Stood at the bus stop one Monday evening at 7:05pm, the traffic rushing by, and the fine spray of rain hitting my face, misting my glasses, I realised how much I had missed this weather. After the relentless sun in Asia, it was lovely to feel the cold wind blowing through my bones, and seeing a leaf lazily drop to the wet pavement, reminding me of the pending closure of another chapter of life, a handy metaphor, in many ways.
On the bus with a work colleague, small talk done, she, lost in music, earphones blocking out the natural roar of the bus. And I gaze through the window and my own reflection, and take in belit pubs, the chairs and tables outside abandoned after the brief use of summer. Melancholy car parks, empty save for a lonely vehicle, flash by, yet remain imprinted on the memory. I wonder what the owner is doing at that moment.
And then the pitch black as we leave the city behind. Careening along at what feels like a dangerous pace in the rain, even the well worn bus route seems strange and mysterious. Glimpses of trees and houses captured for a second in the lone street lights before the darkness consumes everything back into itself. We speed along yet never progress further than I expect us to be.
My mind wanders back to the time I spent working in a cinema, on occasion I would get the job where I would be alone, but able to gaze out past the gaudy neon lights of the ‘Funstation’ that shimmer on the portals of glass, my one link to the outside world. The falseness of human endeavour at odds with nature.
Branches slap the front window of the double decker as we pull up to a cheap looking bus shelter, drawing me out of my revelry. As I ready myself to brave the full blown rain storm that now rages outside, I just have time to reflect on the onset of another season, and the underrated bus travel – which I for the most part enjoy – which helps me fully appreciate life. Sometimes its good to close the book and just gaze outwards, and inwards.
*Image found on Pixabay