I sat at the front of the bus - where I can see through the big front window and the side window, the road unblocked in front of me. I sat my bag on the seat next to me and sent a photo to a friend I haven’t talked to in months, sporadically (inside joke). He’s messaging me now, but my muddled brain isn’t replying with much sense.
I woke up very hot on top of the pristine white sheets I washed in my jetlagged daze yesterday. I don’t like the light that comes through my blinds - it was directed straight at my face, but I continued to just lie there and brought my hands up over my eyes. Eventually I stood up and somehow took an hour to get ready for absolutely nothing; cute but incredibly short gingham dress, makeup a little too heavy for the summer but still just right, hair frizzy from the humidity - I walked 20 minutes to the chemist and back, and still managed to realise I forgot an item.
I sit here recalling a paragraph in a book I read, in which the girl describes sometimes imagining that she is so smart that her brain takes her to a completely different plane above everyone else - like an explosion of some kind.
It’s so hot outside that I took off my dress and lay there on my bed, watching videos from a friend about the wildlife lounging around her pool today. She asks me what I’m doing tonight but I tell her I’m getting on the bus and she calls me a loser.
The bus has stopped at the airport and a line of people wearing surgical masks are outside waiting to get on. A fear of catching the virus crosses my mind, which brings me to think of the anti-racist Facebook posts my university peers have been posting. The first man to die from the virus in Australia was not killed by the virus, but by ambulance workers too afraid to perform resuscitation. I decide to not be afraid and remove my bag from the seat next to me. At the worst I will be quarantined for 14 days in my own home, and that doesn’t sound so bad.
I wrote in my diary that just because I look good doesn’t mean I have to take pictures of it. I wrote in my diary: “Now I understood the thing I’d overlooked; the point wasn’t to become a geisha, but to be a geisha.” - Memoirs of a Geisha, Arthur Golden. You see, I feel like to project a fantasy is great, but to come close to embodying that fantasy, that’s something else. I want to be that floating girl, prettily floating untouchable alongside everybody else. She can laugh and seem real and obtainable, but she leaves shrouding you in uncertainty, wanting more.
Nobody sat in the seat next to me even though half the people are still lining up outside. My little corner is always overlooked by the driver, ushers and people, so my bag gets a seat after all.
Love,
M
