Jellyfish

**Most of this was originally penned in January.

I rode a bus this morning, for the first time. It was a great, belching beast that shook along the road as a red sunrise birthed us into the city. I almost fell asleep in its warm belly; I like how time passes inside.

On the ride home, it was raining. I saw little people sleeping in piles, one body atop another, under a bridge; I wondered if it was the tent people that I had read about in an article describing how a fancy city bulldozer came and wiped the tent city away. So now they aren’t tent people, just people sleeping in piles. I really can’t complain. 

Before route’s end I reflected on the photos of the human brain and nervous system I saw last night– the part that makes us what we are. So for a while all I can think about is how it looked like a jellyfish, and we’re all just a bunch of jellyfish. All the same, reaching out and shrinking away. It’s poetic. Or whatever.

I got into the complicated parts of it– like trying to figure out why everyone gets so caught up in the flesh and fat of us. Then I got too tired to think about it anymore, and I drove home, stopping by the side of the rode only twice to wipe my eyes and catch my breath. 

By the time I get home and pull the covers over my head, I know that it will soon be the end of buses, cities, and reaching out.