Getting on the bus

Bus rides (and train rides at that) have always been special to me. The whole experience - waiting in the often too-dark or too-bright sidewalks, sitting on the dirty leather seats, fidgeting with the bus tickets, munching on the occasional bag of nuts - is something that grants me a warm, fuzzy feeling that I cannot explain. It's a time for myself; a valuable in-between where I get to be in the middle of a crowd of strangers, out of work and out of home, where everybody is a nobody. I get to think, I get to listen to the words of the songs that I blast through my ears. I get to think of words and phrases and sentences.

In busrides, everyone does not need to be someone. Everyone is transitory. Everyone just passes by. All that matters are the thoughts in your head.

I hate it too, at times, especially when you get on the seemingly safe bus but end up dying of heat and dehydration. Or when you fall asleep and realize your wallet has been fished out of your bag. I hate it too when the curtains smell of old men. But it's something that I've learned to live with - like everything else, there will come a time when I will have to stand up from the cracked faux leather seats, walk towards the doors, and step out.

This is a vague attempt to document all the things that are borne out of the hours I spend on bus (and train) rides home. Little thoughts, big dreams, senseless musings. After all, all that matters in busrides are the thoughts in your head. Everything else is transitory.