Because there is peace. I get on this rickety old yellow piece of iron and steel and for 10-15 minutes I spend on it, to and from work, the world just sits out there staring at me, waiting for me to get down and claw me back into everything wrong with this life, into that swarm of negative energies and more.
But I stay put, sitting there, dreaming away, making out with my brain, gorgeous ideas popping in and out, proving the mind never needed Jada Fire’s latest clip to get to third base. I muse. I think. I strategize. I laugh. It is a trance, an escape, a bubble, between a condo left behind and an office that gets closer.
It is on this bus, that I drop my phone, pause for a sec, direct my pervy eyes away from the pair of boobies next to me, look out the window and soak in the rich experiences of life. The child tarrying behind a mother, pushing through the crowds and steps to get her kid to school. The grown-up, matching to work while using his briefcase to hide his morning glory made more difficult by the bouncing pair of assnals right in front. Then, there is the market woman shooing early morning flies and the malnourished bus conductors cum touts yelling names of bus-stops from the deep hallows of sobbing stomach walls.
I think of them, I think of a plot, then a scene, then a book, I see the marketing phase, with ringing telephones and hungry flashes from the shuttles of photographers desperate to turn my shit into tradeable digital tokens. Reputable publishing houses, world’s best citadels of learning all spamming my inbox, with nude pictures of their office secretaries. Clawing, clinging all to get the honour, my hounour. Until it is time to alight.
Then, I step down. Into that coal tar, a big massive gateway to the welcome back chorus of life, sorry, hell. I sip into it all, one step at a time, swashing past the rest of the human beings who are sucking right into that bubble. In blindness and trust. A race left with no choice.
The already shaping up story gets lost, one memory piece at a time, the images, blurred, the plots, destabilized, and in no time, take the route of he who decided to let go of a helping hand and drown. What is the point anyway? Making even one effort to retrieve the pixels holding my Havard speech invite or James Cameron house party triggers more laughter off me. I am lost. I am fucked. Life is a ramming beast that never stops, never gives me a breather until I get back into that bus once again.
I nominate bosses 
