Drained

I am on a bus. I am on, yet again, another bus. I don’t want to complain. I think about all the people who wish they could ride a bus and get away from their problems. There are so many problems that cloud the mind of some helpless victim out there. He or she wishes to be on a bus right now.

I think about how great it would be if were able to ZAP myself to my destination, almost like morphing! I wish I didn’t have to pray that my eyes would magically stay open. They tend to want to close in every commuting situation. I try to enjoy the scenery. I see all these faces that I rarely see in my neighborhood. EVERYONE in every shade takes the bus or train. I’ve come to find that even wealthy people hop on the bus or train sometimes. That makes me feel a bit better at times. Why? I believe it’s the notion of all classes and creeds and colors coming together in one place to get to where they need to be. It’s a great feeling of the poor and the rich, the multi-racial or the Asian or the Caribbean all fighting for one seat. It’s truly a beautiful thing.

Today the sun shines. I love it when it rains. I love it when my umbrella hides me. I feel protected and covered and dare I say, invisible. If I can’t see you, and you can’t really see me, then I am invisible. Sometimes, that is a great feeling, especially when you don’t want to be around. Sometimes, I like to imagine that I am in my own world, and that I cannot be reached. I want to imagine that because our eyes have not met, and we are invisible, you cannot reach me. If I cannot be reached, then I cannot be touched, and there in my solitude, I am sinking into sweet peace.

Peace, in New York City, is hard to obtain. The sirens of a police officer’s car blazes through at 3 AM and I cannot sleep. The train tracks roar as a train squeals into the station. An accident explodes because two drivers wanted to race, and the peaceful walk home gets destroyed by the business of the city. It is difficult to imagine that this world may have a quiet place; a place where silence does not even make a sound. This is the place I seek and find as I walk through the people, and the eyes that must have seen my umbrella wait for the rain to stop so that they can penetrate my eyes, my soul. Today is not that day. As I wait for the bus to get to my stop, I pray that the clouds will burst open a thunderous storm, and I will have the right to become non existent.

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