When I Have Fears That I Might Cease To Be

I read recently that sleep deprivation can lead to 20% more forgetfulness than normal levels. I have not slept properly for days, staying up 'til 2a.m. reading, getting up for water, laying with my eyes shut, wondering what Restless Leg Syndrome feels like, resolving to drink a lot less coffee. As a consequence of this unusual schedule and confirmation of the recent study from Ambien University, I forgot my father's birthday. What shame!

Sticking to what I can remember, I recently rode a bus from Tabay to Mérida. It was full upon boarding and the driver seemed curious, as we stopped en route to gather more sardines, exactly how many people the bus could contain. I stood in the middle of the bus, jotting notes about the people in a tiny notebook I keep in my bag. Here are some direct transcriptions from the notebook (libreta):

"Gentleman with mustaches ride the bus and talk of nonsense."
"I imagine this would be a perfect place for a sword-fight"
"Possible names for a novel: (left blank)"
"contemplate the hat of that skinny man."

I do love riding the bus for the freedom it offers the the active mind. While the drunkards squeeze together and speak of nonsense, the sixteen-year-old parents rock their baby, and the girls of the same age scratch their nose with superbly long fake nails extending from their phalanges, the gringo excitedly wrote down everything he was seeing.

Surrounded by strangers, each person serves as a stereotype. The complexity of the world is diminished when you can look at the man whose neck hair spills down below his collar and judge him correctly as a drunk, or assume the teenage girl with make-up is precocious, for she is holding a baby. I have always loved strangers for their simplicity and their anonymity. They are the only people who behave as if you weren't there. I applaud their negligence and respond with rapt attention.