I wrote this at 4:30. Make it Matter, Please.

He cleared his throat and repeated:
"This is the last stop. I won't say it again!"
Without words, I got out of my seat.
I walked down the aisle at my own pace.
My own pace did not please the bus driver.
It was obvious by the way he sighed and glared
through the rear view mirror. I pretended to fidget
with my MP3 player. There was nothing on it.
I erased the memory before I left.

I stepped off the last step of the bus, which meant way more
to me than it did the driver. For him, it was the farewell of a nuisance.
For me, it was a  July 20th 1969.
I didn't have 500 million viewers. I didn't need them. I didn't want them.
The bus began to drive away and I felt my last chance leaving with it.
I ignored it of course. I didn't even turn around to watch it.
Its a bad omen to turn around. Pillars of salt and whatnot.

The fear and anxiety didn't surprise attack me
until the bus's engine was completely unheard.
I realized the only thing I had was a bag.
It contained deodorant, underwear, toothbrush, Shampoo,
a book, two pairs of jeans, 4 T-shirts and a brush.
I forgot toothpaste.

I began realizing I had less than what I left behind:
Money, a nice home, friends, shelter, a garden,
a dog, a promising future, a few rows of shoes,
a few good books, a bunch of bad books,
lipstick, make-up, contacts, a good husband,
and a letter.

I can't remember what the letter said,
but remember what it meant to me.
It meant that I would be stressed,
worried, reckless, poor, thoughtless,
hungry, pissed and dead.

But I would also be free.
I had everything. I left Everything.
Everything was there
but I was not.

So I am not.

But I am.

And I am happy.