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  • Writer's pictureKyx


People. On the bus.

Doing different things.

Glued to their phones. Or a book. More the former than the latter.

Headphones plugged into the sockets they call "ears"

Pumping music, that electric flow, into their comp--I mean, brains

Talking, or pushing out sonic frequencies that carry

A meaning that I'm not parry to.

Human behaviour confuses me.

They are just

Lumps of flesh and bone

Connected by their tendons, made of "hopes" and

"Dreams". And yet, I stare at. Boarding, getting off.

Shutting themselves out, completely.

And, somehow, behind their mask of


They live lives richer than I can imagine.

Slowly, they weave, skilfully or unskilfully, but weaving all the same,

Their lives of love, loss, friendship, betrayalHATRED, among

Other things

They prick and they are pricked,

Over and over again.

Where it will lead, I don't know.

All I know is

Oh, my stop. It's here.

And I go to my life,

Which a stranger can only imagine when he stares at me.


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