Every night on the bus br I see the same vacant expressions br on the same faces. br Every night it is the br same routine, the same game br of pretending everyone br else is somewhere else. br Staring out the window br in the same seat at the same br buildings. Passing the same br street signs I see br every single night. br I am as vacant as the br slippery shadows that br frolic just outside my line br of vision. There are moments I br am convinced I have lost br my mind. There are seconds br I am certain I have become br a figure in somebody else's br illusionary world. Every night br I find myself thinking the same br pathethic thoughts that I always br extrapolate on this mundane bus ride. br I am a book that has not allowed br itself to be opened. Fresh ink on br the pages that has not been read. br Every tangled rope seems to bind br me tighter and tighter, until I can br sense the emotions leaving my soul. br Why do we continue to follow br the same patterns of disillusionment? br Is it that we are afraid to let br our hearts feel the emotions God br gave us to treasure? I suspect that br we have become so wrapped up br in our various performances that we br have forgotten that we are all of br the same breed.br br Chris G.