It's been AGES since I've written anything original. I had a lot of fun with this one. Hopefully I can spread my focus a bit more and write more original things soon , even if my head is full to bursting with too many fanfiction ideas already...

((NOTE: Despite the title, this isn't a poem. I just happen to think 'anthology' is a more haunting word than 'collection' or anything like that. Also, 'anthology' is just generally one of my favourite words))

You're alone at the bus stop, having just missed the previous bus. You'll have to wait at least half an hour, because not many busses come here. Once a small town, always a small town, after all. But that doesn't bother you, because you're used to it. That, and it means nobody's going to stare at you, nobody is going to come and ask you what you are doing. Most of the people who live on this street –and there aren't many-are inside anyway, but anyone passing by will be too wrapped up in their own affairs to notice anything out of the ordinary. So you'll just sit there for half an hour, and watch the empty street. Occasionally, you look down at the ground, and make circles on the dusty ground, scuffing the toes of your already worn-out trainers. Those trainers are really old, and you should have got a pair of new ones a long time ago, but you kept evading it. It's not like it matters anyway. So you sit there, and you damage your trainers, and you muse, and dream of things it is futile to dream about.

You're at the point where you start to consider taking your phone out and turning it on to listen to music, but that's when the bus comes. You let out a sigh of relief, because you didn't want to have to 'ignore' any calls or messages. This way, you can just say you didn't know about them, and you can just sit on the bus and think about what it is you're going to do next. Which, once you've paid your fair, is exactly what you do. Naturally, the bus is empty, and naturally, you choose a seat next to a window, near the back. You look out of the window, and note how grey everything is. Boarded up houses, closed shops, litter that didn't make it to the bin. Surely this is a ghost town, you find yourself thinking, and I'm one of the ghosts. Those are depressing thoughts, but the sights you see are depressing, so now you're apathetic, and you just stare. Eventually, the scenery blends into one monotonous blur, and you find yourself nodding off somewhat. But even so, you keep alert, because you're not about to miss your stop any time soon. At least, you hope so.

As the bus starts to enter a more lively part of town, other people get on the bus. To your utter irritation, some of them come to sit near where you are. Nobody actually sits next to you, but someone decides to dump their backpack in the seat next to you, which is almost as bad. You turn away from the window to give that person a vicious glare, but they're busy chatting to whoever it is they came with, and they don't notice you. They probably didn't even register that you exist, as hunched up in your corner as you are, with the too-big hoodie obscuring your body shape so you can't be identified. You find that pisses you off, but at the same time, that blanking out is a good thing for you. So you allow yourself one angry huff, and you just return to staring out of the window. Now that there are more people, there are more colours, and the view is marginally more interesting. Against your better intentions, your eyes pick out certain people, ones who seem to be at the fringes of it all, and you begin to wonder about them, about who they are. No. Stop this, I can't do this anymore. You make an active effort to stop your naturally inquiring mind. Your heart is too full of these images, these memories of people you've never met. If you could pass them on to someone else, you would have, but life doesn't work like that so you've done the unforgivable and let them all fade away. Maybe it's my turn next, you muse. Wouldn't that be funny?

You hear a pitter-pattering next to you and for some reason, it reminds you of a song you used to listen to as a child. A happier time. Quietly, very quietly, you start to hum it, thinking that maybe you'll remember the name of it as you do so, but even though the rest of the tune comes easily to you, the name remains elusive. You sigh, disappointed in yourself. You know how it goes, so why can't you recall anything else about it? It frustrates you for some reason, and you lean your head back against the seat. You close your eyes, but not in the way you would if you were taking a nap. Instead, you just watch the lights dancing behind your eyelids, and you faintly register the sensations of the bus stopping and starting, of people getting off and on. If you concentrate for long enough, it's almost as if you're floating out of your body. And then the bus hits a traffic jam, and brakes so abruptly you're nearly flung out of your seat. You fling your hands out to break the fall, and swear under your breath as you settle. Looking around you, you see that other people have also been similarly shocked, and one woman is trying to deal with shopping that flew out of her bags and across the seats. Despite yourself, you do the decent thing and help her.

When the final orange has been put back in the bag, and the woman has managed to sit down and rearrange her bags carefully, she smiles at you. Her gaze feels too strong, like she's actually trying to memorise your features. I don't want that.

"Thank you so much." She says effusively. You smile back, keeping your head low so that your hair hides some of your face. As intended, she takes that as an expression of shyness, and she laughs, releasing you. You rush back to your seat and curl back up in your corner, returning to staring out of the window. And that's when you notice it's raining. And, by the look of things, it's been raining for a while. Mentally, you face palm. How did I not notice this? It's almost embarrassing. Not to mention, you didn't bring an umbrella with you today. But as it happens, that doesn't matter, because that obnoxious person with the large backpack left behind their umbrella. You take it and rest it on your lap, randomly playing with the umbrella handle, and the loop of rope at the bottom that is usually used to hang the umbrella up somewhere. You won't need to hang this umbrella up anywhere. Once you've finished what you have to do, you won't need an umbrella anymore.

I won't nee-as you begin to think over what you're doing today (for the millionth time), the view from the bus window tells you your destination is near. Carefully you get up and make your way towards the door of the bus, and press the bell. Others gather around you, also waiting, but you don't look at them, don't observe them. You just blank them out, and when the bus stops and the doors shudder open, you are the first out, and you walk away as briskly as your tired legs could possibly take you. Struggling against the relentless rain and wind, you open up the umbrella that had been abandoned, and after a while of making a fool of yourself, you manage to hold it up and shelter yourself from the rain, your mind conveniently omitting the fact that you're somewhat soaked from those moments anyway.

As you hold the umbrella out of you, you notice the thread tied in a bow around your finger. The bright blue shade of it is stark against the greyness of everything else. It's a trick you learnt ages ago- if you want to remember something important, tie a thread around your finger as a reminder. Then, you'll be sure to remember it. Usually, it works. You can be a scatterbrain sometimes, and there have been days where all your fingers are tied with different colours of thread. But usually, it works.

Today, it doesn't.

You stop dead in the middle of the street and stare at that finger. People mutter in annoyance and sidestep you, others shout briefly before moving on, and others yet again just stare, but just like all the other times people have brushed by you today, you don't care. All you can see is a piece of thread, tied into a bow around your finger. A gesture rendered meaningless by your now blank mind.

What is it, You wonder. What is it that I've forgotten?

But even as you ask yourself that, you know deep down you won't get an answer.

Thematically, this was influenced by the documentary film 'Dreams of a Life'. Even now Joyce Carol Vincent's story continues to haunt me. Being forgotten like that is just too sad. I also came up with a lot of the paragraphs of this while listening to the song 'Moratorium' by Luschka, and near the end of writing this, I was listening to 'Mizuhako' by PolyphonicBranch. So it's more than likely those songs exerted their influence over this, too. You don't need to listen to either of those songs while listening to this, though. But if you want to, you can, lol.

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this, and please leave feedback!