Finally able to rest, our young hero sits and props his leg up on the row of seats he finds refuge on. he can tell his foot is swollen, aside from the constant tingling, his show is much tighter. stomach empty. his current savior, an ipod, flashes its impending death. his only company, an outdated cell phone, mimics the action.
The young man is weary. rest occupies his every thought beyond all else. but he knows sleeping on such bus is ill-advised. so, instead, he stares out his window.
cars fly past him. neon lights. street lights. bars boasting their best deals. fast food spots trying to outwit the next.
no one is walking.
the world passes him by. the defeated youngster knows he cannot stop it; in fact, he wishes he could hurry the process. he'd much rather be in a time ten years from now where his feet can rest and his mind can work.
he is smart indeed, though his nose is green.
the lights continue to gleam through the glass. people come and go on and off the bus, each making sure to thank the driver. he watched them all. their mannerisms, facial expressions, posture and the like. he created stories for them, living their lives was much easier than his own.
he loosened his tie.
felt anxiety creep up and instantly began his breathing excerises. five second intervals of inhaling and exhaling both. he needed this technique.
finally, he scribbled a few thoughts on his worn notepad, tucked it away again and pressed the button to tell the driver to stop.
(unfinished. forgive the spelling.)
