Styx and stones may break my bones

“I cannot bring myself to do it;
I cannot bring myself.”
And yet he does.
Finding a token for the fare man.

“Styx and stones may break my bones,”
He hunches his body against the
Window
Watching the shadows reflected on the
Glass wall.

“I have been a journeyman drawing in
The water;
Cast now your net over me.”

Glancing at the bus driver, H. M. wondered what it would be like to drive a bus for a living. He put a large sheet of paper on a white wall in his mind, the whites close in color, almost indistinguishable, almost blending one into the other.

Down the center of the paper he drew a thick black magic marker line. On the left side, at the top, he drew a plus sign, on the right, he drew a minus sign.

Under the plus he wrote: no one telling me what to do
Under the minus he wrote: remembering when and where to turn

It would be like trying to drive on a huge pretzel, twisting this way and that. Immediately he imagined an ant crawling on a giant pretzel. This way and that way included on top and underneath, around and around, looking for the end of the road and never finding it.

A Möbius strip….that’s it, he thought. I am living in a Möbius strip, there is no way to get to the end of it, there is no end, no beginning, no way to get to “there” because there is no “there” there. “Where?” There is no “where” there…there is only NO WHERE.

That final thought shocked his eyes into opening, and he re- focused on the morning’s destination. His office was waiting for him, the door, unlike the open arms he never experienced, was open and awaiting his arrival.

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