I sat. I listened. I observed. I analyzed. January had come and gone; soon February would come to an end. The orange sunlight seeped in through the bus’s windows, covering the vibrant red seats in a coat of illumination.
          I waited for the monotone voice to announce my stop. As headphones- and hoodie-wearing teenagers boarded and disembarked from the bus, old ladies sat down. Their faces were wrinkled from their sweet smiles. I leaned against the red seat that I had chosen for my daily bus ride.
          The bus passed new and old shops, stores with lines winding around the crooked sidewalks, bookstores filled with legends and more, and the occasional cat strolling about.
          When the bus arrived at my stop, I thanked the bus driver. My brown boots hit the pavement. The late afternoon breeze brushed through my hair as I made my way down the few blocks to my house.
          I hummed along to my music and watched little boys and girls play in the same orange-tinted sunlight.
          I looked up at the sapphire sky and surveyed the clouds. Hearts, stars, butterflies, trees — it seemed like everything could be up there if I searched long enough.
          I took out my keys, found the one lined with a lime-green color, and turned it inside the lock.
          The savory smell of flavorful soup filled my senses. My mother stood at the stove, sprinkling spices into a brass pot filled with bubbling liquid. I greeted her and headed up to my bedroom, dropping my bag on the floor. My dog inspected it thoroughly, making me giggle.
          Before doing anything else, I opened my computer.
          My fingers glided over the keyboard, and that familiar clicking sound made me smile. With that, I began to write about my daily bus ride. As I did so, I began to think about writing. The simplicity and the complexity. The visuals and the vocabulary. What made a good story?
          With the cooling breeze flowing into my bedroom through the open window, I closed my eyes and let my thoughts bloom.