/scratches cheek

I can already feel the harsh grace of winter setting in where I live. The sun was only just rising when I left this mid-morning, signaling the significant shortening of days.

I was walking a few blocks to reach the bus stop. The bare contrast of early sunlight and glowing streetlight was almost surreal, making me feel as if I was strolling through the setting of some Hollywood movie. (Surprisingly enough, the remembrance which brought me to recognize the former as absurd was that the people in this film weren't very good actors.)

The sky was brilliant. Haphazard strokes of cirrus brush upon a canvas of periwinkle and violet.

I drag my head down from the clouds just in time to watch my bus turn the corner three streets down.

Every bus is a single opportunity. There is an expectancy one possesses while standing at the stop; one possesses the knowledge of the bus's arrival, therefore, one spends one's time waiting for something that they know is scheduled to arrive. Yet, reasons beyond one's control may have forced it to be late / cancel its appearance completely. This is a reason one will never know of, a reason one has learned not to care for, if only due to the knowledge of another opportunity eventually replacing the one that was first intended for you.

Out of breath and exhausted, I lazily hold up my pass at the driver and board last-minute.

I wonder if I'll have to spend the rest of my life running to catch the bus.