Bus Station

I am traveling again, dear reader.

It’s rather tiring, I must tell you. I’m halfway through my journey, but I still have many miles to go before I rest.

Sitting in the bus station, I have several hours that I must wait before my final bus. My eyes drooping, my body aching, I wish I did not have to stay awake.

I find myself regressing to a more natural state. My 3 AM self has not changed since high school you see. And so I sit here, typing nonsense on a keyboard and watching black and white films. I was reading before my concentration began to run and the black words to run with it into the white paper. I can only think of myself at 3 AM, and love songs, and moonlight and shadows, and the world as I wish it was. 3 AM is not the hour for cynical novels.

I felt myself crying as I rode the bus earlier. The old theme, it too the same since high school, though now I only allow myself to dwell upon it in the wee hours of the morning. The witching hour I call it, the time when all the pretense of the day can no longer stand up to moonlight, and like Cinderella’s pumpkin we turn back into our organic selves. The selves we try to hide when we are more awake, but there is something about a bus station full of strangers, of sitting alone watching the sunset as this group of strangers rattle along the road to a shared destination, that causes me to drop the facade, and show the scared, vulnerable and lonely girl inside. The girl that I keep waiting to grow up.

Sitting in the bus station, I feel like she will never grow up. That she will always appear at times like now, and that all I can do for her is play a musical, and allow her to write lavish, sentimental words in an attempt to explain her feelings. (Yet like all teenagers, she has too many feelings to ever adequately express).

I am tired, dear reader. I wish I did not have to stay awake.


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