I am used to thinking people that occupy this world are extras to my story. On a cold Tuesday morning as go about my day on a crowded bus headed to the city centre, I sit and look around at the people who occupy this 06:29 journey. I realise we are all not that different.
As I observe a young teenage girl on the bus, I imagine what her morning must have been like. The struggle to perfect her face, to build her alter ego so she can face the day. I can see her daydreaming in class ’cause subjects like P.E and maths do not stimulate her mind. I wonder where she wishes she was, can school pave the way for her?
Couple of seats behind her is an older lady about the same age as me. Who seems to have grasp what life is about, she seems oblivious to the stares but maybe she is just the same as the young girl, going through life pretending to be content. Blocking out the world with headphones in. With her tattooed body and her fishnet tights, her idea of self love is covered in black. I picture her alongside my past classmates, looking for similarities. I wonder if she was always like this, was she accepted? I wonder if she is currently living life, I wonder if she is where she wants to be, I wonder if she is a bright soul or if this life has burnt out her fire.
I picture the young Asian bus driver, he smiled comfortingly at me. I wonder if the never closing automatic door that he has to force after every stop angers him. Is this the reflection of false hope that his parents instilled within him. He still hopes his parents are proud of him. I wonder if he has or had dreams, I hope he found it, I hope he finds it. As he drives me to my destination, my eyes laid upon a forty something black man. I wonder if he is currently working, a security or cleaning job perhaps. I wonder if he has children, if his wife is happy. I can only imagine the struggles he goes through to provide for his family because this European dream is not all it is cracked up to be. I wonder if he’s happy.
I was once that high school girl, painting in a smile everyday; dreading lessons, having a million dreams but realising none. I am that young lady, spending my bus journey listening to music. I am soon to be that bus driver, I could also be that old man, I could also be a father. I hope I find it, I hope the young girl knows you do not have to conform. I hope she chases her dreams, I hope her fire never stops burning. I hope the young lady knows not to care, not to fit in, to be herself no matter what is said. I hope the bus driver finds it. I hope he knows to live for himself and not his parents, I hope he knows to do what he loves. I hope the old man moves higher, I hope he finds a better situation.
I hope we never fail.
Hak Gway
POTS 