I usually sit on the left side of the bus. It is the direction of sunrise.
It is when morning tries to break itself from behind, between the thick clouds that covers its body. There are occasional holes the cloud has missed to fill, and the orange warmth streams through, onto my shoulder, my black hair, soaking all its light and heat, streaming into my mind the beating of the sunrise, how the world is so beautiful, steady, and always there.
No matter how much I move around, within the country or beyond borders, there would always be sunrise, it would rise no matter what, it would disappear before it passes the time onto the night, the illumination of afternoon, the season changing, green to yellow to red to brown to ashes and scattered pieces of life form, and I am back here again, circling life, but never the same place, never the same person, never the same feeling. But sometimes you remember that feeling of when the world is everything so much more, you want to keep sitting in that same moment forever, when you know so well how quickly things can change, that there is never the same thing ever, but you want to believe that such thing does really exist, even if it’s a lie.
Moments are always lost in the midst.
But hardly anyone really truly knows that.