At some point during yesterday’s night, my phone died. The battery went empty, tired of having to put up with my tweeting, and my instagramming, and all of my bullshit. It just gave up, tired to death, and suicided.

That, in turn, forced me to confront myself on my way to college. You see, I take the bus almost everyday; I get on in the same spot, and get down some spots ahead, thirty minutes later. Boring, endless routine. That may seem like nothing to you, you sexy stranger you, at the other side of the screen; but, for me, that’s like fucking eternity. It’s the closest a human being can be to purgatory, I tell you. Thirty minutes; one thousand, eight hundred seconds. Twice a day. From point A to point B, and back again at the end of six hours.

So there I was, jumping aboard, with my cellphone left charging at home. That seemed like nothing at first, but some minutes in, I was frightened. Truly. I felt like a newborn in a sea of strangers. Everyone, and I mean every soul in the whole bus, was using its phone. Big or small, new or old; everyone had one. Even the driver guy who stopped on the red light at our left, whom I could clearly see through the window, was tweeting. And he was fucking driving, for god’s sake.

I didn’t have no phone to escape mundanity. I was fucked up, indeed. I couldn’t check the interactions on my Twitter to fulfill my needs of approval. I didn’t have anyone to chat with to make life seem less miserable. I couldn’t even listen to some music. I was surrounded with people, but I felt absolutely alone. A little dot in a universe of connected lines.

Even the driver guy who stopped on the red light at our left, whom I could clearly see through the window, was tweeting. And he was fucking driving, for god’s sake.

Then it came: the awareness of the self. The self esteem. I tried to hide from it, and run in my own conscience, and make it fade away; but, like I told you, thirty minutes can be a long time. I was forced to face it; to face me. I had no other option but to let it in. And oh, boy, when it did come in. I don’t know if you have experienced such a thing lately, but it’s tremendous. It feels like a hard dry blow, right in the side of the head. Because, suddenly, you start wondering who you are. And that is a question you don’t want to be asked — ever. Much less when it’s you who it’s asking it. Because, let’s face it, you can’t lie to yourself. You try to, everyone does, but it just doesn’t work.

I could have made up some bullshit if it was anyone else who had asked. I could have told them that I’m already in college, or that the last tests have been pretty good, as fas as I can expect. I could have told them that yes, in spite of having no girlfriend at all, (and had never had one), I’m still happy and able to live a fulfilled life. I could have told them that no, I hadn’t yet found my true passion, but I was working hard on it. I could have told them that I was trying things, and discovering my own path in life. I could tell them that the choices I have made looked like a good bet down the road. I could have told them all those things that can be read in the cover of motivational books and cool quotes on the internet.

I could, and I’d have. But it was me, not anyone else. I had no other option but to speak up and tell all the truth like a shameless bastard.

I tried to explain the events of my recent past to my own rediscovered self, who had already been through it all. But I did, nevertheless. It felt like the only plausible thing to do, since I didn’t know that to tell him, (me), instead. And I gathered the conclusions I had so long delayed to make. I hadn’t apologized enough. I said this when I should have said that — or shut the fuck up alltogether. I did shut up, some times; but those were precisely the times when I should have spoken with most conviction. I made stupid choices. I didn’t make enough stupid choices. I hadn’t said anything to that girl who made me felt like life was worth living. Overall, I had fucked up a number of times; and, worst of all, it was already too late to mend some, if not all, of those failures.

I felt like shit, (which I should have, but not in that place, nor in that time of the day), and wanted to cry. I wanted to cry hard, and curl up on my bed. But I was on a random bus, on my way to college. There was no way back. Again, I had no choice but to look through the window, wishing that nobody could tell what was happening inside me. I convinced myself that it would only last until I got off the bus, and that all of those feelings would just fly high when my feet touched the ground of the bus stop.

Overall, I had fucked up a number of times; and, worst of all, it was already too late to mend some, if not all, of those failures.

Then I realised that I had opened my backpack and one of my notebooks was on my lap. My subconscious tried to tell me that the best way to get through was writing it out. So I did. I started rambling and uncluttering my head. I started feeling better as I wrote. I even thought about the possibility of getting something out of it; of posting it here, on Medium. And right at that moment, when the idea of sharing my inner pain was cheering me the most, a woman decided to sit right next to me.

I couldn’t fucking tell if I had been all alone through the whole route. I was sit on one of those four seats arrangement, so it would have been pretty foolish to think so. But the fact that somebody chose to sit there, at that precise moment, scared me. And I had the immediate urge to hide my writing. Let me make this clear: I’m spanish. Here in Spain, only a third of the population is able to speak english, (let alone read it through my atrocious calligraphy). And I’m talking about a grown woman, whom probability was even lower. Chances are she didn’t even realize me.

But, then again, why was I so scared that anybody could read something that I had planned to share, and which I’m sharing now wide open? Why is it infinitely easier to me the act of posting here some of my inner problems than letting a random woman have a peek on them? I didn’t wanted to cry anymore, (and I wouldn’t, as far as the day is going), so I didn’t have any socially awkward burden on me. I’m still wondering about that, hours later, and I feel that I‘ll still be.

At least, I’ve found some peace within. Oh, and my phone is fully charged. Have you missed me on Twitter, guys?

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Reccomend if you liked it and go to my page if you want to read more of these things. Oh, and have a nice day.

Twitter: @ferdindn