The Bus Journey

by Moneer Elmasseek

When silence beckons, the world flows by so slowly as though it was glittering in and out of existence. As I sit here in this Pandora's limit of thought I see the butterflies of human expression surrounding me as the people of the late time continue to write their daily stories right into the darkness. So many tales to tell and legends to whisper with an endless stream of epic divinity, is it to any wonder that found my featherless quill and started to scribe.


My thoughts and wonders mixed with my queries then began to fuse with my contemplation's on this dark tomorrows eve. I look to my side and see my reflection trying to keep up with me, Is he another me? or perhaps merely a shadow of my presence. He wants to be Left alone, a better idea. An eagle of thought landed on my my mind, I look into the world and see those who's eyes flow rivers as they see stories coming to premature conclusions. Then I catch him again, the other me, with an aura of sadness this time, raindrops falling down his cheek, scribbling as I scribe, looking as I look, running away from the canvas of death. Like any other other great art, an unfinished story is an omen of a dark choice, a sad reality. He wants to be left alone, so I leave him.

Running faster now, it fades so I stop, I don't want to lose their phantom of reality. To be without that last grip on the now would be to live in an ever-dream. One that resembles death too much. A tempting doorway, one that remains ajar even now. So back to reality, the sound of rain tickling the roof. So here I sit, getting ready for the end of this idea. It's now I realise, perhaps more than ever that silence, for all its stillness, can sing. So very loud and at times, so very beautifully.