So this is life. An endless series of greyhound stations. Buses are
constantly coming and going because every stop is just a hub on the
way to somewhere else, somewhere infinitely greener than the grass
you currently lay on in your feeble attempt to get some sun. To the
rider there is a definite starting and stopping point, but I don't
want to be an idle passenger, I want control, I want to drive. But
when you're at the wheel you see the ride for what it is, you see
the journey that has no beginning nor ending, for all the starting
gates and the finish lines overlap each other until a steady stream
of coming and going, starting and stopping, birth and death blur the
lines that keep time within safe borders. And the string of pauses
at each station become just that, as you sit today at the counter
staring up at the woman with stringy blue hair and cracked yellow
teeth, basing your decision - waffles versus pancakes - on whether
you think you'll find an ihop or a waffle house at your next stop.
But tomorrow is another bus station and another decision to be made
as the face in the mirror stares back, her yellow teeth shattering
into your hands and slipping through your fingers like so many
futures that could have been but now never will be.
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