TRANCEport

It’s a different world. From the either side of the window it is…a different world. Walking the by lane, sitting in your balcony, your car’s windowpane rolled up, from wherever…if you look at a bus, its everything else than what you would want to commute by. And from the side of the window facing the face of your choice, if you look at wherever, it’s a picture that gels your present, past and future, state of mind, state of being, and reflections of inner voice.

 
The commuter wants..to get there. The means of getting there are many. There is also reachable if one takes the bus. The artist i know always wants to do this. Scattered colors in and out, words painted on taints and open doors, music scores of far cry fantasies, general knowledge on every fingertip, hurries and hassles and flipping-flopping stories, escapades from do-dailies and frames of time, memoirs on the brows of those who have added sugar to it all for all the time, and trips to wonder worlds in conversations…
Helping hands for tickets to distant eyes, shouts of get down and get on, eyes that meet for a fraction and then for centuries, engines narrating love stories till the full stops and again, angry roads, and mellowing turns, destinations on every urn of matchbox houses flying over and over again, … sparks conducted every now and then and when …

Do not know when. Yesterday, in a film on nat-geo, the anchor was saying this about the dtc buses.
“ No one knows, how much time, these buses are going to take to their destinations, Somehow…they reach…”

And while coming to office today, I was listening to these words...
“Who can say where the road goes, where the day flows, only time”
If I have to say something about it, I would say,
I am devoid of the sense of time when I am commuting by bus. It’s a better means of TRANCEport.