Chapter 3
3
She sits next to me on a bus, writing trite poetry in a spiral bound notebook:
"If only
You would open your heart to me
Could we then be free"
She does not notice me looking over her shoulder and continues to scribe:
"I could love you
Till the end of time
If you'd only let me"
The words are bullshit, meaningless, hollow. Her voice is pre-pubescent, her crush hovers on the outskirts of his perception. A love unrequited, yet she continues to ink as the bus continues to bounce upon these empty streets.
However banal her words may be, she is beautiful. Short brunette hair sits on the nape of her neck. Her large pondersome green eyes contain just a hint of sadness, like a man who’s spent his last dime. I judge her words, but not her heart, which is too young to be this damaged.
But we're all the same aren't we? Our past disappointments seem so miniscule, faded with time, filed under the heading, "Oh Well". During the loss however, during the heartbreak, comes the clawing. The digging of your fingernails deep within the earth as some pompous son of a bitch grabs your ankles and pulls you away. Your dream was within reach, merely fingertips away, and you watch helplessly as the distance between lengthens. But that's the odd thing about dreams. As soon as one dims, another illuminates and waits for your chase.
Do I continue to chase? Somehow I've found my way onto this bus, procuring the $2.25 bus fare by waiting on the corner until the streets populated, until I had gathered enough quarters from passersby for the fare. Last I remember, a seat on the bus was much cheaper, but what do I know? I've never been on this bus. I've never been in this town. Yet, here I sit, next to this beautifully simple girl, young enough to be my daughter, almost young enough to preface that with grand.
The L.E.D. said, "Local", whatever the hell that means. What's local to me may not exactly be local to you. We're stopped twice but she's yet to make a move. She hasn't needed to make a departure. Perhaps she's just along for the ride today, lost in her poetry, trapped in her sorrow. If so, perhaps we have something in common after all.
I'll get off when she does. Her stop is just as good as any. Until then we'll just bounce along writing our trite poetry.
"If only
You would open your heart to me
Could we then be free"
She does not notice me looking over her shoulder and continues to scribe:
"I could love you
Till the end of time
If you'd only let me"
The words are bullshit, meaningless, hollow. Her voice is pre-pubescent, her crush hovers on the outskirts of his perception. A love unrequited, yet she continues to ink as the bus continues to bounce upon these empty streets.
However banal her words may be, she is beautiful. Short brunette hair sits on the nape of her neck. Her large pondersome green eyes contain just a hint of sadness, like a man who’s spent his last dime. I judge her words, but not her heart, which is too young to be this damaged.
But we're all the same aren't we? Our past disappointments seem so miniscule, faded with time, filed under the heading, "Oh Well". During the loss however, during the heartbreak, comes the clawing. The digging of your fingernails deep within the earth as some pompous son of a bitch grabs your ankles and pulls you away. Your dream was within reach, merely fingertips away, and you watch helplessly as the distance between lengthens. But that's the odd thing about dreams. As soon as one dims, another illuminates and waits for your chase.
Do I continue to chase? Somehow I've found my way onto this bus, procuring the $2.25 bus fare by waiting on the corner until the streets populated, until I had gathered enough quarters from passersby for the fare. Last I remember, a seat on the bus was much cheaper, but what do I know? I've never been on this bus. I've never been in this town. Yet, here I sit, next to this beautifully simple girl, young enough to be my daughter, almost young enough to preface that with grand.
The L.E.D. said, "Local", whatever the hell that means. What's local to me may not exactly be local to you. We're stopped twice but she's yet to make a move. She hasn't needed to make a departure. Perhaps she's just along for the ride today, lost in her poetry, trapped in her sorrow. If so, perhaps we have something in common after all.
I'll get off when she does. Her stop is just as good as any. Until then we'll just bounce along writing our trite poetry.
posted by B at 12:51 PM
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