.:Routine:.
Sometimes, I wonder where I'll go.
Every weekday, I board the same bus (number 3) that picks me up from the stop near my house and drops me off in front of the Medical School in university. Everyday, I stand at the bus stop (five minutes away from my house by foot) at 8:55a.m., memorizing Japanese vocabulary from the notebook in my hand (reading aloud in my head) until the bus comes.
On Mondays and Thursdays, the bus driver is Jim. I don't know where he's from. I've never had a conversation with him unless Good mornings and Thank yous counted as one.
"Good morning," I'd say, as lethargic as any other non-morning person and he'd reply with a smile (that is too bright for the morning) and a cheery, "Good morning."
I slide my bus pass over the reader and hear a nice, loud beep before I walk in and sit down at my usual Monday/Thursday seat (the third seat from the front on the right side of the bus). The bus ride on Mondays and Thursdays is noisy because Jim greets everyone who boards the bus, sometimes chatting with an elderly lady or a younger school girl.
On Monday and Thursday, my earbuds fit snugly in my ear as I read my Japanese notebook until I reach my destination, the Medical School at my university, a two minute walk from my school.
On Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Fridays, the driver of the morning bus route 3 is Aki. He's Japanese, a few older than me and lived about three doors down. He lived close but I rarely ever talked to him. It wasn't that I didn't want to; it just didn't happen.
"Good morning," I'd say, with about the same energy as I had on Monday and Thursday mornings, and he'd be silent and unresponsive. He's always been a bit of a cold character but I am fond of him. I think I've always been.
On Tuesday, Wednesday and Friday, I sit on the first seat from the front on the left side of the bus. I don't wear my earbuds on Tuesday, Wednesday and Friday and I read a novel on these days. The bus is quiet on Tuesday, Wednesday and Friday but I liked it. A little part of me waits for the rare moments when he speaks with his soft voice until I reach my destination, two minutes away from the Asian Studies building.
"Thank you," I'd say, glancing at his profile before I get off the bus and resist waving Goodbye.
Every weekend, I wake up at 7:00 a.m. and leave my house at 7:45a.m. after brushing my teeth and showering. After putting on my jogging shoes, I go on my usual jog around the neighbourhood, slowing down a little when I pass by the house with white fence and red rose bushes. I try to catch a glimpse of the person inside but I suppose that it’s always too early.
Every weekend, I wait at the bus stop at 9:55a.m. and hop onto the bus (number 934) to the City. I don’t meet up with any course mates. I don’t meet up with any high school mates. I don’t meet up with friends as I walk from the bus stop to the shopping mall. I spend the day walking around, browsing books and mugs, fragrances and clothes but I rarely buy anything.
At 1.30 p.m. every weekend, I stop at the Coffee Club and buy a takeaway cup of hot chocolate. From the corner of my eyes, I always see a familiar black haired male and a smile forms on my lips as I walk away and catch the next bus home.
.:Loneliness:.
My house is quiet and the atmosphere is mostly dead. My parents had divorced not too long ago (in what feels like forever) and I live with my mother. My mother is rarely home because she works. I should be proud of her. She’s a high ranked mother in the work force. It’s something she wouldn’t have achieved back home in Asia but I didn’t care.
I work part time every Monday, Wednesday and Friday after classes. I hop onto the bus (number 4), sit at the fifth row from the back and watch the other people hop on and off until I reach my stop. After the bus drives off, I cross the road (walking away from the row of pubs not yet open behind me) towards the cafe I work in.
Sometimes is the cafe I work in. It’s a quaint, European styled cafe that specialised in teas and cheese bakes. The boss-lady makes the cakes and cupcakes herself. She tries to teach me but I cannot seem to learn it.
I leave at 7:oop.m. as the sun sets during summer. I wait for the bus (number 4 again), hop on and get off at the university and wait a good ten minutes before bus number 3 comes along. On Monday, Wednesday and Friday nights, Aki drives the 7:40p.m. number 3 route.
He’s as cold as usual but after a tiring day, I still give him a small smile and sit at the first seat on the right.
I live alone.
It’s a little lonely when I come home to a house (which fits four to five people) after a tiring day. “I’m home,” I’d holler but the house is silent, empty. At least it doesn’t echo, I’d think. I walk to the kitchen and make a microwave meal.
My favourites are the pasta (which I eat every Tuesday and Thursday nights), the lasagne (every Monday), the Thai styled chicken (every Wednesday and Friday) and the roast beef (every Sunday). The only day I struggle to cook is Saturday.
We used to eat together, mother, father and I, every Saturday. Sometimes it was steak, sometimes it was hotpot. So every Saturday, I try to cook something like the old days.
When mother is home (back from Europe, from America, from Asia), she brings me out for dinner. She talks and talks but she never asks, so I never talk. How was your days are pointless. She drinks until she goes red and I’d call the cab and we’d go home.
She always leaves within two or three days.
I’d be lying if I say that I don’t miss the old days.
.:Constant:.
Everybody changes every day. From little changes ("I just did my hair. Don't I look fabulous?") to large changes ("Daddy used to love me but then he turned bad."), they puzzle me and irritate me. I like to believe that I'm a constant. I'm unchanging, from my routine every day of the week to my dislike (if not hatred) for my father. I am mostly apathetic towards the other people that stood on the surface of this revolving Earth we all live on.
I watch the news like everybody else. I see starving children. I may feel sorry for them but the helplessness the stemmed from deep within my heart hurts. I forget it and turn a blind eye. It's not like I can do anything for them anyway, I think. I see war in parts of the world I never imagine visiting. I hear of war in places that don't deserve all the pain and burning they get.
But I can't do anything, so I turn a blind eye.
Everybody changes but I like to believe that I don't. I'll do the same things everyday, every morning and night of the week to remain this constant. My routine helps me move without thinking. My routine does not help deal with the demons in the back of my head. I toss and turn in bed every night and maybe that's habit too but I can't rest until I tire myself out from thinking too much about things that weren't in my routine and things that shouldn't bother me.
My dreams are mostly the same, revolving around one theme that I cannot grasp when I awake. I only remember the panic and the quickening of my heartbeat every morning as my heart leaps from my chest and into my throat and I cry, every morning at 6:45a.m.
Maybe I need to see a doctor but I don't so I let it be.
This routine has carved itself into my skin and it'll probably never fade away.
