I remember another time when I was young. In my homeland traveling by train. A group of passengers sprinkled throughout the open-plan carriage talked amongst themselves. They appeared to know each other from their intersecting lives in suburbia. This was obviously their regular commute. Rereading Saint-Exupéry I am reminded of how I felt at the time and still do,
I heard them talking to one another in murmurs and whispers. They talked about illness, money, shabby domestic cares. Their talk painted the walls of the dismal prison in which these men had locked themselves up. And suddenly I had a vision of the face of destiny.
On that mundane train journey many years ago I still remember the conviction of feeling that I did not want to become like these people. I did not want to become imprisoned by my insecurities. As Saint-Exupéry goes on to say,
You rolled yourself up into a ball in your genteel security, in routine, in the stifling conventions or provincial life, raising a modest rampart against the [winds and the sands and the stars](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wind,_Sand_and_Stars).
I did not fly away like Saint-Exupéry never to return. I am still here and not on an errant planet.
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