Looking at the bus window is like reading a book. From there, I could read lives. Through their eyes, maybe I could feel them. Some might be walking to the path of their fears. Others, crossing the road going to the awaiting bliss.
Old people, forming wrinkles of sadness. Sitting still with regrets. About something, they should’ve done but haven’t. Looking on a blank space with a minute of sigh. Diving deeper into the past as if going back is torture.
And there are children. Do not bother planning about tomorrow. Do not spend time remembering the old pain. They only worry about what to eat, where to play, when to sleep. The hold of their mother is their leading light. Entrusting fully their lives.
As the bus moves, I search for a genuine smile. Then, I start missing it from myself. A sincere feeling I hope I can wear every day. From the street, could they see me in this window? Reading me as I, too, take a journey to their invisible story.
Written by C.M. (2018) | Photo by Andrea Leopardi (Unsplash)
Bits Of Inkling 
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