In our practice, we must learn to surrender. Though with adaptability we must not bend too far. I find this a challenge these days; we manipulate ourselves by the neck of a twisted perception. We create filters for what they'd like to see, with no portrayal of actuality. I want to be more like a warrior, sturdy and free. I'd like to reach with aspiration, and stretch for what could be. But here's what is:
A bus load of people, and not one person is alive! They've all got their dead eyes stuck on their phones. None of us feel like talking, but we sure as hell feel like gawking.. at the profiles and lives more enticing than ours. At a text, some short message, or a picture to post--emails, e banking, and evites with no emotion. The only hope left just hopped on the bus. No one recognizes him, but they give their loathsome looks. It's because he doesn't own a technological delusion; his deceptiveness comes in a 40oz-- they're correct to despise, and scowl...lucky for him, he's not like us.
So, he sits beside me, clinging to the seat with the magnetism of the Earth, while the remaining seats luster with emptiness. As reluctant as I am, I posture up with a diffident smile. He returns the favor, gingivitis and all. His salt and peppered hair squirms like bait beneath a fishing cap. He's fidgety, and smells of whiskey and smokes. I've reason to believe he's got a taste for Henry Miller; he towers over my shoulder, and with every furtive glance he reads a little more. We laugh together, and cry at all the same pronunciations. But as philosophy and our universe holds true, all good things come to an end.
I stand as we approach my exit, and he...he places his palm upon the warmth I'll leave behind. Neither of us speak a word, and the awkward silence cries undeniably humanistic. This is what "back in the day" feels like! Back in the day when we relied on each other for a connection, and not WiFi or a hots
pot. We're barely breathing, barely thinking through our haphazard lives--But who gives a shit..there's an app for that too, right!? We're a technological generation, with no more children of men. While you pray on Kurzweil's next predictions, I think I'll set my hopeful eyes on tomorrow's bus ride. Perhaps I'll catch another whiff of that whiskey-doused hope.
About the author: Monique M. Luna is a UCLA graduate, and currently resides in Los Angeles, CA. Her love for writing stems from a never-ending curiosity, and means of merging facts with fantasy. In her daily routine she provides ABA services to clients and families with Autism. Whether in-home, or on site, she uses these experiences to grow and evolve as a writer. She hopes that through her work and writing you are challenged to question, reflect, and accept with love, and open minds.