The following paragraphs reflect my thoughts from various bus rides over the last month or so. They do not represent all of my bus rides, nor were they wholly written while on the bus. They do, however, consist entirely of the feelings I felt as I rode the bus that day.
I'm on a bus as I'm writing this. I've always found buses really interesting. There are a few people I know here, across the aisle from me or several seats in front of me. There are even more people I don't know at all, like the person sitting next to me or the person they're diagonally conversing with. All of us are trapped together in a metal box zooming down the city streets. We lack the safety of train tracks in exchange for the freedom to explore the city. Though, we don't have any true freedom because our bus driver has a predetermined route; and we're most likely safe because our bus driver wouldn't be driving us otherwise.
I'm on the bus again, this time next to a French girl. That might make it sound like she's a complete stranger, but really she's the only person I know at all. I recognize some faces, but everyone on this bus is a stranger. It's a bit overwhelming, but also a bit comforting. There are countless conversations going on, too many for me to choose one to focus on and write about. I can really feel a thriving community – one I don't completely understand, but still clearly evident to anyone observing.
The bus seems less busy today. For the first time this week, there's an empty space across from me. Looking out at the rest of the bus, I see a lot more. I hear only a single conversation, something about food. It's quiet. It's calm. I don't feel calm, though. I need to go to the bathroom. I feel trapped. We're almost at our destination, but it feels so far away. Somehow, the silence makes everything worse.
It's been a few days, but I'm on the bus again. This bus is full, but quiet. In front of me, they're talking about driving school. Behind me, there's some conversation about high school drama. I wonder what it is that makes different bus rides so different. Sometimes there's barely anyone but several loud conversations; sometimes every seat is full and there are only two ongoing conversations. I appreciate the variety.
I really hate this bus. There are two incredibly generic guys loudly quoting anime TikToks at each other. They are the archetypal high school loser: "I like anime! I objectify women! I'm overall just not funny!" It's awful. This bus ride is excruciating. How can they be so loud? How are their laughs even louder? They're not the worst people I've ever met on a bus, but being trapped with their awful opinions isn't fun.
This bus ride is nice. It's not too crowded, but not too empty. The conversations going on are all too distant for me to understand. It's raining outside. The wheels are squeaking against the wet road, and it sounds like a cheerful melody. Today has been a slow day, and this bus ride continues that trend. Maybe slow isn't the best word for it. Calm is better, I think. It's nice to be able to relax. I like it.
There's a person behind me ranting about how the Queen is secretly still alive. It's, uh, weird. She hasn't stopped talking for a while. I don't think whoever she's talking to is getting a chance to participate in the conversation. It's a loud bus, but this conversation I'm overhearing is just so strange. I don't know.
I’ve been writing my bus ride thoughts for a few weeks now. I’m writing this last one entirely at home, but I remember today’s ride vividly enough. The driver was listening to some people on the radio talk about sports. There was a girl at the back of the bus laughing loud enough for me, on the opposite end of the bus, to hear. The girl sitting next to me was crying silently. It was an unusually empty bus; there couldn’t have been more than ten people there. I think what I’ve learned from this ride – and all my previous rides – is that the bus ride is a microcosm of life. For a brief moment, lasting no more than ten minutes at most, I and all the other passengers shared a moment of our lives. Our emotions, our opinions, our idiosyncrasies, and our identities were all mixed together in a unique soup, found only on that particular bus at that particular time. I don’t think this is an especially insightful conclusion, but I do think it’s a satisfying one. Writing these stories has been fun. Riding buses has been fun, and it will be even more fun now that I’ve come to appreciate buses more.