The walk down to the bus stop is the same everyday.
Avoid the ice, sidestep the mounds of snow, tread carefully on the over-salted areas.
Then the daily waiting, examining the passing cars, wondering where everyone is headed to, until finally the bus screeches to a stop in front of me.
Climbing on, feeding in the ticket, waiting for a transfer, and finding a seat where not too many people are close.
The floor of the bus is stained white from the salt dragged in on the publics boots. A grey film from slush covers the white. Winter has taken its toll on vehicles everywhere.
Riding downtown, sun shining in and out of clouds and breaking through, casts light now, then gone, now, then gone.
And looking out the window at the people the bus passes, the people waiting at the bus stops, the houses and cars...
An overwhelming sense of lonelinesse and isolation swells.
People are detached, confined, sequestered in what they believe is important.
I choose to stare out the window and wonder who I am, why I am riding the bus everyday, and how have I managed to find a way through the almost oppressing feelings of desolation.
Everyday is the same.
Get on the bus, ride with often the same people, sit alone and apart, wonder who I am, and never reach a conclusion.