dimgray

This life a transit.

In between here and there a 5-inch screen of pixels kept company. Surround sound courtesy of Indian tunes and children's squeals. Footsteps headed to their buses then to their destinations. Age halfway caught up on me, trained me to sit still, to stare blankly into space. Within this conditioned cold air, my brain pulled a fuzzy yellowed scene of childhood before i came to a pair of orange-laced sneakers on cream dust-speckled glossy marble while thinking about what to eat and how to kill time with longer eating. Must allow ample time too for offloading what i ate earlier in the day or yesterday? Everything must be timed so i not miss the bus going to where i must be. Behind, two men conversed in a familiar language i cannot decipher. Are we there yet? No we barely moved. It's still hours more. Speakers announced names of latecomers who may be stuck somewhere or simply have given up. I do not know. I type this to fill up time. People with luggages and vacant expressions. Where is the whom I'm waiting for? Hope all is well, hope is all we've got before we arrive at the place we're destined.