Scribblings

The ride home

At the end of every incredible night,
At the end of every mediocre night,
At the end of every terrible night,
There is always the ride home.

My rides usually guided by mass transit, where cars full of anonymous
riders sit in silence, observing there fellow outcasts.
I reflect and evaluate the day's transactions and brace myself for the
final realization, that I am no longer in the company of my peers.

The night might end, with a smile or a tear,
but the only constant is the silent voice that whispers solitude in my
mouth.
Quiet noises that remind me of the empty cars. My platform pleas
revisited prove that there are more loners in a city than I any of us
would like to admit.

How many share my destiny?
How many take empty rides crowded by dreams and memories of experience
that is no more?
How many walk in to an empty salon hoping that a ring of the phone will
bring an end to the endless silence of the night.

I gaze and wonder what is in store for each.
I envy the accompanied, admire the beauties, awaiting the moment when I
would be accompanied.
When my rides home would be not be as lonesome.

My brain makes too much noise. I try to numb my mind with mindless
entertainment, but the noise from within refuses to drown out, Refuses
to give peace a chance.

Every moment spent searching for the single thought that will reproduce
a simple smile. the thought that might last long enough for slumber to
take its toll before distress reigns again.