8 Days A Week:

On the way home today, I was sitting with two good friends. To my left, one I've known for four years, feverishly trying to complete math homework, scribbling away in satisfying silence. Ahead of me, one I've known for four months, plugged into an escape route, the mp3 player, while asleep against the foggy bus window.

And I look out of this very window, looking at the things we find familiar go by like a movie roll. Suddenly I'm hit by this feeling of nostalgia, because I cannot remember the last time I was going home with someone in enjoyable silence.

At this point on the busride, I'm smiling to myself like a moronic ninny but I don't really care. It's like what Audrey said; it's much easier to say that we've got to appreciate the smaller things in life like inevitable human nature and take slow walks to observe the little wonders of cocoons breaking out into butterflies or seeing a child ride his tricycle around the neighbourhood in absolute bliss.

It's much easier to say we've got to stop pointing out all the flaws in our existence and yelling at our parents when you know clearly you're all they've got.

So today was one of those rare moments. The busride could've gone on forever and I wouldn't have minded. For once the never-ending haste of this universe seemed to have slowed down (one day I'd be able to convince myself that yes, I am living a life on a VCR where people can control the speed at which I move. Or I could very well be a Sim and part of someone's computer game in another dimension) enough for me to look up and be thankful.

And someone on the bus pressed the bell to break my contemplation, then life in all its sentience came back like a rush of blood to the head.