It happened on a Thursday. Just like any other weekday, the
city was flooded with urban hikers without the sparkle in their eye. They did
not hope to reach the destination with the breath-taking view. They crossed the
same corners and dragged their bodies across the same pavements and sat on the
same buses, while the pollution acidified their nostrils and traffic lights
made them late. A city so dense as to give home to millions stops caring about
familiarising them. Especially in the mornings, when the hour and the rush join
forces to turn people into robots. Faces become a colourless blur, and unless
you need to ask someone to move over, words, as colours, become equally
unnecessary. It can become quite sad, really.
It happened on a Thursday. Music carried her through the
hour and the rush.
I lay here and hug myself and there’s nothing. And in this
empty vacuum, in the inexistence of something between my arm and my chest, I
can fit the world and stretch out endless possibilities. Because there’s
nothing. Empty. I hug nothing, I hold nothing. I do nothing yet there’s so much
to do. Sleep, should be sleeping now. 6.30. Shit.
The remaining reflections of Wednesday night still shadowed
her thoughts.
That guy climbing the stairs. Windy brown hair. Liking the
bone structure. Wish I could start a conversation. His leather bag looks smart.
Literature? Walks. Sits. Back’s turned on me. Buses are made for people to turn
their backs on each other. Literally. Pairs of seats in a line, while you
contemplate someone’s neck. That’s all I’m left with, this guy’s neck. And hair.
Different stimulus added to this early mental exercise. Yes,
she could have had a few words, if only the bus was meant for people to
exchange glances, talk. Perhaps care. If only the people who designed buses
thought of that. But they thought of fitting the biggest number of people in a
moving vehicle and about getting paid. And the people sit on those seats and
cannot be bothered to ask if the book the person sitting next to them is reading
is any good. Sit down obediently where the seat is. Yes, there, sit there. Get
up promptly when you need to get off. Do not enjoy the journey with other
people in the same space. Might be psychos. Who knows? Your arm is touching my
arm. Can’t you mentally calculate where your privacy ends and mine begins?
Rude. Wish there was more space. Ugh, buses.
Well, it did happen on a Thursday. Many things happened on a
Thursday. She went to college after a reflection upon the uselessness of buses,
besides to do what they were meant to do: take you somewhere. In space, in
time, in thought. Alone though, always.
