Tuesday, August 3, 2010

It's half past eight.
She's just finished work, pleased with herself and what she's done.
Crowds of pre-university students find themselves on the same bus and she fleetingly wonders what it'd feel like to be one of them.
Fleetingly though, because she likes where she is and where she stands,
And what she does.

It's half past eight.
There is an appointment to rush to.
One that has been put from mind and delayed, simply because she hasn't found a reason to go.
Not one some things can fix themselves, not when there are far more important things to worry about,
Not when there it is time that can honestly be better put to use.

It's half past eight.
She's taken meds without dinner, and there is an old man in front of her,
Sucking contentedly and thoughtfully on his denchures.

It's half past eight.
A kid from Junior College sits beside her, dozing.
His book is open to a chapter titled "The contradictory in Mathematics".
As if maths weren't confusing enough, why in the world would anyone want to read about things that make it more confusing?

It's half past eight.
Except, it's not really, not anymore.
It's almost quarter to nine now.
And she should've been rushing home to you. She should've been rushing home to you hours ago.
But you're not here for her to rush home to.
You're not here.

It's a quarter to nine, and that place she always goes to when days like these get too hard,
It passes her on her way to wherever it is she's going.
For whaatever her reason is.

And she's not even sure of it, her reasons for going.
For once, she wanted someone to tell her what to do because,
Maybe if she hadn't had to make the decision herself, and factor in oh-so many things,
She wouldn't feel the way she's feeling now.

It's nine.
And she finds herself at a lonely little bus stop near a park she's been to a few times now.
She should go.
Because, because someone told her to go. Because deciding something for herself hasn't always been the best idea.
Because this time, she wants to listen to someone.

She's gotten off the bus, and let empty cabs pass her by.
And even though it's been decided for her,
She still doesn't quite know what to do.

But this moving world, it keeps on moving.
It keeps on moving and it's left her behind until she can think about what she wants to do with herself.
And my God, working out figures and timings and schedules and itineraries was infinitely easier than doing this one, simple task.

It's nine.
She should've been rushing home to you. She should've been rushing home to you hours ago.
Except you're not here and she isn't, she isn't rushing home to you even though she wishes desperately that she were.
You're not here, and it's one of those days that she realizes that,
She doesn't quite know what to do with herself.

And even though, this evening, she was supposed to do as she was told,
She finds that she can't.
Not quite. And not in a way that she can explain.

It's quarter past nine.
And oh she wishes she were going home to you. That she were worrying herself sick, hoping to God that you're okay.
That she knew exactly where she was going and exactly what to do because,
Because you were the only reason worth living for.

It's twenty past nine and you're not here and she has no idea where she's going.
but she is moving, weaving through throngs of faceless people,
Feeling like she is inches away from disappearing.

Unfortunately though, she doesn't.

Then, it's almost half past nine,
And she wonders just how much it'll take,
To find herself rushing back to you.

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