The Bus - a written piece.
I'm on a bus of the apathetic. Where faces, tired of virtual windows, stare blankly into the distance. The men in the suits, the women with the fake diamond earrings, hours spent unfazed or unmoved except by the 5pm timer. The ones who don't stare out from the glass continue to occupy themselves with the virtual world they carry in their pockets. Reality only serves the purpose between the life and time spent hanging on to an internet connection.
The bus of the apathetic travel like ants across the asphalt and painted yellow lines. Each one carries a load on their back home, only to return with the same load for a duplicate sunrise. The weight shows on the hunches of the tired, the bags under the weary-eyed.
The bus of the apathetic is a breathing photograph. They are passengers caught in the same moment, mundanely travelling but never well-travelled. They are people of daily routine, of daily existence; but rarely leaders of their days when they are slaves to minutes they pay for.
The bus of the apathetic moves without attention. It hums past the world and struggles between every hill, but obediently moves on. A machine built by its makers, only free to travel within the boundaries set by those who own the last line.
But the bus of the apathetic always returns, for the passengers choose to board it each and every day.
(The above piece was written on a bus ride while listening to Switchfoot's 'Fading West' album. Music, and a hour long bus ride, gives you space to think and wander with thoughts. The above is not that good to be fair, but it felt good to write with a pen and paper the sentences that formed in my mind.)
