Sometimes I take the bus so it would take me longer to get to my destination. It’s the only time I have for myself, before I face the madness and loneliness and occasional isolation at work, and before I face the daunting task of loving my family once I come home. It’s the only space and time where I could look at this dilapidated city, one foot caught in the comforts of flawed tradition, the other in some haphazard amalgamation of modernity and progress. It’s the only real time I get to be alone, surrounded by strangers, lost in a sea of commuters, accompanied only by thoughts, and the private scale of my sentiments.
Sometimes, I take the bus, when the act of living itself, becomes increasingly difficult; when I find myself increasingly unhappy with my faith; when my doubts become increasingly believable. Choking in both traffic and air pollution, the certainties which threaten my ground are obscured, and the life I am accustomed too is lost in a blanket of vehicular smog and urban noise.
Racing across EDSA, chasing passengers, and recklessly overspeeding and overtaking, my afflictions are momentarily displaced by an adrenaline rush. In the unsettling fear that my reckless driver will inevitably bring us to a road-side carnage, I am most calm and safe. It’s a tangible irony I refuse to give up.