I miss when things are, usual.
The rushed out morning to the bus stop. Two and three buses passed by and you are glad to wait. The silent crowds, just you and your music played only for you. Each of these ears could listen different sounds that they played. Soft rock, classic violin, blues, a retro guitar classic to the noisy mind thinking about their loved ones, or just crumbling borderline heads.
But they did not matter at all, cause no one heard the scream as the machine run to took us to the destination.
The kind of morning.
The kind of morning where you meet different faces everyday in a stertorous bus, to meet the same old faces. The faces that could bring the joy in your life, too happy your entire life will be reminded by them. Or, or maybe, the faces that remarked the worst scars sculpted deep into your heart.
But they did not matter at all, cause no one could ribbed each chests to see what marks left on their hearts.
The mornings that you never asked why, the mornings that when you know you know.
We could never know how good could lasts, but some scars could leave the whole damned to the history.
But now the same music sounds different, and the faces are all just the strangers behind the screen.
And you can't help to not bury down yourself,
to another bus ride of nostalgia.
