It is beautiful outside tonight. The it-is-not-fall-yet-but-close breeze is divine. Night sky in this weather is extra special and has a peculiar hue. The air feels lighter than it was in the morning, no longer saturated with unrained water. If I can appreciate and experience all this by sitting beside a window, the people who are actually outside must be having the time of their lives.
I wonder why it is almost never this magical in the mornings? What is the point of it being this breathtaking if you are stuck inside just because it does not make sense for a female here to be out on her own at night? I find contentment by imagining that another-me in an alternate reality is in a place where it is not unusual for a woman to be out alone in the dark, owns a car or a bike and is going bonkers tonight.
One tends to miss anything in the past that didn’t outrightly kill him/her. When I think about my college days, not many enjoyable experiences pop into mind. However, one of those adventures that I had often complained about back then but miss now are the bus rides. On one of those rare occasions when the weather was as enchanting as the aforementioned scenario, bus stops and bus rides had seemed like the most fun things in the world. On other days, not so much.
This reminds me of a book, that I don’t remember the name of, in which one of the characters was not a big fan of almost anything (it was not The Catcher in the Rye, that I am sure of) but all of a sudden he started travelling by buses to not any place in particular and just could not stop. This poem has been inspired from that character in the story:
“Bus stop.
New day,
Early hours,
Chalky sky,
Blue wind,
Small talk.
Fingers crossed.
Long road,
No signals,
Ink stains,
Pursed lips,
Eyes bloodshot.
Got off.
Stiff legs,
Strong coffee,
Street hawkers,
Short stories,
Thrift shops.”
Outrageously Erratic 