#but maybe it's the repetitive nature of taking the same bus route to work and back that also induces the crazy

[aidankalenko]

people on this site have to romanticize the outside world so much just to leave the house

^im people

[clementinechorrillo]

part -

It was the first day of high-school.

That spring I had made a very conscious decision. To attend a high-school in english. Had received a slip of information on the floor mat, thinking for a split mr god had sent it, through the door’s mail entrance, telling me about the school, which existed a dozen kilometers away from my hometown. A long red brick complex, at a distance, with a vast green space in front. In the summertime its set for kids to play soccer tournaments. Had passed it unknowingly for many years, always wondering if it’s a school or office or. Even visited my mother’s friend and her three children who lived a parking lot, gymnasium and road between. Now it was my turn to attend the inside.

With my almost perfect score of grades, I easily got accepted to their natural science program. All daring and self-assured, there was no other choice, as it was the only high-school I had applied to. Had been extremely ambitious, worked long and hard - only worked – in order to get ready for my architecture future, and its long hours of listening, reading, working, thinking and whatnot in the day and night and years to come.

The warmth was holding on. The morning required very little. Had prepared myself all summer for this day. Planned my outfit, gotten neatly dressed. Had gone to town several times before confirming what to get for this special occasion. These brand new clothes: a v necked white thin shirt, with sleeves that end at the elbows and black velvet seventies boot cut pants. Had let my hair grow long, ever since that failed short cut in fifth grade. Lost any kind of trust in any kind of hairdresser. It touched my lower backside. Chestnut, sun burnt at random edges, golden rays along the curls.

At the bus stop I saw a not so blond, but still blond, crooked mouth girl. I know her. We had been to the same junior high. Where are you off. No kidding, I am off there too. I thought I was the only one from this place going there. No, so am I. I was not alone.

We spoke the twenty minute bus ride about nothing I can remember. I don’t even recall the bus ride itself, where we sat, who was on, whether the driver wore a hat or not, if I even looked out the window. We most likely got seated at the second to front seat that I liked best, and which was usually the only pair seats available, since people occupied one by one in the back, many stations prior.

At the end of the line we had to change to a subway. Have zero recollection of how we got from a to b, but I had taken that line may times, when getting to different places along the route, so my act was on autopilot. With the twist of a card scan against the machine, the metal pole turned, one could push over, head down the stairs, with rails on either side of the platform. Take the wrong or right turn. We were to take the right one. On the opposite side, a creaking train fainted in a whistle. Ours was still on the platform, we had to run. The front was packed. We got in a few doors behind. At the last entry of the first train car. But we were in.

The subway is not really underground at this point of town, but its still called the subway. When having left the main island of the core city, there is a mile long bridge, which heads to this main switch station and then it twists into a few different directions, over ground. The city planners had constructed these peripheries for one hundred years. First up, the green neighborhood, when the central city became polluted and grey, since clean lungs are important for healthy living. But people still die, so there is a large park, with arranged graveyard plots. Past another bridge, it goes on with smaller, private, freestanding houses, part forest; always part forest: then a 50s idyllic development, with a continuation of the 60s million dollar program. 80s development a bit scattered to fill the past gaping holes.

Through dense treetops, I saw glimpses of jewish tombstones, burial stones for sale, empty playgrounds, a red plastic bucket. Repetitive housing schemes. Outstretched parking lots. Empty, yet accumulating cars for the day, or having disappeared for the day, since there was nothing exciting happening here. Blocks for sleeping and eating. And the rest. Sleepy towns. And a subway above ground.

After following the train route map on the ceiling, jotting off each passed stop, we were slowly approaching our destination: it was time to head forth in the car, or, I wanted to anyway. The crowd had dispersed, few individuals getting off at each station: our stop was close to the final. She followed, I walked ahead. Slow steps, shaking train. It was an old style kind. Squeaking every now and then. I saw kids my age. They must be heading to the same school. Perhaps my future classmates.

The station was reached. The kids seated got up. One by one. As we were all sensibly heading out the same door, a lightning strike smacked. The last one to get up. There they were. Just as ice cold as I had envisioned, for how long, maybe since forever, many times over. It was the most obvious, déjà vu thing. But not a dream, a distant vision any longer. But real, alive, in front. Staring right at me. Right into my eyes. For a quiver of a second we looked at each other, but that second, was like nothing else. Elongated like the time taken to reach this point. I had fallen. I was not yet sixteen, he already was.