I was seated inside a cramped FX going home from work this afternoon. The old, heavily-built man beside me smelled of newspapers teeming with mold, and the office girls seated at the back were chattering in unintelligible, high-pitched twitters. The air-conditioning, which couldn't make up its mind if it wanted to be warm or cool, was blasting its offensive air onto my face; my legs and arms were going numb for not being able to move; and my head felt like it was filled with stale water, constantly being jarred against waves of consciousness and unconsciousness throughout the uncomfortable and bumpy ride. Thirty more minutes before I get to Ayala, where I will begin a walk for another thirty minutes until I get home.
I really don't mind. My music keeping me company and the comfort of another day fading away behind my back both warm my heart. And the single, solitary thought of going home makes everything bad that had happened during the day -- no matter how small, or unseemly, or large, or numbing -- seem worth every breath I had exhaled.
