Aimless and lost.

"Are you a writer", it asked of him.

No words came out yet. I am a lost traveler, he said to himself. Searching for a thing which should be sought more. May be it doesn't even exist. There must have been people before me, who would have gotten lost. Meaning of life, inner peace, a guiding hand in the wilderness, a lonely charm, tranquility in thought, access to deepest secrets of the universe. The little game inside the gold mine, our head.
I often feel like a bystander on a highway, waiting, for a blue bus. Watching cars pass by. The make, reflected the drivers' soul. Those souls had immersed into a myriad of materialistic obsessions, craving freedom. Life too just like most cars on that highway, never stopped for those who stood and wander. With an irony in the face that it often passes by unnoticed , remembered more for a set of unforeseen calamities.
Looking heavenwards, the sky, it seemed a lot calmer. Clouds scattered across, breaking blue plains with tiny white specs of cotton, yet, thick enough to engulf the light. A gentle cool breeze washing his face, bringing sounds of laughter from the west to his ears. Birds gliding along. Chirping, perhaps asking questions of the wind. A lonely bee, wandering, having lost a scent of treasured flowers, rests on a hook, as it take a break from its search. A pigeon flapping vigorously trying to untangle itself from leaves, branches. It had been entrapped while searching for a place to build its nest.
Universe has conspired. It always has. The idea has been simple and yet never understood. Blinding, to keep everyone searching for ways to make themselves feel happiness, to have an illusion of control over what we call life. A momentary sense of pleasure, to help its secrets remain hidden in plain sight.
Sky is a lot calmer, he thought.

"Are you a writer", it asked again.
"No, I am just a sojourner in civilized society".