There is a bus, always moving, rumbling down a road with no clear end. You’re on it—not alone, never alone. Around eight billion others ride with you, packed tight in rows of stories, of breath, of wonder and fatigue.
Some sit quietly, watching the blur of life beyond the windows. Others talk, laugh, sleep, fight, dream. A few, when they get old or tired—when the motion feels too much or too meaningless—they jump off. Their silence lingers in the empty seats.
But as some go, others come. Newborns blink into fluorescent light, unsure of where they are, taught quickly to sit down, buckle up, and wait. "This is how we ride," they're told. "This is what we do."
Some passengers obey. Others unbuckle. They stretch, question, climb the aisles. Some fall off the bus. Some are thrown. The rules were never clear—just handed down, worn smooth by repetition.
At the front of the bus, there’s a screen. Behind it, they say, is the driver. Some believe he’s real—a guide, a maker, the one who started the engine. Others think he’s just a man, not unlike us. And some… don’t think he’s there at all.
The screen is scratched from hands and time. Many have tried to break it—tried to see. They’ve made cracks. Not many. Not deep. But lately, the pounding’s grown louder. The questions sharper. A quiet rebellion of curiosity and desperation.
Some believe the bus is headed somewhere, a place where the ride will make sense. Others think you only get somewhere if you get off—if you leave the ride behind, leap into the unknown. No one can say which belief is true.
And still, the bus moves. Forward? Maybe. Toward what? No one knows.
But the ride continues.
And so do you.
took a bus ride today and I wrote this