A Long Bus Ride

The bus is half-full, empty seats are occupied by the soon to be born, the soon to be dead, those in transition. The medium knows he is a guest in a stranger’s dream. When he thinks about this, he shivers and turns to the window, lets himself be distracted by the dusty fields, the wind cranking farms. A bespectacled matron moans as the knit of her life slowly unravels. Eighty years dead; white mice have been born and have passed away in her head. A travelling salesman yet to be conceived stares about him, thinking he is in a movie. People speak a language he does not understand - there are no subtitles for his state of mind however, his future occupation has already been seeded within the mixology of an ancient starlight. The medium wishes he were more accustomed to the slow process of astral dissolution and regeneration. Passengers cling to the long straps of their minds as the Greyhound sways. Some occupants dream that they have a real ticket for this life, others may have purchased a ticket, but not a destination; they fidget in their seats, and wonder why the trip is taking so long.