Prose

The crowd kept filling in, barely any room to breathe let alone stand. The sheer number alone confined in those small cubical joints would give jitters to outside bystanders who so very wrongly judge and mistake us for having voyeuristic pleasures, a sort of kick if you will, by standing so close to each other.
 
The activities that take place inside the scrawny feeble moving vehicle each second, simply put, is chaotic bliss. There’s so much to observe, so much to learn about people and habits, cultures and personalities, a plethora of emotions and quirks on display to a point of certain embarrassment even.
 
There’s not a lot of issues in the this world that we all agree upon unanimously except maybe for the fact that each person is different and yet the same, meaning we’re all somehow so uniquely different that it’s hard to think we all still belong to the same species; but as the saying goes, “our differences only make us stronger” is perhaps true.
 
A ride with strangers is probably, the best way to understand the world around you, because no amount of books or strategically collected data could ever break-even to the kind of exposure and emotions you get first hand while talking with them yourself; about politics, hotel services in the city, best places to hang out and what not. People are always buzzing with information to reveal and learn.
 
Every scene, every tall, short, fair, dark, ebony-eyed person has a story to tell. What’s amazing is they are just as normal as everyone else, which can only mean one thing; we all have extraordinary stories to share. What if we had the ability to document every one of these stories? Is that even a wise thing to do so? And are we at all prepared to know and handle that kind of knowledge?
 
The “so what” factor is huge. At the end of the day you can see the merit in actually fellating the pistol; because no matter what, no matter how much money you make, no matter how many times you’ve been high like nobody’s ever been that high before and no matter how many gowns you’ve boned… in a hundred years or so, you’re dust! Crumbling soot in the pine/oak box, as ash we stay pondering and regretting to not have learned enough about the wondrous species that mankind is.
 
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(still only half way through... working on the rest)