There is this one bus where no-one looks out the windows. Instead they stare down at screens as the bus rolls along its route that’s never changed. Sometimes one of them will raise their head to stare out the window at the world that passes them by in a blur of graffiti and dark clothes. I don’t know why they do it, maybe it’s just something to do while they wait to ring the bell for their stop and leave. Sometimes they get distracted and go right past their stop. That’s always followed by a falling head, a sigh and long walk uphill. The bus goes in one direction, along one route, that will never change although there have been many drivers. The passengers sit passively, pay the fare and in return they will be safely delivered to their destination of choice. No-one ever talks to anyone else. Passenger, passively. The former coming from the French meaning fleeting or passing, the latter coming from the Latin to suffer, meaning capable of suffering. Isn’t that what they are, fleeting travellers who are capable of suffering. Everything is a chore, everything is an effort and any inconvenience an egregious insult on the life of a passive passenger. But that’s alright, secretly they love to suffer. Suffer and do nothing, so much nothing that they’re always tired. Too tired for thinking, too tired for anything that could make them stand, sing, talk to the people sitting next to them. Maybe stop and walk home when the sun is shining hot or the rain is running and whispering. No, they paid the fare to get home, there’s no point in doing anything else, another time. There is reason they laugh when they see the bus pulling away from the bus stop just as they run to catch it with bags flailing.