on a bus ride a very long time ago

Framed up in my mind like some old picture, a field of planted pine tree sit there. There is a low fog hanging underneath their needles, held in some special and old way, a low country I never lived in. And you coming running up just to the right of my picture frame, out of focus, full sprint, a sobering white dress. and your mouth is the only thing I see, full lips, all natural, whispering something to me, but there is no sound in my dreams, only the white noise of oceans and waves. But I can read lips and you softly mouth, "I love you" over and over again. It's a face that looks familiar, but then again it could be anybody. Your shoulders are heaving and your body is trying to regain its breath from such a long sprint from the corners of my mind.

I shudder.

And I am awake. On some bus, in some seat, the winter leaves passing by these cold windows. I look around for faces I know, but it's just a bunch of heads and fading hair and pillows, and seat cushions, and far away I see the driver in a small reflection, he is fish eyed from his rear view mirror, watching his passengers. We are on a road to nowhere, going anywhere else but where we were. The bus air gives off a recycled stale smell, like being trapped in an old vacuum bag. I am stifled and uncomfortable, but there is no where to go, or escape, when you are in a moving vehicle. That dream haunts me, hanging at the edge of my eyes as I wipe it away. I don't know how many times we have stopped, how many faceless streets I have walked on, stretched my legs at countless bus stops, they all look the same, like we are going in circles. The smell of diesel makes me hallucinate, takes me to somewhere I am not sure I have ever been, maybe a lifetime ago when things made more sense, or I didn't know enough about the world to see so much gray in the air. A passenger in front of me opens up their air vent, I feel recycled air rushing over the top of their seat, leaves me a little colder and more isolated. I zip up my hoodie.

I check my bus ticket, but the ink is smeared and I can't tell my destination. Maybe it's better this way, to not know where you are going. The easy part of a trip is the drive back, how short it seems once you made your way there already. Afterwards it all just feels like a memory played in rewind, tires spinning backwards, odometer retreating, hair growing shorter, smiles turning into normal faces.

I found a reason to get on this ride. And I don't know where I am going or how long it will take to get there, but what's the point of living if you know all the stops along the way. Maps ruin the fun. Sometimes you need to get lost to be found. Tumble down the wishing well until your ankles break and there is only a pinprick of light from above, a lonely star and constellation guiding you home.

I get up and move around, shuffling my things to the side so I can walk backwards in a moving bus. Get to the bathroom, close the door, no lights, don't need to use the restroom, just get away to the back. Doesn't work, only feel more isolated, and the tires sound like they are going to come off. What if there is an accident? What if I don't make it?

Guess that's okay. Guess it's about the journey and sometimes not about the place you are going. Open the door, see strangers, maybe I'll talk to someone today and tell them something no one knows.

Some say we are all dying, some say we are all living. I suppose I'll take the political stance of agreeing with both at the same time. Maybe we are all right, and maybe we are all wrong.

Either way, I sit back down and I tear up my ticket. I'll figure out where I am going when I get there.