Here I am, on a train from Zurich to Lugano, staring out the window like some cliché traveler in a movie. But come on, look at this view! Snowy peaks, absurdly green fields, and that perfect slice of fog hanging over the hills. I had to take a picture. Not for social media, haven't touched Instagram in years. This one's for me, for the little thrill in my chest that whispers, "You're really here."
So, I snap it, capturing mountains that seem too epic to be real and a glimpse of my own reflection in the glass. Not the perfect shot, who am I, Ansel Adams? But it's mine, messy reflections and all. This isn't the kind of happiness you broadcast, it's the quiet, smug joy of knowing you're somewhere beautiful without needing a hundred likes to prove it.
Will I remember this photo? Maybe, maybe not. It'll get buried in my camera roll, a tiny relic of a passing moment. But right now, as the train glides through the Swiss landscape, this picture is my little reminder that I was here, living my own private, absur… 4 replies
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