It was late on a Friday night, and I was heading home after an
evening with friends at a comedy club. Some lived within walking
distance, some ended up taking a cab, some weren't ready to wrap up the
evening and continued their saturnalia. I did my best to catch the very
last bus of the night, and when I arrived winded on the main street as
the bus loomed close, it looked like I had won. But it turns out that a
bench—no matter how conveniently situated—doesn't constitute a bus stop.
The bus breezed by, leaving me feeling small, alone, and abandoned.
As I walked downtown-wards in search of a later-running route, it struck me that this is exactly my life.
I've missed the very last bus. I've run, I've tried to catch it. Worst
of all, my friends are catching cabs left and right, and there's nobody
left to offer me a lift.
Abandonment is a terrible thing. The hard
exterior that I hide my vulnerabilities behind is the one tool that's
left to me in these times (and you need that hard exterior when
navigating downtown-wards through sketchy unfamiliar areas). But after a
certain point, even that exterior starts to crumble, and the
vulnerabilities force their way through.
Hopefully there is one last
reveler left to enfold you in a hug, reinforcing your protective shell
and literally holding you together. Hopefully you don't find yourself
completely alone. Hopefully the bus shows a rare courtesy and welcomes
you aboard. Hopefully all this imagery doesn't resonate too deeply with you.
Drawing connections and finding life's little epiphanies
