An incoherent rambling of an old bus driver...
The Methematician
Regular
The time passes by like the insignificant dotted lines that lines the highway, with each of them whizzing through, that, when viewed from the window of a moving bus, formed into what looked liked a blurry, light yellow-orange line that was caught in a state between being, being of thin air and being something that's halfway done manifestifying itself e'cept for the fact that it never went pass beyond that state and turned into a solid object,.... or whatever it's trying to be...
But somehow, someway, the passing of that insignificant dotted yellow line goes hand-in-hand, and in proportion of the wear and tear the bus that I traveled in, endures, as the more and more yellow-dotted lines I came through, the worse, and older the bus gets. To a point, when finally, the bus ceased to work for a second more. As I looked back, behind me, on the highway, are bits and pieces of the bus that had came off, scarttered on the highway, resting themselves on the highway, serving the remnant, rest of their existence as nothing more, and for no other purpose whatsoever but memories, illuminating themselves as each and everytime the headlights of a passing vehicle hits them, and on the solid black asphalt, announces their presence, a testament, of of what appears to be, records, physical evidence of the fact that the bus had been here, done that, long before. And those pieces will stay there, until a time when they, too, will eventually disappear as they degrade, degenerate, and disintegrate, as the result of exposure to... the sands of time carried by the wind of change, as the abrasive sands of time suspended in the wind of change rubs by these parts, slowly but surely, erodes them, wearing down their sharp edges at first, before rendering them into a smooth, round shaped, and pebble sized object, and until eventually they are worn down to an insignificant size, too small to notice anymore, and until finally, they, too became small and light enough like the sands of time that had worn them down, and get blown and carried away by the wind of change,.....to the south, into the darkness of the night, to the unknown realm of nothingness,... BUT,..........
BUT not before leaving a seemingly permanent mark on the asphalt they are resting on, as the tyre of passing-by vehicles rolls over them, pushes them into the asphalt they're resting on, and making a seemingly permanent dent on the asphalt,...sometimes a big and obvious crater, sometimes a small and insignificant dimple on the highway. While other bigger, heavier chunks of the bus causes other drivers to slam on their as soon as they see them, again, leaving a 15yard long skid mark leading to them, until it comes a time when, a careless and sleepy driver who weren't paying enough attention to the road as they're driving, crashes into them at highway speed, and in the process, breaking them down further into little, insignificant little pieces......too....
But every once in a while, or maybe once in a blue moon, the Road Maintenances department, or whoever that's in charge maintaining the roads,.... decides to pave a new layer of asphalt on the highway, sweeping aside all the bits and pieces, and all the crater and dimples, big and small, the skid-marks, and everything else on the highway.....were paved over with a new layer of hot, glossy black asphalt, and gone are all the trials of vehicles that had came before it...
As new buses would come; again; and discards all their bit and pieces of their body; again; and leaving behind a trail of evidence of their presence and existance all over the highway;.... all....over..........again; ....
WE ARE INSIGNIFICANT
But somehow, someway, the passing of that insignificant dotted yellow line goes hand-in-hand, and in proportion of the wear and tear the bus that I traveled in, endures, as the more and more yellow-dotted lines I came through, the worse, and older the bus gets. To a point, when finally, the bus ceased to work for a second more. As I looked back, behind me, on the highway, are bits and pieces of the bus that had came off, scarttered on the highway, resting themselves on the highway, serving the remnant, rest of their existence as nothing more, and for no other purpose whatsoever but memories, illuminating themselves as each and everytime the headlights of a passing vehicle hits them, and on the solid black asphalt, announces their presence, a testament, of of what appears to be, records, physical evidence of the fact that the bus had been here, done that, long before. And those pieces will stay there, until a time when they, too, will eventually disappear as they degrade, degenerate, and disintegrate, as the result of exposure to... the sands of time carried by the wind of change, as the abrasive sands of time suspended in the wind of change rubs by these parts, slowly but surely, erodes them, wearing down their sharp edges at first, before rendering them into a smooth, round shaped, and pebble sized object, and until eventually they are worn down to an insignificant size, too small to notice anymore, and until finally, they, too became small and light enough like the sands of time that had worn them down, and get blown and carried away by the wind of change,.....to the south, into the darkness of the night, to the unknown realm of nothingness,... BUT,..........
BUT not before leaving a seemingly permanent mark on the asphalt they are resting on, as the tyre of passing-by vehicles rolls over them, pushes them into the asphalt they're resting on, and making a seemingly permanent dent on the asphalt,...sometimes a big and obvious crater, sometimes a small and insignificant dimple on the highway. While other bigger, heavier chunks of the bus causes other drivers to slam on their as soon as they see them, again, leaving a 15yard long skid mark leading to them, until it comes a time when, a careless and sleepy driver who weren't paying enough attention to the road as they're driving, crashes into them at highway speed, and in the process, breaking them down further into little, insignificant little pieces......too....
But every once in a while, or maybe once in a blue moon, the Road Maintenances department, or whoever that's in charge maintaining the roads,.... decides to pave a new layer of asphalt on the highway, sweeping aside all the bits and pieces, and all the crater and dimples, big and small, the skid-marks, and everything else on the highway.....were paved over with a new layer of hot, glossy black asphalt, and gone are all the trials of vehicles that had came before it...
As new buses would come; again; and discards all their bit and pieces of their body; again; and leaving behind a trail of evidence of their presence and existance all over the highway;.... all....over..........again; ....
WE ARE INSIGNIFICANT
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