Sitting beside my knowledgeable father made me happy.

Now, I occasionally travel to the city for errands. Everything feels different from my memories of the 1980s. The city is denser, more crowded, filled with buildings. Yet, even after forty years, the lives of people outside the window still feel like an endless film reel. The train window is not just a symbol of travel; it is a panorama—one that can be read and interpreted beyond the simple act of moving through space.

The world outside flows past.

Like a metaphor for time itself.