City: initial verses

Night has some strange properties. Means everything has some strange capacities, but night is like mother of all miracles. Night is bonsai death. Every day dies in realm of night. Now what one has lived can be seen in many manner. He is seeing it too. He, one who took the bus and put himself into journey of nowhere. He is a bus, yes, he is a bus, which travels different routes, take people to their destinations or non-destinations like offices, rests into yards and then resumes again, but bus doesn't really reach anywhere. It is kind of entity which reaches everywhere without having any dictate. So he resembles to bus, right now he is in the bus....
So much people, he thought. He has been thinking about this huge and growing presence of people around him since long. He hated them and tried metamorphosed them as characters in his poem. But then his poems flooded by diversities this mass easily posses and nobody really understood what he was trying to write by those poems. This is problem when one tries using poem to cure some real problems. Poems are sedatives, so called pain killers, which make us forget pains, strong ache of being crushed under burden of such large scale existences. He got confused. Was he talking to somebody? He always found himself talking to somebody. He never really thought as of his own, but kind of response to questions put on him by somebody in his imaginations. Sometimes, these somebody has faces or at least partial recognitions like textbooks. ' Am I turning schizophrenic', he wondered. He found the thought soothing as John Nash was schizophrenic. There is pinch of joy when any small life event matches with some recorded life event of somebody great. It inflates life and makes it bearable. Even if it is not about resembling with anybody, a complete jump into insanity is always desirable, he thought. Difficulty is being somewhere in the middle.
He found that bus has TV. There was some adds going on. But it's nice, he felt. Sit in the sort of empty bus, run through web of flyovers, watch city transforming into island of shining among dots of darkness and meanwhile when there is still ample time left to meditate on what exactly he is doing, caress the smallest pain and preserve it beyond anything. Camus once said, man either has wife, or he believes in god or at least he keeps the pet. Camus' point was nobody is really lonely. Camus is right, as he is always. His pains, which he has nourished through years has accompanying him like his shadows and he found himself floating into sea of life events, memories, dreams, visualizations and some patches of poems where life kept a bright mark, unforgettable.