Going Home.

Returning home from somewhere else is always a lonely affair. But after a day of hustling, fake grins and pretentious pleasantries, the 30 minutes spent on the bus is like a precious gift from God, where you can truly be yourself, albeit a silent version of you.

It seems, for a moment, the world has become silent. All the dialogues, wailings and vehicle noise can no longer enter my ears ; I can only hear the sound within me. It’s like a reflection of what I have done throughout the day. The good, the bad and the ugly – they unfold themselves so effortlessly in front of my inner eyes, turning me into an awkward judge that has to face whatever I have done from dawn to dusk. But beyond the self-criticism lies a sentimental heart. The stories, both good and bad, I have heard or seen throughout the day begin to take its effect on me. They demand to be felt, leaving me with a pair of dry watery eyes and a hopefully heavy heart that will turn into a poignant dream when I close my eyes tonight.

The trees, the nondescript signs and the roads that I would never know of their names are slowly conflating into an evocative image that is ineffably beautiful. It’s like a drawing that expresses the myriad emotions within me, or maybe it’s just me imbuing my sentiments into the fleeting image right before me. I don’t know, but I know I have arrived at my stop. The afternoon sun has subsided and it’s getting a little chilly.

You know when it’s cold, for it’s when you long for home the most.