Life is beautiful...

Part 1

My eyelids droop like weights weighing hundreds of tons. I feel shattered, strangely tired, my legs ache.

This is how my day begins. A splash of icy water brings me to my feet. A terrifying glance in the mirror, searching for a new day. Bite after bite of the sandwich that feels like salvation. And my race to the bus stop begins. Music gently caresses my mind in my ears. My beloved reggae, which gives me strength. "Rasta trance, reggae danse..." And so on. I reach the bus stop after a few minutes of running, realizing that my long-awaited bus has just departed. I approach the door. I wave my arms, begging the driver to let me on. I feel like a homeless person begging for a slice of bread in front of a church. I wait to see if the visitor will prove to be a merciful traffic ruler or an insolent boor. A man gestures at the departing cars in front of the bus, trying to tell me I'm worthless. I didn't make it, I've wasted my life. "Rasta, that's what it means to be free..." Race number two begins. To the next stop. I run past people like bars on a treadmill. I get hit in the stomach with an umbrella, but it doesn't matter to me at that moment. I finally reach my goal. I look at a young guy glancing back at a shapely teenager, a woman in her thirties taking a drag on a cigarette—her daily bread—and a man in his fifties nervously checking his watch. Already three minutes late. 180 seconds. Everyone's waiting for their ride. I feel like an animal in the forest. A handful of strangers waiting for the exact same thing—the coveted bus, route 185. No one speaks to anyone, no one reacts to anyone else, no one attempts conversation.

Finally, our long-awaited vehicle, like a sun king, arrives. It stops, and the driver graciously opens all the doors with a button. Another fight begins—this time for seats. Right from the start, I'm trampled. People rush onto the seats at terrifying speed. I don't even have the strength to fight. I calmly take a seat by the window, gripping the armrest with my hand. I long for at least a little sleep. I close my eyes and surrender to the music. We're off. That's good.

A moment later, I start to feel someone's breath on my neck. My eyelids lift with immense difficulty. I don't want to, but I have to. I turn around, looking at the guy who owns the breath. It's some old man who, seeing my gaze, doesn't make even the slightest move. I can read from his expression, "Give it a rest, buddy. I'll be standing here anyway." I return to my position, trying to close my eyes again. I give in to daydreaming. I'm starting to feel some relief when suddenly my grandfather pushes me forward. A look of despair crosses my face. I turn again, hoping the man will do something. He's still scowling at me, growing increasingly grumpy. I have to fight. I won't give in. I was here first. I'll defend this place like a lioness defends her cubs.

Suddenly, my grandfather grabs the railing with his hand, touching my head. I turn around quickly, but all I see is the man's profile. My grandfather turns his head, probably not wanting to hear my complaints. I patiently wait for him to look my way again. I'm already tired. The wait isn't helping. I tilt my head and spend the rest of the ride to school in this position. Thinking nothing strange will happen to me, I close my eyes. An uncomfortable position—oh well. Standing—well, it could be worse. Suddenly, I feel my grandfather start to push me away with his shoulders. I duck. He touches me from behind with his genitals. I feel a gag reflex and immediately turn a little to the right. He does too, not giving up his "touching." I run away again. Him, me. Him, me. Him, me. He's a faggot! I can't take it anymore. I take off my headphones and look at him. At the same moment, a woman who's just getting out of the car elbows me. I clutch my face, feeling the pain. "Rasta trance..." Of course. And then there's the traffic jam. Sweat is beading on my forehead. I'm completely stuck. This isn't how I imagined my trip to the shack would be. The driver stops at each stop. More and more people arrive. "There's almost no room, but whatever. I'm not waiting for the next one. I'll get on this one. I'll squeeze in somehow." Incredibly crowded. Legs pressed together, hands pressed together. I feel like the canned sardine has it better than me.

It's starting to feel loose, I'm hoping for a moment of rest. No! This is my stop!

I start to move toward the door. I say, or rather shout, "Excuse me." People struggle to get out. I practically climb out of a tank and reach the light at the end of the tunnel. Totally exhausted and sweaty, I arrive at the stop. The bus pulls away, and I head toward school. Almost eight o'clock. The very beginning of the day. And I'm more tired than some after a long day of work. Worse still, the same thing awaits me in the other direction in a few hours. But life is beautiful... "Rasta trance, reggae dance." I reach the light. It's turning red right in front of me. Awesome. I smile, knowing nothing bad will happen today. Life is beautiful, after all.