I could tell today was maybe going to be slightly unusual.
Subconsciously, I may have picked up on it
When I left the house
Ten minutes too late
Just missed the train, waited another
Ten minutes for the next one. Then waited
Ten minutes more in a queue with no bus.
It was one of those days
Where you questioned the validity of an
There was a woman in a black skirt, maybe
Between mum's age and my age.
As I stared,
my own choice in clothes.
Seems like I was
the only one
who neglected to check the weather report.
I was fifteen minutes late to class.
I wasn't the latest.
It was a pointless class
It was one hour long
It was my only class today
And I was late
I am walking back to the bus stop
In all my three layers.
It is the hottest period of the day.
The shade cast by the large arts building
has forsaken me.
It is just like the mathematics grade of my little sister:
There was no shade. There was no queue. I cursed my timetable. I cursed the bus timetable.
UNSW never stands still.
Well look what I'm doing now.
I did not wait those last
for an express to Central.
Maybe I was tired of waiting.
Maybe I was just sick of ten minutes.
Maybe it was the heat.
Got on the first bus I saw.
L90, what does that even mean?
Light? Lame? Lethargic?
But it was air conditioned.
And that was more than enough reason to ride it.
What will I do if it doesn't stop? What will I do if it turns? What will I do if I get off at the wrong time?
Ten years ago I might have been scared to the point of hyperventilation.
But not now.
Though my sense of direction remains
It's alright, I think to myself.
I'll get off and walk. Twenty something minutes of exercise
wouldn't kill. Maybe.
I could ask for directions.
We take the right fork, and venture into uncharted territory...
It's Oxford Street. Bloody trekked-from-one-end-of-the-street-to-the-other-to-get-to-COFA-last-year Oxford Street.
I remembered Seven-Eleven.
The wrong Seven-Eleven.
And thirty minutes late to class.
At least it was a three hour class.
It was still my only class that day.
But I can't remember a damn thing about Oxford.
The bus stops and a crowd of people get off.
I am tempted to follow
But I don't.
I get off next stop.
And I vaguely remember this building. Or a really similar-looking building at Town Hall maybe.
And I see a maybe-memorable park. But parks are everywhere.
And they all look the same.
There's a directory,
erected like a grave
on the footpath.
Central Station is diagonal down-right.
What does that even mean.
But I think I remember the park.
I remember a park near Central.
It may or may not be this one.
So I trek, and I
I don't have to trek more than
Ten minutes in this goddamn heat.
And I see Liverpool Street
And it might be kind of somewhat familiar,
So I trek down that street
Past a row of buses going to Bondi Beach
Past the park which doesn't seem quite as familiar anymore
Past buildings, cars, garbage cans...
And I see RAILWAY
And my heart gives a little jolt
Because I'll be fine as soon as I find a station
thank god for weekly tickets, I should get an Opal soon.
Dark, creepy, super old-looking Museum.
But it's a station. And that's what matters.
The trains are like a spaceship from another dimension.
Bright, flashy, super new-looking trains.
Why are there only pretty trains here?
We pass St James which I don't really give anything about.
And then we pass Circular Quay
And it's been ages since I've been to Circular Quay
And did our Harbour Bridge really always look
And the Sun is just sparkling off the water
and It's just so goddamn blinding
But I don't really care
Because right now I'm feeling like a stranger in my own backyard.
And then there are tunnels and tunnels.
Darkness and light.
Trees and Rivers.
Get off the train, trek home, carrying bundles of just wool.
Enter the house,
And it's exactly one o'clock.
And that makes me feel
(just a tiny bit)