I close my eyes at night and see four streams of light.  Two
red lines on the right and two white lines on the left.

It's about five months that I'm on the road.  It was a cool
morning in mid-December, when I started.  My oversized brown
backpack hit the floor of the trunk with the slightest of
noises.  
Climb the small staircase, pull out your ticket, bid the
driver a good morning, receive a snore as an answer, move
down the isle, sit down.
It never changes, the smell of dust that rises from the
chair, just as soon as you get yourself seated. So you open
the window a bit, hoping to stream some air inside. It never
really helps.
Every time the doors close with a hiss, I feel a slight
shudder. It's like a small snake climbing up my spine.  And
I've heard them hiss too many times in too short a time.

At times I look back, but I can never remember if I started
off because I was running from something or because I'm
looking for something.  Either way, it doesn't matter.  I'm
on my way.
When I started off, I always felt lucky when I got to sit
alone. Space is good for the spirit, I guess. That might
even be the reason I'm on this bus right now. Anyway, it
breaks about fifty fifty. Half the time you get to sit
alone, half the time you don't. You've got to wonder,
sometimes, what do the people sitting beside you think. I
mean, besides the fact that if it weren't for you, they
could sit alone. What else do they think about?  But from
where you're sitting, you can never look them in the eyes.
If you look at them, you're usually so close all you can see
is the basically ugly detail of their face.  Day-old
peachfuzz, overdone makeup, dandruff.  It's hard to see the
big picture from that close.  Always is.

I read once about what they call "the bus effect". They say
that, when boarding a bus, the avarage joe will first prefer
to sit alone. If he can't, he'll prefer to stand up rather
than sit by an unatractive person. Some people will search
the bus for an attractive person to sit by. Today I think
those are the smartest.

Half my life is spent on busses, the other in motels. I'm
like a submarine: Drive, stop, drive, stop.  It's amazing, I
guess, how you can get from anywhere to anywhere by busses.
Money makes the world go `round, and it can get you around
the world.
Wake up, get dressed, eat something, throw the backpack in
the trunk, get on a bus.  Look out the window. Read a book.
Read a paragraph, then look out the window.  Sometimes I
catch myself looking at the window. There's so much to do.

On occasion there's someone talkative to sit by. It adds a
little color, I guess. Usually people seem perfectly happy
just talking about themselves. On the one hand, it's an
opportunity to shut up. On the other, shutting up is what
I'm usually up to. Once in a while I actually get to have a
conversation. And most of the time it never goes beyond our
respective oppinions on a given subject.

I think there's something pathological about getting to know
someone for two hours, reading their body language and
listening to them speak, only to never see them again. Were
it the case that I kept losing people I had just met, that
would be fine. It's getting to know people I know I'll never
see again that... (I don't know what you call it, but that's
what it does.)

Oh, well. Lately I've been feeling like my ride is almost
over. Still, I'm not sure if I'm running or searching. But
I'm getting closer. That's a laugh. I've got no idea where
the heck I am, but I feel I'm close.
Ah, who cares. I'm just here for the ride.