Entropy

The local bus meanders through a sleepy South Island, this is the old folks’ bus it stops everywhere and leaves no stone unturned. It reads like a memoir of your years on its streets, it speaks of an entire life that sat in your bones a lifetime ago. Here is the first apartment you saw and didn’t get, here is where you stood disoriented outside the train and wondered which way was up, literally too, here is where you stood for hours in the late summer twilight and felt nothing under his touch. Here is the park bench I walked past one penniless Wednesday afternoon and thought maybe I make this a home, instead, and I wondered if that was what rock bottom looked like. It’s a beautiful town. But maybe love is not enough to build a life. Isn’t that what these lessons were trying to teach you?

The bus arrives on a small island in the inner city strait. A moving van appears, expectant faces and a fresh start. Promises of new stories to write, the makings of a life after love proved flawed. I drag my bag past their symbolism, wave furiously but do not stay. There are too many manuscripts in your drafts folder. Which Story would you like to tell at last?