Waiting for Bus without a Schedule

I am waiting.

Imagine a bus stop on a street. When the street is busy there is much hustle and bustle, and scents and sounds are commonplace. Perhaps a lady in a turquoise dress strolls by. A man with a monkey. A child leading his mother around on a leash. "Chaaaaaaaaaa-aaaaaaiiiiiii!" calls the chaiwalla. Replies the evangelist, "...and he our LORD died for OUR sins..." in a sermon that has neither beginning nor end. This is a street it is easy to get lost in, unless one stays still.

When the street is quiet and the air heavy, it is a whole other place. Sadness coalesces like rain, condensation on the streetlamps that do not shine. A street where the loudest sound is the beating of a fearful heart, and the only smells are of mildew and rain. There is nothing to do on such a street but stay still. Wait.

In times of frenzy and times of stillness I sit in a glass cage, waiting for a bus to take me away.

It would make a pretty picture.