Today I rode the buses of my angsty
adolescence. I find it odd that no matter how much I change or the buses
themselves change the smell never does. And neither do the mumblers.
I got on the bus this afternoon
rather irritated that I had to ride the bus at all when I was greeted with
that familiar smell of stale hope. Not that
same kind of smell as a room full of people without hope at all. Like the kind
you get from a cancer ward but more like the kind that you get from the waiting room at the food stamp offices.
The kind of hope that hasn’t died completely
but just that the only hope you have is that tomorrow will be just as bad as
today was. A painful endless drudgery onward towards an eventual but fairly
unlikely goal. It’s part hopelessness,
part despair and part stale malt liquor.
I feel like that everything I’ve worked so
hard for in the last 5 years is simply avoid smelling like the bus forever.
I like the poetry in this blog. I completely empathize with you, no matter where you go, the smell is the same with at least one, sleeper, mumbler, or cryer acting in good form.
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