Head in the Clouds

Grimy leather seats,

Shoes wet from the dew,

My shoulder bumps the cold metal of the bus

During each twist and turn in the road.

I am sitting here physically

But I am not here,

not at all.

My mind soars above me,

constantly rooted to the ground by my wet shoes,

but floating in the clouds because of an imagination  

that fills the cracks of my entire being.

The spaces that held nothing

are now filled with an obsession with

patterns,

ideas,

concepts,

and numbers

That take me away from this cold, empty bus

And drop me off some place where I can find meaning in everything.

 

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