Migration Patterns

The air conditioner is too cold. Traces of snow and naked trees make this situation unnecessary. The passengers’ bodies are about to freeze on the blue push seats.

Is anybody else cold, or do I just look ridiculous wearing my faux-fur hooded parka inside the (mega) bus?

The shivering, the chills, the consequent goosebumps incommode my being. It’s as if I’ve been wanting to pee for a long time and my mind forgot, and my bladder is painfully postponing it. Is anybody else feeling this uncomfortable numbness?

Rows and rows of seats carry dozens of temporary nomads, including me. I’ve no tribe, though. Do they? I want to know each passenger’s story.

Saying that the driver is just driving is my obvious understatement. He’s taking me away from the arms that have become my home and the pillow-like chest that it’s wet by my body-produced eye drops.

He’s taking me to the city that is becoming a dumpster of dreams and hopes. He’s forcing me to go on, while I just want to do what my knees have been asking me since the day I was worth a diploma.

Too young to be tired, says the woman whose life will soon be her past life. I’m not tired, I respond. I just don’t like the pre-existing living options.

All these highways look too used, too empty. There are no more forests to kill.

When she left home, she never thought that her new life was going to be full of solitude, pain, and confinement. Isadora had a fixation with challenges since her father left her. He actually didn’t leave her; he just moved to another house and divorced Isadora’s mother. For Isadora, however, was abandonment and betrayal.

Now, she wonders if this was the day when highways and air routes became her ostensible freedom.