Just a thought

I always wish I were someone else. But not in the way that I feel everyone else does, when they want to life the life of a celebrity or royalty or even a wealthy businessman. I want to just re-do myself altogether; my mind, my heart, my soul, my blood, organs and bones. I want to just de-construct myself and my life and rewind everything to a point in time that I can grow into something and someone different, so that I end up as someone completely opposite from myself, in some completely opposite life. I think that wish rings through me at least twice a day if not more, and that maybe it’s why I never really feel like myself at all, because every ounce of the day I’m fighting back all that is truly me.

Yes, I actually have a completed short story lol

Please read and comment :D


The Bus Driver




The sky was gray, not a boring or dull gray like the fur of a cat or the blade of a shovel, but a steely fresh gray like a pair of inquisitive eyes or the shine of a new knife. Such thoughts seemed too detailed to Rosa for where she was and what she was doing, the same thing that she did each morning afternoon and evening. The bus lurched forward with each mile and moaned something that resembled a yawn at each stop, as she opened the door to let in another flock of lives that she could only ponder and guess at.

She liked to look in her mirror at those lives, so quiet except for the teenagers. They’d stand out like color in an old foreign film, animated and loud with a obvious disregard for the silent thinking people surrounding them. It was those people that interested her the most, she wondered what really separated them from the vibrant youth; too much time lived? Too many things seen? Or perhaps they were like her; sitting, wondering in repose of the life they dreamed of when they too were loud and colorful and blissfully ignorant. Only to find that ten, twenty years later that the color has faded and they are instead living lives that are dreary and difficult and altogether boring in order to continue living at all.
The bus trembled to a stop once again and she passed out transfer slips and watched money being dropped into the dark abyss that swallowed handfuls of change.

She sighed and again pushed the bus forward on its city course and again looked up into her mirror to stare at the fresh batch of lives she’d let on. They were mostly made up of the elderly as usual, the white haired ladies sitting with their purses held tight and their legs crossed. They’d smile politely when they’d look up, and smile wider if a small child decided to look their way for a brief moment, their tiny eyes staring at the wrinkled leather of the women’s faces, in awe as if they suddenly understood that this would be their future as well.

The old men weren’t quite as kind looking, gruff and slightly unshaven; they looked at the children with distaste and annoyance. Rosa could almost hear their thoughts of how fortunate the youngsters were without knowing it and how the young take their youth for granted. She believed the reason was that the men remembered a time when they had cars and jobs and women and now that those things had faded into the past, they looked upon those that one day would have all that they lost as all too lucky and undeserving.

Rosa stopped the bus again, feeling the day become more and more mundane did nothing for her mood and she scowled at the mismatched lives that stepped on the bus in exchange for many of the elderly. She later regretted it, they’d done nothing wrong to her and they looked just as jaded as she felt. The day was hitting her brain like rain; slow and steady and predictable, it made Rosa wish for hail, wish for lightening, something sporadic and slightly dangerous to break through the dull monotony. Then, oddly enough, it began to actually rain, the drops hitting the windows of the bus as slow and wearisome as the figurative ones in her head. They stayed that way too, no hail, no lightening, just slow falling water. She imagined she was one of the drops falling to the Earth, and the bus again shuddered to a stop, the lives on it trickling out like water into the gutter. She moved to her focus away from herself and back to the large round mirror above her, staring hard into the eyes of the new lives behind her, searching to see if somehow a spark might lay in one of the many pairs. She began looking almost feverishly for someone without the same dull and soulless stare that she’d grown so used to seeing. Then, there it was, a woman with a bright floral dress and a large shopping bag, her hair was curled with a large yellow flower holding back her bangs, almost enveloping her entire head. She looked like she was in her mid-thirties and normally she would have probably have blended in with all the other lives on a bright street, an ant in a colony, a speck among specks, she wouldn’t have shown any more vibrant than any other. But here in the gloomy gray and blue of the bus among the gloomy gray and blue lives surrounding her, she sparkled. Her smile was large and genuine, her eyes large and bright, and a slight peculiar-ness Rosa couldn’t put her finger on. This woman sat up front ready to be spoken to, ready for absolutely anything, her life it seemed was a diamond among the coal she’d chosen to ride with and it made Rosa wonder why she was riding the bus at all.

“It’s lovely today, isn’t it?” The woman spoke suddenly, making Rosa leap slightly from her thoughts and the bus swerve lightly to the left. She re-situated herself and got the bus back on track before cautiously responding, “Yes, I’m surprised someone else thinks so though, I thought I was the only one odd enough to love wet, chilly days like this.” She laughed mildly, waiting for a response.
“No, I love this weather, there’s something so fragile and magical about the world after a cold rain, you can feel it and smell it, like everything’s new again and you can start fresh.” Rosa smiled, it was nice to have someone share her point of view, it was nice to have someone to speak to at all. As if the woman could read her thoughts she spoke up again, “You don’t get many people trying to start conversations do you?” “I noticed you’re rather quiet on your routes.”

The question startled her, “You’ve been on my bus before?” “I would have thought I’d have noticed you.” The woman smiled, “I’m not always very loud myself, and in my experience sometimes we only see what we are searching for.” Rosa thought about this for a moment, the conversation was drifting into uncomfortably personal, and yet she didn’t want it to stop just yet.

“I suppose that’s true, but why would I be searching for anything?”
The woman smiled wider, “I think only you can answer that question.”

Rosa stared at the woman for a moment pondering another response before bringing the bus to another stop, but was slightly crestfallen to see the woman rise to get off. She touched Rosa’s shoulder lightly as she stood, “I hope you figure it out, it was nice talking to you,” she smiled wide at Rosa, without a note of sarcasm or awkwardness in her voice, an odd thing to find these days, before she reached down under her seat. It was then that Rosa realized what had been odd about her eyes as the woman took hold of the dog Rosa had failed to notice laying beneath her seat, she was blind.“But, how did you know that you’d been on my bus before?

The woman took a step off the bus and replied, “I could feel your presence, you always feel sad, you should change that.”

Rosa took a deep breath and tried to find her words, “It was nice talking to you too.” She whispered before closing the doors and continuing on her route. The rest of the day went as usual, more stops, more lives, but most of them were as gray as the sky. Rosa had noticed a long time ago how when each person got on that they went out of their way to find a seat unoccupied by anyone else, so that by the end of the day each person was seated alone by the window or standing, very rarely would anyone sit next to a stranger. It was as if the whole world was secretly made of recluses and that it took a task as simple as finding a seat on the bus to reveal that part of their personality. That when strangers were brought together in a confined space, the entire world became as shy as she was. Strangely enough, it usually made her feel less alone, however today, it only made her feel more so. She almost wanted to bring the bus to a sudden stop out of nowhere and shake each and every life into a seat occupied by another that they had never encountered and in doing so, perhaps rub some of that same light the blind woman had rubbed into her, into everyone else. That in introducing one life into another that she might introduce a new chance at life itself.

But instead she kept to her route, kept to each stop until finally the end of the day arrived and she could made her final stop, home. The woman never left her mind neither did any of the other lives. The children with the potential to be as bright and colorful or dismal and gray as the adults that raised them, the elderly whose chance to shine had already passed and her own life. So monotonous and mundane that she began to think that perhaps the woman was not the one who was blind at all, but that maybe every other life that had stepped onto her bus, including hers, were the eyes that had been stolen. Her mind was exhausted from the excessive flow of thoughts the day had brought as she made herself a cup of tea, before climbing into bed and turning on the television to check the next day’s weather before she went to sleep.

“Looks like there’s more rain tomorrow,” she noted to herself before laying her head down on her pillow, imagining again that she was one of the drops of rain falling to the Earth, and making it new.

Fear's Consequence

A very accurate view of how I feel lately.




She woke up in a cage.
She thought she had been running.
Through tall grass, so high, the sky was seen in slivers.
She felt her body, shoulders, stomach, arms, legs and all
Those forbidden places in between.
But they weren’t hers anymore.
The earth had caged her in it’s bosom, and she could no longer run.
Circumstance had held her with iron bars, a prison of comfort and ease.
And now the sky that was once slivers through reeds that reached the sky,
Was instead seen through cracks in hard metal.
She woke up in a cage.
She thought she was flying, on wings made of feathers woven with gold.
So high in the sky that the world below was hardly noticed at all.
She felt her mind, thoughts, images, wishes, dreams, and all those forbidden places in between.
But they weren’t hers anymore.
Her life had led her into a trap without escape.
A maze without an exit, that she welcomed to wander, that she detested with her entire heart.
With each moment she screeched and struggled and fought.
And each thought she felt had once been real, and each freedom she’d lived a thousand times
But only in her mind.
It was never hers.
She woke up in a cage.
A cage forged with fear and the pressure to please a world before herself.
A fortress to keep her from the very thing she was to afraid to want, to need.
The live free.

I have to get back on track >_>

I'm so far off track it's ridiculous. I need to re-begin my stupid diet, I need to start calling places for jobs, I need to get on my license, I need to read again, breathe again, live again. I feel like my current state is all my fault...I don't feel like i'm living, only that i'm existing. The one thing I never wanted for myself. I feel as though all of the passion I once had has completely leaked out of my body into a massive puddle somewhere. And all I want now is to find that puddle and find a way to jump into it again, I feel so drained of life. I feel like a job and a car would help, but then I ask myself..would it? Or would I just find another excuse to do nothing again. Will I end up just like my father? A product of my own low self esteem and laziness, sitting in the same spot day after day wishing for a better life as I am doing now? I'm terrified of that...i'm wondering how to push past my genes into being the person I so dearly want to be, a person in charge of herself, a person unafraid to do anything, anything at all in order to achieve her dreams, a person with freedom coursing through her veins instead of stagnant blood. Stagnant. That's a very accurate word for my life right now, somehow I need to set it into motion. Somehow.

Real

I wonder some days what would make me a real person.
A human being made of more than just flesh and blood and bone
but of something far more substantial.
A spirit full of passion, full of life.
Music running in her veins, melodic, triumphant, aching, perfect.
Though no perfection exists in the souls of real people, I do believe
that to be considered real, that perfection must at least be
constant.
Constantly trying to manifest itself in a long enduring struggle.
A struggle against steel ropes, and small cages, the ability to walk
but never stand.
I wonder some moments what could make me a real person.
If I were to travel long roads with strange people and do things
that I could never allow myself to do?
Find ways to breathe, to touch, to taste that I could never explain to
my own body.
I wonder often if perhaps I was once a real person.
When my heart was still a child, unclouded by responsibility or weariness.
Unchanged by a jaded existence.
When my mind, blood, flesh, and soul all lived for a purpose greater
than to simply stay alive.
And then I wonder what price I'd pay to feel real once more.