Terminal

The bus rolls in at minutes past the hour. I've traced the spotted gray of these seats before just as the wheels trace the bridges I haven't built. I watch the outline of my reflection flit between the raindrops on the window and wonder if I'd take a chance on myself the way I wish the others did.

I think I would. I don't know if that counts.

The man sitting next to me is offering me a stick of gum. He leans over the aisle and hands me a dashing smile. I  return the favor but refuse the gesture and turn back into myself. The bus accelerates.

The things that aren't are flirting with the things that are and I hold my breath until the faces spin away. I could use a smoke.

The doors swing open and I tumble back into pseudo-certainty. Consequences are always relevant, but they won't stop me from being. I'm scared of time and not having enough of it.

Happiness isn't about everything in life being perfect. Happiness is about stringing together the little things and making them count more than the bad bits. Happiness is about the way a friend leans on your shoulder, or the way a long awaited phonecall feels in your hand, or about the way you made someone laugh when that was exactly what they needed. Happiness is the way I can be if I want to be. And I want to be.

I'm not spending time in front of mirrors anymore. It's time to live as more than a reflection of myself.