un autre paragraphe (Sunday's)

excerpt:
"The bus was a large space of white and orange and neat dark rows of seats in two lines. Our hair--light, dark, curly, clean--stood out against the rest and our arms were stretched out careless on the seatbacks. The windows were bright striated streaks of light. On the way back home, we fell asleep in ones or twos, leaning on ripped faux-leather seats, and warm shoulders, and cold windowpanes."

I think I write fiction because it's so much easier to make things up than attempt to recreate such an intricate situation of reality! Memory, distance, and/or time make things infinitely easier--some kind of separation allows for a blurriness that then must be filled by an action, description, or character that is a compromise from truth. Maybe it's all about compromise--that's why trying to write "truth" is tough, because I can't stand the thought of not conveying everything perfectly to the readers. Sheesh.