The Reluctant

I cannot believe this misshapen heap of busted seats and people is even referred to as a bus. The very windows seek to break free and away from existence, so long as they no longer provide light to a century’s worth of grime. The very intestines of forgotten travels are strewn about such that it would be more appropriate to call it a glorified dumpster, albeit a variety that could include people without turning the eye of the law–the one that would have you believe it pristine.

The sun blazed through the dusty eyes of this ghost ship. It felt as if each individual grain of dirt magnified the heat a thousand times over. Someone should really find a healthy alternative to that achingly asinine mineral. It is goddamn 2014! This group of withering souls is slowly melting into a miasma of discarded wrappers, receipts, and bottlecaps, yet the motor chugs on, the hands of the driver all but glued to their purpose. It is quite like there is a certain point past pain, one where the senses leave for their own safety, forgetting their duty to the body they were born to protect. The bastards.

There is no destination anymore. We ride and ride, past moons and sidewalks, never really registering the fact that a journey through the door might lead to something better. A simple drink of water could be a handful of steps away from the next stop, but none will detach their self for the sake of satiation. All things considered, it is safe here. Even if one were to stab you, your blood and the broken manuscript down there are all but distant cousins. As your last breaths caused you to choke, there would at least be the security of dying here, where the worst parts of you felt safety in rest.

It is a curious purgatory. You might sleep, but you will never truly dream. Fall to the ache in your eyelids, and their closing will only give way to visions of the road we travel, moving past your dream gaze at the speed of the sounds your traitorous ears pick up as you slumber. Perhaps an additional character or two are present, but they are simple shadows that have yet to depart along with their source material. You might not think it right to blame them, but you will find it no less sensical than blaming the sounds themselves. Existence tends to hate itself on this route.

The bigger specks of mostly-dirt roll to the left side as we turn. A single bug realizes it yet has strength to walk. Doing so, it crawls about to investigate, to find even one thing of worth. It stops at a particularly blue pair of shoes.

I look down at the bug. The laugh is as broken as the windows, allowing light between the cracks.


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