The Angst on the Bus Goes Round and Round
I stared through them callously as they desperately clung to the window. Despite their feeble bodies, they obstructed my view until their quantity requested my attention. I obliged, giving as many individuals acknowledgement as I could. But my unsympathetic greetings were not enough to save them and they eventually lost their grips and slid down. Some went alone, frantically slipping by their fellow comrades. Others barreled straight downward, engulfing anyone below them. A river formed from the intertwined bodies of the fallen. Its current steadily grew as the reoccurring multitude repeated the previous tragedies.
My gaze drifted up from the little stream of deceased raindrops on the sill to the arrogant clouds. Their bloated grey bellies hovered disgustingly prominent over the innocent fields. There was a smug stillness about them that suggested they would be in town for a while. They knew their presence would have the fans of small-talk conversing about “how much we needed the rain.” As I focused back to the helpless raindrops, I found myself feeling sorry for them. The clouds could come and go, but the rain was just like me, trapped forever in this town till we died in a river of our former selves.
Condolences to the rain were just about to be spoken when I realized how much I hated myself in that moment. I was such a cliché; an angsty teenager looking solemnly through a rain soaked window, contemplating his life. I could have been debating the social significance of the wheels of the bus going round and round, and I still would have looked like a stereotype. At least I was seated in the appropriate section of the bus for my clique; not the cool back or adolescent front, but the wallflower middle. And the rest of the people in my row didn’t discredit my cliché, they added to it.