New York to Ithaca

The endless road north west from New York is five hours long. Five hours that pass through the snow in winter and the thick green canopies in summer. Every bus ride is a cacophony- a cacophony of a dozen ear phones playing bad music, empty nothings from the multitude of cell phones and the droning of the bus punctuated by the old and faithful snore.

Through tinted glass, you can see the hours go by. Thoughts meander to meaningless conclusions. Annotations and re-annotations soil them, filing them to an archive, in the hope of eventual retrieval and maybe they will make the pages of a "biography of an unknown citizen" or a library bound moribund thesis .

In the contained atmosphere of the bus, there resides a smell- an amalgam of countless odours. An amalgam of the air freshner in the washroom and the odors of a million riders, it permeates your senses and sets off a million memory recalls of earlier journeys.

A waking sleep approaches, either lulled by fairies of summer or the gloom of winter. Through deep valleys and high hills, the mind drifts, powered by the currents of chance and circumstance.

At the very end, the five hour road empties into Ithaca, a small town by the lake. Journeys seem to begin and end in circular manner, till the ends and the beginnings all coalesce into a large droplet , threatening to overwhelm the reality that is journeyed upon.