Mar 3, 2009

Attending to Sunlit Scribbles

I am in a bus.
Seems like my 'ol bulky high school bus.
The one with the terrifying lorry face and the now illegal horn. A strong mango fade permeates the bus passing the shadow of buildings. It's temporary indignant ingredients light up.

Everything seems to be at it's optimal homogenic struggle.

One group throwing paper balls up front at the girls... the girls intensely whisper and ignoring the hit of a love stone. On occasion do they turn their head for a split moment to scan possibilities and expose their ripened anger. It always felt like some form of unveiling when they did that because what was usually seen was the silky mahogany and ebony complexion of their silhouetted face curtain.

Another group, loud and joyous in their own language, not caring for their hand movements and their spit laughter, creates a circle of soft wind blown flowers avoiding them.

Suddenly amid a cloud of chatter, a girl stands to cup her eye and scream. She is brought down and quickly treated.

There a group all sharing one calculator which a graduate lost after a brief end-of-exam celebration in that very seat. They seemed to enjoy themselves but no one understood what they were up to.

Then there were the quiet ones that looked outside the bus through the dusty holey knit curtains, which gave the inside a ghostly lemon touch at certain areas and misplaced angles.

The largest group was the one you'd see with a further division of fours playing what was called toptrums. It was a card game that caught on like an invited plague. The curiosity of their common togetherness always made onlookers on the verge of a smile.
The intenseness of this citric light seem to fall on that group the most, accentuating their smiles and the newly forming creases on their middle-aged teenager skin.

The teachers sit upfront. They don’t maintain a decorum. They form a discussion group talking about babies and male teachers, barricading all existence behind them.

There were no male teachers.

I sit at the only place where I can observe and shy my obligation to none.

I sit at a corner.

With a window view and my moth torn curtain shining lines that glitter my eye and my forehead. I am free to be lost or to be lost in the thoughts I create for the people whom I imagine conversing with.
I am free with my friends. All of whom, with their spectacles and new wristwatches, light dots at the shadows like a disco ball.

Upon our arrival, our bus backs in neatly like a parallel arrangement of transistors over a circuit-board. This dish and its ingredients lose their flavour as it disperses into the open ground that is now our high school.


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