Miles and miles lost to ourselves in sideways glances from bouncing buses. Good years of good lives spent watching and smiling beyond our greasy half-reflections. I’ve been bored, I’ve felt profound. I’ve been a dozen different doppelgängers in a thousand running landscapes and zip flipping paint on bare black roads.

Minutes and minutes lost to the world as we sit in music, sit in watching, sit in silence. Undemanded. Minutes and minutes lost to the world. But not to us. Not to us who watch and imagine. For whom the fragile thread of life lies luminous. Bare for the gentlest of hands to softly pick, to tease, to quietly coaxe. To follow a little further towards some unknown, but not unrelished requiem.

In these minutes and in these miles alone, I am myself and no more. No force to touch me but the bare breaths of terrain and time, whispering through their old and terrible smiles. In these miles I am alone in my peace and the equanimity of fresh eyes.

Miles and minutes lost to the world. But never to ourselves.

Categories: Creative Writing
  • Anonymous

    Captures the innumerable hours spent on busses here in South America. Especially through the empty Andes highlands.

  • Richard

    Aw man, that must be amazing. S America is one of those areas on the map I still look at far too often, and pine to go and see one day.

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