Two months ago I was half-enjoying a bus ride home. It was a Tuesday and like always my entire being had been screaming Enough, give me Friday! all day.

I sat at the second row from the front. Next to me was a 20something guy in old jeans, white shirt and a bonnet. He had earphones on and was bobbing his head, which made me wish I had his fun day myself. You see at that time I’d been mulling nonstop the days past where huge decisions were being made at the workplace… and ultimately with my career: An exhausting, interesting mix of Do-or-Die, There Is A Purpose To Everything and Time For You To Save The World was raiding, owning all five-feet-one of me.

It was—has been—admittedly, too much, and I wasn’t willing to be honest about it. If I was honest about anything, it was on the wish that everything was just a bad dream and we weren’t losing the company and I wouldn’t have to try to hard for fear of failing and falling too hard in the end. So I wanted Bonnet Boy’s carefree day as a consolation prize. Even at least an hour of it. It was in the middle of the traffic jam that magic seemed to happen:

He began singing. Out loud. Litereally. Out. LOUD.

Vertical Horizon’s “Best I Ever Had” opened the encore. I was entertained by his… bravery… but, what in the world? Were we back to the 80s and a song-and-dance number for a Maricel Soriano flick was being taped? All eyes were on our seats to see where the drunken tune was coming and I was mortified—almost grinning, but mortified. His outburst stunned me that my peripheral vision couldn’t even check if his body was shuddering or his mouth was bubbling or if paws were where his hands should be. I wasn’t prepared!

I have matured quite enough to let the cosmos surprise me from time to time. But some surprises are too great a bomb that my supposed gasp turns into a confused fury: Why me? What the hell did I do? I only wanted a simple, polluted bus ride home, why did the universe give me a seat next to a scary thing? Was the dirty bus not enough? Were the bad traffic and the ridiculous humidity not enough? Was it not enough that I was already dying of ceaseless anxiety that I could be committing so much more mistakes at the helm that would further guarantee the company’s death? I didn’t ask for any of these. Why is there a freaking lunatic beside me!

I wanted to get off at the next bus stop. Changing seats wasn’t an option—Bonnet Boy’s sister might be there, scout-ready to recite the Periodic Table of Elements at the slightest notice. But if I drop at a midway stop, it would cost me another travel hour. Blasted queuing. Yet I was overwhelmed by BB’s live mixed tape that I was willing to risk it. Just to have a more quiet, more sane trip home. Just like I had been willing to give anything to help my—our—sinking situation. It was no longer a disillusioned wish. It was a sincere plea for some consideration because I had never tried to rise from bankruptcy before.

BB got off at that bus stop. Magically. Everyone watched him go his merry, noisy way.

Last month I got hit by chickenpox and it was the worst of all timings: I just paid bills, I was income-less and I couldn’t afford to take a leave from work especially right now that everyone there was counting on me. On top of that, I was the first ever case of pox at the household AND at work! It was the Great Isolation and it was ugly.

My moral was at an all-time low. I had never felt so helpless. Even though only the scars remained the officemates and bosses still wouldn’t see me for fear of the virus. I even missed three second-job interviews because of the pox. Having spent an entire month indoors I could only wish for fairer complexion afterwards; saving lots from everyday budget doesn’t count because—you better believe it—there was nothing to save in the first place. Tip: Never succumb to credit card statements when viruses that thrive on heat lurk especially during the summer days in a tropical country.

But a dreamer’s got to do what a dreamer’s got to do, right? No matter the adversity one has to keep the eye on the prize..

I got home that Tuesday afternoon, still shaky from the Bonnet Boy experience, but I was on-time for dinner, a quick, fun talk with this person I’m fond of and a well-deserved snoozefest. The chickenpox may have also hit my 27th birthday—the birthday I had been looking forward to since my 18th—but I guess I still have the rest of the year to celebrate with the people I want to be with… that special dork in the VIP list at all parties…

Spots decorate my body and face, and shit still reigns at the workplace where it’s currently all “for love.” It’s hard trying to bounce back after troubles and misery have piled on you like those pancakes in pictured in their boxes, much less convincing yourself that you really
shouldn’t solve everything on your own despite being snubbed and turned down more than twice by those you considered Friends.

I still haven’t fully accepted the fact that difficulties completely overpower me at the moment. It’s the final stage I have to pass before I can hope to conquer these nearly-heartbreaking troubles… It’s pressing, but I shouldn’t force it. After all, BB could have just been singing his way towards it himself.