The wheels of the bus scratch against the old road.
And what they produce is heat, what they go against is friction, what they execute is speed, what they achieve is, dis
This is not only physics inside a bus.
This is how we come, and how we go, and how we arrive.
Hear: I am planted on seat number 33, Dagupan bus, Baguio-bound, here.
I am not moving, only my fingers and my arms, yet I am moving.
This is how we are led to places, how we go to places.
There are cracks in the road, some big ones, mostly small ones.
These are not things I see, but things I feel.
This is what lies beyond the ability of our eyes, this is where sight recedes –
To feel, and touch. And smell.
How everything is jagged, blistered.
What can a poem communicate, but fragments of thoughts, patches of sanities.
Travelling – by bus, by plane, by boat, by foot –
It is all about leaving and arriving at once, where opposites are one, where all we have are endlessly temporary designations.
I am in Mabalacat now, I’ll be in Tarlac the next hour, Yet I remain on seat number 33.
Another one: being displaced and remaining. All we have are twos in ones, manys in one, multiples at once, both/all at the same time. The wheels of the bus keep on scratching the road, and it keeps on moving, leaving, arriving –allatthesametime.