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The Bus Stop


I was standing alone one friday evening waiting for the bus to arrive. The air was full of wind, but had a hint of summer warmth in it. It was one of those days where everything just seemed messy. As I picked up my torn Abercrombie bag and headed toward the curb, I noticed someone. It wasn't just a normal someone, but someone who sent ideas shooting into my thoughts. Her posture, her expression, her jacket, all told her sad story. In my mind I was thinking about where she might of come from and what she might have done. I just felt this instant connection, like I had met her before.


If I was myself today I would've simply snapped a picture of her for my album, for I was sure I had seen her somewhere. Of course today was different. I hadn't ordered my usual bagel for lunch, I hadnt done my hair in a normal ponytail, and I wasn't going to remember this girl. I also hadn't brought along a camera so taking a perfect picture with my phone would be impossible. It was simply a secret that wasn't meant to be shared. It took me a while to find out what made me ponder her so much. Maybe it was the way she skipped instead of walked, maybe her style reminded me of somebody I used to know, maybe I had had a dream where there was somebody like her. I thought about the last one. No she wasnt in my dreams, she was me in my dreams. All my life I had been strugglling to be somebody. Influenced by everything that moved I tried to find myself. And finally it was right there in front of me. I was right in from of me. She was wearing the same jacket from volcom in which my eyes had wandered to so many times before. She totally rocked those mardi gras beads even though it was no where near that holiday. The vibe she sent out was "I think this is cool". Walking toward the coffee shop she took photos here and there.Something I had tried to justify so many times but felt so alone, like I was the only person in this dull world who liked photography. The only. Finally she stopped when she was at the shopsteps and tripped on the stairs. Nobody laughed because if they had she would've out-laughed them all. She was proud of herself and she didnt let long shoelaces get in her way. Finally she got back up and made her way to the top step. From my side veiw, I fished for my cellphone and took a kind-of-blurred picture. If only I had my real camera with me, it could have had so much more detail, preciceness, color. Then I stared down at the image and thought a lot. I thought of all the things I am, all the things I'm not, and all the things I had wished for in the past few weeks. I finally decided that this picture was better off blurry, so more people could relate to it. Or at least thats what I told myself.


Inside my core I really knew the reason why I hadn't wanted a better image. Because when you have clay you mold it to how you want, you don't just leave it in its pretty little ball. Because I like to wear pink shoes instead of black. Because if I had tripped on those stairs, I would have been laughed at.


I thought I won't always have the same face throughout my lifetime because I will never know completley who I am. However, I will always where I have been. Then I saved the picture of the girl for my scrapbook, and stepped onto the bus. Later I labeled the image: imageination. Then I took a blank photo of my ceiling and labled it: me.

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You may not be a photographer but you paint a very beautiful picture. I hope this is just a story and not a true painting of you. (If a story, you had a couple of grammatical errors in it but forgive if I stray.)


Your style of writing, even if it is of yourself, can go far in a personal journal and help the healing process if you need it. You are really a wonderful writer and paint the feelings with such real and accurate colors.


I wish you the very best.


Jim
Reply:I really liked your story, you're a very good writer!!!!!!
Reply:I hope you are looking for good and bad feedback. I can offer both.





Let me start with the bad: As soon as I started reading it, I knew within the first few lines, that you were writing about the image of you. Maybe I have read to many books in my life, but I knew the end of the story you would say that the image you saw was yourself.





It was overall a good short story. Maybe to descriptive about things. People don't need to be over-stimulated with imagery. Too much, and a person can get bored, or lost and wonder what the story was about. To be honest, I was kinda lost after a while, because it was just all imagery, descriptions, and I got the point after a few very descriptive words were sufficient. But we are all different in how we like our writers.





I also wonder, are you sad? I don't mean, depressed in life? But sad, that you have an Abercrombie bag (tattered or not), or a phone that you can take pictures with. I guess the luxuries in life that others cannot afford? Do you think that you have spoiled yourself and that maybe you don't deserve them? Do you not deserve to me happy? Happiness sometimes comes at the cost of other people's expense. This is something that you can't help, it is just a fact of life.





Look at yourself again. Look at the picture. And hopefully you will see someone who is a REAL person. A person with feelings, and likes to have nice things. Be yourself in your life. You only get one (until proven differently that we have more lives) and make the best out of it.





Cheers!



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