Its only words,
And words are all I have,
To take your heart away.
And words are all I have,
To take your heart away.
These lines play in my head over and over again. A song long forgotten by its masters. I hide beneath this song, for it makes more sense to me now than before.
I am seated in the last seat of the 40A route bus. I look out and see the world go about its daily routine. People going places, Places meeting new people. I am apprehensive of the person I'm sharing my two seater with. I do not like strangers getting too close to me. And she switched places, I spread my legs and hog the seat again.
It is a bright beautiful day, a Monday. I sense bangalore's morning yawn, I too contribute to it. My bus snaking its way through the undergrowth. A Sea of people in rectangular boxes engulfs 40A, we wait for the signal to turn Green.
I continue to stare at the world passing by through the dust strewn eyes of the bus. I see the exact same places I have been seeing for the past 23 years pass by, with the exact same curiosity. I am stuck here. I have grown roots into the undergrowth, I am part of it now. This city has been my life so far, I feel it's trying to consume me. I want to escape. My 40A is stuck too, on a road too narrow for giants together. Slowly its master trying to untangle the knots. And we're free again.
I talk too much. I am the village bard. I sing along about the merry times and make valiant plans. But I'm too drunk to live it up. A drunken stupor that I call life, too intoxicated to walk. Will I ever make it? Self doubt hangs around my neck, a dead weight.
I am seated in the last seat of the 40A route bus. I look out and see the world go about its daily routine. People going places, Places meeting new people. I am apprehensive of the person I'm sharing my two seater with. I do not like strangers getting too close to me. And she switched places, I spread my legs and hog the seat again.
It is a bright beautiful day, a Monday. I sense bangalore's morning yawn, I too contribute to it. My bus snaking its way through the undergrowth. A Sea of people in rectangular boxes engulfs 40A, we wait for the signal to turn Green.
I continue to stare at the world passing by through the dust strewn eyes of the bus. I see the exact same places I have been seeing for the past 23 years pass by, with the exact same curiosity. I am stuck here. I have grown roots into the undergrowth, I am part of it now. This city has been my life so far, I feel it's trying to consume me. I want to escape. My 40A is stuck too, on a road too narrow for giants together. Slowly its master trying to untangle the knots. And we're free again.
I talk too much. I am the village bard. I sing along about the merry times and make valiant plans. But I'm too drunk to live it up. A drunken stupor that I call life, too intoxicated to walk. Will I ever make it? Self doubt hangs around my neck, a dead weight.
Give me an hour each day
The guitar I shall play
The guitar I shall play
One of the many promises I make to myself. When will I ever stop.
My bus continues to haunt smaller streets, and I myself. Do ghosts ever feel haunted?
I shall stop now.
Stop.
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