The XXI Century Pilgrims

I'm in the middle of a travelling crowd. We are the XXI Century Pilgrims. We don't know each other. Our "we"-ness, our shared identity has a clear beginning and a gradual end. Some of us look at each other, stare at the world passing by, or dive into the pond of unconsciousness, oblivion.

For practical reasons, we are extremely close to each other, very much like clovers in a field. I can smell their sweat, their perfume -in very scant cases-, their breath; I can take in the life they exude and they can embrace mine. If close enough,  I can touch you, 65-year-old married man whose mind was silently borrowed by Morpheo for a while, at least. I can feel the flower- scented hair of the late-twenties woman standing next to me, holding a voluptuous flower arrangement. I can identify the lust, the desire in the thirtyish, office worker's eyes; I feel it too.  We don't give in, for some reason. I imagine I feel his want, his blood in flux, his energy within me.

But, of course, this is just me, and my gaze. Maybe I only see what I want to believe. Maybe this guy is just tired after a whole week of hard work. Maybe the man on my right is trying to rest his eyes. Maybe the woman is a kindergarten teacher.

Maybe we're not a travelling crowd after all.

Maybe it's time I get off the bus.