Random Thoughts On A Bus

I sit there in the bus, looking...

Looking at faces...
Faces of perfect strangers, people I don't know, those who are with me in the moment, and will then disperse into oblivion, those people that I sit and think about, those faces, they which reflect the people in them, the cadavers, living, breathing...
What is there to them, do they matter, what are they upto... are they even upto something... or they are just floating around, randomly, time bombs ticking away...
They are not alive, that I know... but are they dead? they are not, they live, but to themselves, naked, and bare... only in the insecurity of their necessities, and to it...
So how many of them would be mentioned in history books, or even be talked about through their lives... None... So they live, and that is their place and purpose in the whole... Anonymous little people who exist only to for the obligation of living, they survive... they give nothing to this world, they take nothing... they expend their lives only to live, and that just about sums up their purpose of living... they know only of the world they are living in, only of the world they need to survive in... nothing else matters... are the a consequence, or are they a reason... i dont know, nobody knows for that matter... their worthlessness is not their problem, they don't care, they don't wish to care, they are afraid of caring...
who are they to others, but plain faces, faces without persons, without souls, without humanity...
without life... they are dead, no past, no future... their lives have come close to mine, for the time and in that i have learned the worthlessness we are becoming to live in... Walking, Talking, Seeing, Hearing, Then Dead... The human function, we all have come to perform...
And that is what I have come to fear the most of them, Them...
They hold the power to control the world, because they are the people, the composition of the world, Nothing...
All greatness in this world stands judged by the minds of such proportion, they are the audience, the ones the great perform to... The ones who are imposed by numbers... So why does the greatness exist, and by whom is it made to exist... why do they even care to make it exist for the likes of those who kill the greatness by interpreting it, for they have no faculty for the purpose, and insult it, by making it great for the face value or for hating it for its content... Is all greatness absolute... Are we damned to such an audience, to such judges... who damned us... Those who create greatness, or those who did not...
I seek no answers, for I pose no questions, for those who shall judge the problem have no right to... All that I wish for is that i do not become them, and that i am becoming, gradually... for years in rot, cannot leave you untouched.