Bus Rides in A Minor

Whenever I ride buses, I always feel like throwing up.

The dizzying dance of the vehicle accompanied by the artificial saccharine smell of fake lemons wafting through the aisles, and the unnatural coolness that juxtaposes my body temperature brings an out-of-body experience. Riding buses signifies change. You come from a specific location, somewhere you’re all too familiar with, and you end up somewhere foreign, a place that is a little unsettling. Riding buses comes with uneasiness. You never know what you’ll end up facing at your destination.

Whenever I ride buses, I always hold my breath.

It’s a technique of sorts — to not feel the overwhelming sensations creeping through me, to not smell the artificial air freshener, to not feel every irregular and coarse cement and every bump in the road, to stop the nausea that’s getting a little bit harder to tame with every second that passes — I hold my breath. I always thought that I would eventually get used to the fatigue that comes with leaving. I thought that as I go through the process again and again and again, I would eventually stop the acidic taste in my mouth from flourishing.

In the 19 years of my existence, I have ridden hundreds of buses, going in different directions. I have left and arrived and paused, continued, and stopped for many many times, and still with idiosyncrasies I still find myself holding my breath. I got off the bus earlier to be met by the traffic of Cubao.

For the first time in 2 hours, I exhale.