On being alone on a crowded bus.

It was grey outside, with a light drizzle playing at the window, not too cold. The bus carried a muted odour of chips and fizzy drinks that wasn’t unpleasant, though grew more tiresome as the journey progressed. I looked out as a small boy hurried past on a miniature skateboard, and back inside a girl across from me took a sip out of a bottle as if the most important thing in the world to her was to avoid letting the rim of that bottle touch her lips. Another guy next to me finished a can of beer and wedged it down in the crack between the two seats in front, while a Front Row Foreigner chatted away loudly on his mobile.
So many individuals surrounding me, each with a unique life, a unique view of the world, a unique take on this thing we call existence. So many individuals, each with a self, an identity, like mine, I suppose, yet as different as I care to imagine.