Bardo Bus Diaries: Seat 23B
Somewhere between yesterday and tomorrow, the Bardo Bus made an unscheduled stop.
The driver didn’t explain, as usual. A few passengers looked up from their phones,
others just stared out the window, trying to remember who they were before they got on.
I watched a man argue with his reflection in the glass —
he was losing the argument, mostly because the reflection was honest.
Across the aisle, a woman clutched a small blue crystal,
as if it were her passport back to the world of the living.
It’s strange how quiet eternity can be when nobody’s sure if they’ve arrived.
Sometimes we get off at the wrong stop — sometimes that is the point.
The Bardo Bus keeps rolling, collecting dreamers, lost souls, and morning commuters alike.
If you listen carefully between stops, you can hear the universe humming,
like an old diesel engine that refuses to quit.
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Bardo Bus Diaries: The Transfer Station
We pulled into the Transfer Station just before dawn — or something that felt like dawn.
A pale light hung in the mist, like someone had dimmed the universe for maintenance.
Nobody spoke, but everyone knew this was where choices were to be made.
Some passengers lined up for the express — eager to reincarnate,
still chasing unfinished stories and unlearned lessons.
Others waited for the slow local that wanders through dream country,
where time takes coffee breaks and memories sell postcards of your past lives.
I stayed on the bus.
Not ready to start over, not ready to stop.
The driver nodded, as if he understood.
He probably did — he’s been driving this route since before there were bodies to leave behind.
When the doors closed, the sound was soft — like the turning of a page.
Next stop: The Mirror Depot.
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Bardo Bus Diaries: The Mirror Depot
The Mirror Depot isn’t on any map. It drifts in and out of existence like a half-remembered dream.
We stopped there at what might have been midnight, or might have been a lifetime later.
Every wall was made of glass — not the kind that shows you what you look like,
but what you avoid seeing.
Passengers filed out one by one,
each greeted by their own reflection —
sometimes younger, sometimes older, sometimes not human at all.
One man found himself arguing again, this time with all the versions of himself that never quite made it.
A woman dropped her blue crystal and watched it roll toward a mirror that refused to return it.
The driver said nothing, just leaned against the wheel, humming an old tune that felt like déjà vu.
When my turn came, the glass stayed blank —
as if it was waiting for me to decide who I was going to be next.
I didn’t decide.
The bus hissed, the door shut, and we rolled away in silence.
Some journeys don’t need destinations — just a good seat and enough courage to look out the window.
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Bardo Bus Diaries: The Lost Luggage Terminal
By the time we reached the Lost Luggage Terminal, the air was heavy with stories.
Shelves stretched to the horizon, piled high with suitcases that pulsed faintly,
as if still breathing the memories packed inside them.
Each tag carried a name that had been whispered once and then forgotten.
One trunk rattled softly — probably full of uncried tears.
Another oozed a faint golden light, marked “Do Not Claim Until Ready.”
A few passengers wandered the aisles, opening bags,
trying on old identities like vintage clothes.
A man found a valise stuffed with apologies he never sent.
He zipped it shut and quietly put it back.
The woman with the blue crystal opened a small pink case.
Inside was a child’s laughter, perfectly preserved.
She smiled for the first time since we left the Transfer Station.
The driver honked once — a deep, mournful sound that echoed off the shelves.
Time to go. Nobody ever claims their baggage here for long.
It’s just a rest stop between forgetting and forgiveness.
When the doors closed, I thought I heard the luggage sigh —
a long, grateful exhale from the weight of the world.
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Bardo Bus Diaries: The Snack Bar of Forgotten Souls
We pulled in just past the edge of time.
A flickering neon sign buzzed overhead: “EATS.”
The smell of burnt coffee and ozone drifted through the air.
Inside, the Snack Bar of Forgotten Souls was open 25 hours a day —
no clocks, no tips, no exits.
The counter girl had eyes like static and a smile that never finished forming.
She poured me something dark that might’ve been coffee, might’ve been memory.
At the corner booth, a monk and a biker shared fries,
arguing about whether enlightenment came before or after dessert.
Every stool was taken by someone remembering something they swore they’d forgotten —
a first kiss, a last goodbye, a promise that didn’t make it past the border.
On the jukebox, Billie Holiday sang through a veil of dust and digital ghosts.
No one spoke when she hit the high note.
When the bus honked, a few passengers looked relieved,
others just stared into their half-empty cups.
I left a coin on the counter — it wasn’t mine, but then again, nothing here ever is.
The driver nodded,
and we rolled out toward the dawn that wasn’t a dawn.
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Bardo Bus Diaries: The Bridge of Returning Light
Somewhere between nothing and everything, the Bridge appeared.
No guardrails, no pavement — just a ribbon of luminous mist
suspended over a darkness so deep it hummed.
We crossed in silence.
The wheels didn’t touch the bridge,
and for a moment, it felt like the whole bus was remembering how to fly.
Below us, echoes of old lives shimmered —
wars fought, children born, lovers meeting again after centuries.
Each one a flash of color in the void.
Every light was someone finding their way back home.
The woman with the blue crystal held it to the window.
It glowed so bright I thought the bus itself might dissolve into radiance.
Even the driver looked softer then,
like a god who had seen too many mornings and still believed in redemption.
When we reached the far side,
the bridge faded behind us, taking its light with it.
Someone whispered, “Are we there yet?”
and for once, nobody laughed.
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Bardo Bus Diaries: The Arrival Terminal
We rolled in slow, brakes sighing like tired lungs.
The sign overhead said ARRIVAL, but nobody believed it.
A few passengers stood, blinking as if the light itself was new.
It wasn’t sunlight — more like memory remembered itself.
The station was spotless. No ticket counters, no baggage claim.
Just doors. Rows and rows of them, each painted a different shade of dream.
Some swung open as people approached. Others stayed shut no matter how long they waited.
The woman with the blue crystal was gone.
Her seat was empty, but faintly glowing,
like she’d turned into her own light and stepped through.
The driver turned to me and said the only words I’d ever heard him speak:
“End of the line — for now.”
Then he smiled, just slightly,
as if he’d seen me here before.
When I stepped off the bus,
the ground was warm, and the air smelled like rain on new stone.
Far in the distance, I could hear another engine starting up.
The next route, maybe — or the same one again, from the other side.
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SONG: Bardo Bus Diaries
[Verse 1]
Twenty-three B, one seat from the door,
Ticket said forever, but I’ve seen this stop before.
Driver never speaks, just hums that tune,
Rolling through the twilight under a paper moon.
[Chorus]
Ride that Bardo Bus, rollin’ through the in-between,
Past the lost and found and the spaces in your dream.
Don’t ask where you’re goin’, you’ll know when you arrive —
On the Bardo Bus, the soul’s still alive.
[Verse 2]
We pulled in slow to the Transfer Station,
Everyone waiting on reincarnation.
Some took the local, some took the fast,
I stayed on board, I ain’t done with my past.
[Chorus]
Ride that Bardo Bus, rollin’ through the in-between,
Past the snack bar glow and the luggage of your dream.
Don’t ask where you’re goin’, you’ll know when you arrive —
On the Bardo Bus, the soul’s still alive.
[Bridge]
Mirrors on the wall show who you used to be,
A child, a saint, a refugee.
You stare too long, the glass stares back —
You gotta keep ridin’ or you’ll fade off the track.
[Verse 3]
Lost Luggage Terminal hummin’ like bees,
Suitcases breathing old memories.
Coffee at the counter of forgotten souls,
Heaven’s got a jukebox, but the needle’s full of holes.
[Chorus (extended)]
Ride that Bardo Bus, through the Bridge of Light,
Every wheel turnin’ through the endless night.
You can’t buy a ticket, you can’t get off the ride —
On the Bardo Bus, you just change sides.
[Outro / Coda]
The driver grins, says, “End of the line — for now.”
I step off slow, sweat on my brow.
Hear another engine start somewhere inside —
Guess I’ll catch the next one when worlds collide.
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And, sure enough, here comes the Bardo bus now, on our video tour!
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See You At The Top!!!
gorby