From the Back of the Bus...

If my body is here typing, but my mind is elsewhere... where am I?

Eh, this body is troublesome anyway.

I picture myself tucked in the far corner of a bus to who-cares-where. I'm wearing my trademark headphones, playing my trusty CD Walkman--- a Walkman that actually broke about 6-7 years ago. Soaking up the wisdom of my mentors while under the hypnosis of bright stars and cars.

In the dimness, I have just enough light to jot my ideas in a notebook... nah, let's make it a composition book, I don't keep neat notebooks very well. What's on my mind...

Three-hundred and sixty degrees of this planet Earth/
A man rarely journeys far from the place of his birth/

Maybe I'll finish this verse later. More importantly, I hafta internalize the concept. Coming to grips with the idea that one shouldn't confine himself to his circumstances, or maybe even to his native region.

I'm such a homebody... But it's not because I want to be. It's just more practical for me financially not to do a lot of random cruising. Plus, there's not a lot of places I can go, not a lot of scenes that fit me. I'm not a club hopper, not one for the fast pace of the city, not a Casanova, not much of anything outside of what I need to be; I talk a lot only because I have a lot to say, not out of extroversion.

I know I've got work to do but, heck, where do I punch in? What management is responsible for those who seek to change the world? And the million dollar question that my family will need answered: who provides the paycheck. Lord knows I'd do it for free though...

The part of trips I hate the most is the ride home. Because my mind arrives long before the rest of me. I start thinking about all the things I need to do once I arrive; at the moment, I can think of only one thing. I've got to keep moving as if I never came home, as if the bus never stopped moving. I think... it's better to move forward with no direction than to remain still with good intention. Sumn like that.

As soon as my mind returns to reality, this will be my mindset. I pray that moving with no direction doesn't come back to bite me in the end; but the truth is, pretty much anything is liable to come back and bite me in the end. So it really doesn't matter, does it?

Something about being in the back of a bus is like being in a confessional. Makes me wonder who I'm confessing to though. I think maybe I confess to myself, as if I bury my feelings most of the time and take this time to unearth them. I'm constantly learning things about myself as I sit here, and though I've learned a lot, I know there's much more; there are rarities in my own mind that I have yet to access, but I've felt them before, so I know they're there. So this definitely won't be my last trip.