He looked out the window - Listlessly. Wistfully. Endlessly - Into the darkness. Why? you ask; Why? I ask. Your humble narrator pleads: Need there be an answer to everything? Yes, you reply, their need be. In that case dear reader, I shall give you your answer, though the answer shall never truly be yours.
He looked out the window, wistfully, listlessly, endlessly, to avoid the oppressive glare of the neon. It shone and shone, and shone on more: into wrinkled, desert eyes, watering and agitated, into wrinkled creased eyes, watering with spice and lemon juice. The light was unforgiving and why should it not be? (Alas, there is a question which demands no answers.) And he squinted eternally.
So, dear reader, he looked out the bus window, into the darkness. But the light was bright (ha!) and the glass was reflective, so all he saw were reflections, reflections of the very things which he wanted to escape. He saw his apparition of a face, half reflected chiaroscuro into the abyss and realities; he saw a girl in the back seat, toying with her hair, for hair was all he could see. But most of all dear reader, he sensed with all his senses stuffed, the light, the light which burnt through his face, through his window, through his lonely road, through his fast-asleep-atlast-asleep blades of grass, and through his vacant skies.
Then suddenly, the light was no more, and the pain was no more. He did not have to face the horrors of his contrast lit eyes in the glass, and he did not have to bear the pain of the slightly burning grass. No dear reader, he did not; he did not have to confront the misery of the slumber somber night dismayed and disorientated at ephemeral bus-lit intrusions. The light was gone; it had, as it were, kicked the bucket.
Suddenly he saw the stars and he wondered. He wondered how a pathetic neon artificial bullshit horseshit crapshit neon light could obscure the most beautiful, majestic sight that a human conscious could hope to feast upon. He looked up at the cosmos, and absolved himself off himself in its womb like shawl. He looked at the heavens, and at the height of egocentricity, realized that the whole of the universe was made so that he could enjoy that very moment.
An eye there, and a hair there, a crisscross of vision and the chirp of a chippy packet. His focus shifted from the skies to the glass window and what is it that he saw? What does one hope to see in a glass window? Why, he saw himself of course. Now his face was superimposed upon the cosmos, and he realised the true nature of his oceanic enjoyment was nothing but narcissistic identification.
Do not be dismayed dear reader, for why does one read?
He looked out the window, wistfully, listlessly, endlessly, to avoid the oppressive glare of the neon. It shone and shone, and shone on more: into wrinkled, desert eyes, watering and agitated, into wrinkled creased eyes, watering with spice and lemon juice. The light was unforgiving and why should it not be? (Alas, there is a question which demands no answers.) And he squinted eternally.
So, dear reader, he looked out the bus window, into the darkness. But the light was bright (ha!) and the glass was reflective, so all he saw were reflections, reflections of the very things which he wanted to escape. He saw his apparition of a face, half reflected chiaroscuro into the abyss and realities; he saw a girl in the back seat, toying with her hair, for hair was all he could see. But most of all dear reader, he sensed with all his senses stuffed, the light, the light which burnt through his face, through his window, through his lonely road, through his fast-asleep-atlast-asleep blades of grass, and through his vacant skies.
Then suddenly, the light was no more, and the pain was no more. He did not have to face the horrors of his contrast lit eyes in the glass, and he did not have to bear the pain of the slightly burning grass. No dear reader, he did not; he did not have to confront the misery of the slumber somber night dismayed and disorientated at ephemeral bus-lit intrusions. The light was gone; it had, as it were, kicked the bucket.
Suddenly he saw the stars and he wondered. He wondered how a pathetic neon artificial bullshit horseshit crapshit neon light could obscure the most beautiful, majestic sight that a human conscious could hope to feast upon. He looked up at the cosmos, and absolved himself off himself in its womb like shawl. He looked at the heavens, and at the height of egocentricity, realized that the whole of the universe was made so that he could enjoy that very moment.
An eye there, and a hair there, a crisscross of vision and the chirp of a chippy packet. His focus shifted from the skies to the glass window and what is it that he saw? What does one hope to see in a glass window? Why, he saw himself of course. Now his face was superimposed upon the cosmos, and he realised the true nature of his oceanic enjoyment was nothing but narcissistic identification.
Do not be dismayed dear reader, for why does one read?
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