Chapter Three:
Alan:
When Alan got onto the bus, he spotted Benny immediately and sat down siguiente to him.
Alan took the bus every Tuesday and Thursday to visit his mother. He’d met Benny two weeks hace and the two talked every time Alan was on the bus, and Alan ate up every word that Benny said.
He had been skeptical at first, but it didn’t take long for Alan to honestly believe he was talking to God when he rode the bus. After a while, the insanity of the situation wore off and it seemed completely normal.
“Hello Alan,” Benny smiled. “How are tu today? How’s your mother?”
“I’m just fine,” he began excitedly, “but Mum’s great. Doctors say she can come inicial as early as siguiente week!”
“That’s wonderful!”
“It’s just like tu said, Ben. tu dicho everything would be fine and it is!”
Benny nodded. “You never have to worry about illness, Alan.”
Alan cocked his head to the side. “Yeah, tu keep sayin’ that Ben, but I’ve been thinking… Why not?”
Benny shifted in his seat, trying to get comfortable after a few hours on the bus. “See, Al, it’s already been decided when tu start and when tu end. The beauty of it that tu have to decide what to do with the middle bit – and that’s the best bit.”
Alan nodded, solemnly. “That’s deep. Ben. Real deep.”
Benny nodded as well. He knew the topic of death brought people down; it had already changed Alan from someone almost bursting with excitement to someone with his hands folded somberly in his lap. But Benny wished he could make people see that death really wasn’t so bad. It was inevitable, an unchangeable fact, so why let it bother you? That was like letting sunsets bother you. It’s going to happen, so why not find a way to make the día that tu have great, instead of dwelling on when it will end?
“Benny?”
“Yes, Alan?”
“Who decides when we come and when we go?”
“I do,” Benny said, simply.
Alan pulled the yellow chord that lit the ‘Next Stop’ sign with the ding. “Of course,” he dicho with a little laugh, “How could I forget?”
Alan stood up. “You know,” he dicho after pausing thoughtfully, “my wife still can’t believe I talk to God on the bus. She thinks we’re both nuts.”
“That’s because your wife takes the subway.”
Alan:
When Alan got onto the bus, he spotted Benny immediately and sat down siguiente to him.
Alan took the bus every Tuesday and Thursday to visit his mother. He’d met Benny two weeks hace and the two talked every time Alan was on the bus, and Alan ate up every word that Benny said.
He had been skeptical at first, but it didn’t take long for Alan to honestly believe he was talking to God when he rode the bus. After a while, the insanity of the situation wore off and it seemed completely normal.
“Hello Alan,” Benny smiled. “How are tu today? How’s your mother?”
“I’m just fine,” he began excitedly, “but Mum’s great. Doctors say she can come inicial as early as siguiente week!”
“That’s wonderful!”
“It’s just like tu said, Ben. tu dicho everything would be fine and it is!”
Benny nodded. “You never have to worry about illness, Alan.”
Alan cocked his head to the side. “Yeah, tu keep sayin’ that Ben, but I’ve been thinking… Why not?”
Benny shifted in his seat, trying to get comfortable after a few hours on the bus. “See, Al, it’s already been decided when tu start and when tu end. The beauty of it that tu have to decide what to do with the middle bit – and that’s the best bit.”
Alan nodded, solemnly. “That’s deep. Ben. Real deep.”
Benny nodded as well. He knew the topic of death brought people down; it had already changed Alan from someone almost bursting with excitement to someone with his hands folded somberly in his lap. But Benny wished he could make people see that death really wasn’t so bad. It was inevitable, an unchangeable fact, so why let it bother you? That was like letting sunsets bother you. It’s going to happen, so why not find a way to make the día that tu have great, instead of dwelling on when it will end?
“Benny?”
“Yes, Alan?”
“Who decides when we come and when we go?”
“I do,” Benny said, simply.
Alan pulled the yellow chord that lit the ‘Next Stop’ sign with the ding. “Of course,” he dicho with a little laugh, “How could I forget?”
Alan stood up. “You know,” he dicho after pausing thoughtfully, “my wife still can’t believe I talk to God on the bus. She thinks we’re both nuts.”
“That’s because your wife takes the subway.”
Streetlamps, houses, gates, remotes, books, CDs and televisions. Brothers. Pairs. Each has a twin. In this chaotic place of materials the world has come to be, everything has a brother. But brothers are family. And family is connected somehow; if not por blood, then por what?
Energy.
Look hard. At everything that has a brother. A line of energy casts a connection between the two. The energy, with its harsh glares and cold looks creates the strongest and most complex bonds. Strong because of their brotherhood. Complex because of its invisibility. For there is power in invisibility. Cold, cruel power. The power to be a persecutor with no chance of being a victim. The power to twist and squeeze but not feel the wrenching pain of your twists.
Now, tu ask, what is left? Cruel, invisible energy. For a cruel, invisible world.
This is my first time escritura in stream of consciousness. I know it's short but don't judge me too harshly.
Energy.
Look hard. At everything that has a brother. A line of energy casts a connection between the two. The energy, with its harsh glares and cold looks creates the strongest and most complex bonds. Strong because of their brotherhood. Complex because of its invisibility. For there is power in invisibility. Cold, cruel power. The power to be a persecutor with no chance of being a victim. The power to twist and squeeze but not feel the wrenching pain of your twists.
Now, tu ask, what is left? Cruel, invisible energy. For a cruel, invisible world.
This is my first time escritura in stream of consciousness. I know it's short but don't judge me too harshly.