Chicken Pox for the Soul

Im pushing 23, and I thought, after having been here in the world for a little over 2 decades, I could get away in this life without catching the dreaded vacirella zoster virus (VRV), or without any pretensions and attempt at niceties, lets just call it- c*nting asswipe virus (CAV).
I woke up the other day feeling a bit feverish and itching like crazy, I would have sworn I was practically humping the nearest rough wall of the house to relieve myself from the unbearable itch. And they all reared their little hideous heads winking at me saying "Drum roll pls! Let's party!". I looked like a cross between a chessboard and a laboratory experiment gone terribly wrong. I've heard that chicken pox at this point in one's life can cause irreversible damage-Pockmarks. Much as I despise being one of those pockmarked unpopular geeks in highschool who excelled in physics but lagged behind during p.e. classes and the eternal laughing stocks, I just have to throw in the towel and accept how the cookie crumbles for me. Surely, my pockmarks wouldnt define me as a person, and hopefully I still get to keep all the people that matter to me, my family and friends. I woke into a cold realization that physical appearance is just overrated, because in just a snap of a finger, it goes out the window without even deigning a passing glance to its host. Its the substance that stays, your very own person.
Oh well,the next challenge of my life will be finding someone who can stare at me for a minute without cringing and say "I still love you, pockmarks and all".
I just cant wait. =p

Bus Rides

You may have noticed by now my two readers that I'm a little erratic. Some days I'm all happy and nostalgic, other days I'm forlorn and reclusive and other days I just want to activate my flamethrower to clear the space with. It may be a mild bi-polar disorder, but I say, I'm as normal as the next guy, Im not a psychiatric case, in fact this is not what I'm writing about.

Flashback 8 years ago, I would go around my province alone in a decrepit, grafitti-covered minibus for no any other reason than I enjoyed being in one ("the tv program is a rerun, I'm outta here", "My playmates are all wussies, Im outta here", "I broke my brother's favorite CD, I'm outta here") my tendency to just pack up and leave unprovoked predates my post-circumcision years. I chose not to get on 'snazzy', shiny ones, they detract from the rural appeal, I would make sure that the one in tow was a prehistoric, a sort of bus with peeling paint, and with wooden windows that've surely seen better days- the more rugged it looked, the better. I dont know what exactly fixated me on that quirk but every bus ride throws me into a state of catatonia, and total oblivion to all the earthly worries and cosmic torments. It's as if I'm in a vacuum where nothing seems to matter, and there is no concept of time. It feels much like leaving all the baggages behind and just ride away from it all. To paraphrase Milan Kundera, its "the unbearable lightness of being".

I would always sit by the window, with all the air velocity trying to deform your face and throw your hair strands into the one seated next to you's esophagus or the other way around. I suggest that if you had gotten under the knife, let's say a nose job, never consider sitting by the window side, if you dont want your silicone implant to go into orbit. I'd travel with my modest concessions, a can of Pik Nik and an occassional boiled peanuts sold by pushy peddlers that go aboard, assault your eardrums with their pleas to buy an overpriced canned sodas, my most hated ones were those who seemed gentle and flashed you a saintly smile, and after politely declining their wares, acted as if they had a short term memory loss and shoved their products practically up your nose again.

The trip was roughly an hour, there was nothing to see in the pitstop except decadent houses and business stalls, so I would get off the bus, just do a little stretching while walking along the seaside, relieve myself and get ready for the trip back. I didnt want my bus to reach the terminal, because it meant snapping back into reality. I didnt want the journey to end.

Life and dreams are like taking a bus ride, the road can be rough, shaky and cluttered with people who tend to get in your face. Sometimes, strangers that sit next to you try to strike a desultory conversation, strangers that soon become an indespensable part of your life, who, despite so many pitstops and terminals, still choose to ride with you. Together you just laugh off the inconveniences. These strangers are your travel partners, your friends.

The wonder of Life and dreams lie in the immateriality of them. The fact that we cant have everything in one life and there is always a big room of possibility that we may not get hat we dream of- it's this very drama that makes the struggle worthwhile and sweet. Its the pursuit that brings happiness. Its that proverbial journey that keeps us loving life, the unpredictability of each new day, and the friends we gather along the way.

With these crazy people? Who ever wants to reach the pitstops?