The End of The Day

I go out once in a blue.

Take the bus to a station.

The bus lowers down, and these sickly obese people walk on. They bought groceries. They pile on one by one, scootering into the priority seating near the front. And when the bus starts up again, I hear them through my headphones. 

A student sits across from me. I want to give her a compliment. Her hair looks nice. I sit right by the exit door, and I pat her on the shoulder before the back doors open. 

An immigrant is arguing with the bus driver. His transfer ticket expires too soon, he needs to get home. I want to give mine to him, since it expires an hour ahead. He drags his feet to the seat behind me, and at the next stop, I stand up to give it to him.

I sit back down.

As the bus scrapes along, I peer out the window.

I see kids playing with leaves. Crack addicts smoking out of a pipe. We head into another area and every single building is vandalized. A woman, completely nude on the curb, psychotically displaying herself for all the passing vehicles. A jaywalker smoking a cigarette- a teenager smoking a joint. Someone having a mental breakdown is being confronted by the police. 

I hate it. It makes me sick. It makes me feel unsafe.

And then I look at this inner city, the buildings, the potential, the freedom, the life I could live. I fantasize about my future, my dream future, and I suddenly feel confident. I feel powerful, I feel limitless. I think of yesterdays thoughts, and I laugh at myself. At the the thought of reducing myself, the thought of caving. 

I just laugh, because how could I ever want to give up when I feel so motivated?

The bus loops around, and we go back into my neighbourhood. A jolt runs through my body, and a sickening feeling begins to rise from the depths of my soul. "I hate this." "I hate this place." "I hate having to go back."

I feel fear, I feel a paralyzing fear and I suddenly want to beg on my hands and knees to never go back. I want to cry and wail, I want someone to save me.

I want to let out these guttural screams, childishly believing someone would take me seriously if I did.

I tug on the line, thank the bus driver, and slouch 20 minutes to my front door.

It doesn't matter how confident I get. How powerful I might feel.

At the end of the day, I don't have anywhere to return to but this house.

And then giving up suddenly doesn't seem so bad anymore.