in BDCommunity9 months ago

Getting on this bus wasn't easy. Legs heavy and tired, my mind and heart only keep looking back and imagining if you are still standing on the pavements of that stoppage, waiting, looking in front at the turns of the road, all lost in thought, thoughts about me. No one has ever done that before, for me, you know. I have always thought affections of such intensity were things meant for books. Flowery and meant to make the readers feel a fleeting sense of satisfaction. I will admit I was quite wrong. So wrong that now I myself am writing something full of an ever unfelt desperate ache for my desired and beloved. As the wheels of this vehicle move and keep taking me far from you, this ache only increases.

I write this as I have realized something profound and deep. The meaning of memories. I was with you the whole day. We held hands, walked around and about, ate, laughed and did the most random and stupid things. I saw you not only mere moments ago, and now all of that day spent together has become memories. All I am left with is a satisfying sensation that is escaping me as the longest hand on the clock keeps turning. Funny how its motions will never stop, but the wheels of this bus at some point will come to a standstill. And likewise, as time moves forward and my hairs turn grey, all you'll be to me is a bunch of good memories, and all the same, I will be in your head too.

As you read that, and I know how sarcastic your brain is, you'll ponder and stumble upon the final question, "What is the point then? A bit of sadness resulting from the above-written portion clearly showing you the state of my mind, tucked away under that sarcastic smirk of yours, this is what you'll ask, which I know without a shadow of a doubt. Don't ask me as I have no answer. But what I know is it feels damn good. Being with you feels heavenly and divine. It always did.

I'm nearing my stop. A few more minutes, and like how I saw you for the last time, I too will be standing on a stoppage. Except mine is all dark and poorly lit. Not as bustling and full of life as yours. Nothing that important ever happens here. In front of me will be the highway full of fast-moving transports carrying cargo towards their destination 100s of miles away. Unfortunately, I am moving away from mine.

I think I shouted and expressed my love for you in front of the whole bus. Thought out loud unintentionally. Passengers who are sitting around me now are looking at me all funny. The old man next to me even went ahead and threw a remark towards me, which I couldn't fully make out. Like many other things, I don't really care much about it. All I know is when the 6 wheels of my bus stop, and when my eyes close if you remember me, nothing will matter. My life, it will be complete then.



Memory itself is a monster; lurks around restless and make deep wounds with its razor-sharp claws with evey possible opportunity.

Yet, that's life- the wheels never stop or go backward but the memory, the very essence of life only forms with past events. It always wonders me how the two inseparable entities of life live together but exist in completely two different realms.

Hope your memory never gets past "safety" and finds a rough surface like the bus's body.

Hope your memory never gets past "safety" and finds a rough surface like the bus's body.

i thought no one is going to notice that subtle detail. if they noticed, at least wouldn't be able to make that connection. you did:P

While reading your writing, I also remembered some memories of my life. The rotation of the wheels of a vehicle will end at one point, but there is no end to this memory. Some memories are very special!

Well Written vai. Your word choice &Everything in your writing isn't less than a good writer. I always enjoyed reading your writings:-)

Some memories are very special!

That is all there is to it in the end.

Thank You for liking this fahim. i dont write as good but thank you:)

Nice writing ✍ 👌

Well, Thank you!

Greetings ☺

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 9 months ago  Reveal Comment


That is all that we are reduced to in the end. as humans, we always forget that in the end, we are only the main characters in our own story. to the cosmic historian, we are just simply another in billions, part of something so large that our existence matters to only like that of how an ants matters to us:)