It’s in that moment
when our eyes locked
and your gaze
doesn’t feel the same
that I felt shame
with no end.
But then again,
I wasn’t welcomed
in the first place.
Whenever I ride a bus home (which isn’t my usual mode of transportation) after meeting my friends or watching a movie by myself, there’s a different kind of air I breathe in. Something with a hint of sadness for being alone, of feeling proud and courageous for traveling late at night (coz you know, rape culture), and of getting along with the noises around me (which is mostly the reason why I don’t bring earphones). I’m always lucky for getting the window seat because thoughts and realizations come naturally that way. And what better background music can I have than the soft voices of the bus people chattering and the blaring sounds of the cars from time to time. The ride home gives you your moment—one the people you know don’t see much, and it’s up to you on what to make of that.
As for me, the heavy traffic rarely matters, I’m going home anyway. And I enjoy looking out and seeing the world go about, oblivious of my existence. A timid smile will creep in when I notice something familiar or when I see sweet gestures of strangers. There was a time when tears formed in my eyes, for I remember a memory I hold dear but can’t bring back or I realized again that thing I cannot have. I would crinkle my nose whenever embarrassing moments flash in my mind or when my silliness reminds me to have fun. And I also get excited when I think of the events I’ll go to on the coming days, when another idea that will make the ones I have better comes, and when I’m nearing my stop.
Although they’re the most beautiful, sunsets aren’t the only the thing that could turn your day around, bus rides home could, too. It’s what you make of your moment, after all.
It’s funny how a simple sentence can make you feel bad. Typed or uttered. A conversation that was supposed to be fun and engaging suddenly punched your heart, making it heavy and bruise-friendly. Good thing is, bruises heal and last for only a while. It will not leave a mark and the impact is weak, as if the pain was barely there. It’s forgettable. And that’s just how I like it.
Bruises in my heart, like a foolish kind of happiness, make me think and question myself. Why was I bruised? Did I do something wrong? Am I too sensitive? (I’m not, believe me.) Or am just thinking that I’m the victim when it’s really the other way around?
Oh gosh it’s complicated.
What I also don’t get is how I accept these bruises, how I embrace them. Maybe because they push me to a better state than where I was aka becoming a better version of myself. Or maybe because being in pain, no matter how little that is, gives me strength and compels me to be more alive, or to live more in the way I want.
Yeah. I’m asking questions I already know the answers to. Coz I feel like it. Coz that’s what I wanna do right now, in my life. Sometimes, having a messy mind is fine. And I mean it when I say sometimes you know. And let me use this term today so as to end this post, sorrynotsorry.