04/10/2025
๐๐๐ง๐๐ฅ๐๐ฅ๐ฌ | ๐ฃ๐ฎ๐๐๐ฒ๐ป๐ด๐ฒ๐ฟ๐ ๐ผ๐ณ ๐ง๐ถ๐บ๐ฒ
by Mark John B. Trinidad
Itโs already past 7:00 in the evening and I have to work on a report which is due tomorrow.
Once again, I feel like Iโm constantly running out of timeโalways chasing after deadlines and submissions, never quite able to finish anything without compromising, without settling into a kind of quiet mediocrity.
Itโs exhausting, this cycle of rushing and falling short, like running on a treadmill that never stops. And sometimes, I canโt help but wonder: when will it be my turn? When will I finally arrive at that place where life feels steady, where happiness doesnโt feel borrowed, where success isnโt just something I watch from a distance?
The questions linger, heavy and unanswered, as if time itself is trying to keep them from me.
And here I am again, idly perched on an almost rusting metallic bench, waiting for my bus ride, its cold slats pressing against me as the station hums with departures and returns.
I scroll mindlessly through posts and photos in my socials, caught in the endless churn of other peopleโs livesโlow-key jealous as I see friends and acquaintances achieve success, pursue aspirations, and appear to progress while I remain here, unmoving, in transit.
It's a metaphor almost: me, stuck between stops, with the world moving on as if my journey is insignificant. Their triumphs flash across my screen like billboard signs, reminders of all that I have not done yet, of all that I keep assuring myself I'll accomplish one of these days.
While I was doom scrolling, I came across one of my classmates from high school. I remember her as a simple, timid, petite girlโoften seated quietly in the corner, unnoticed, a wallflower in the crowded classroom. I, on the other hand, was the ever-competitive student who believed high school was all about fame and connections. I threw myself into every academic and extracurricular club I could find, all while having an active social life and befriending nearly everyone I met. We seemed to live on opposite ends of the spectrumโshe, reserved and invisible; I, loud and eager to be seen.
And yet, life has a way of surprising us. Now, sheโs abroad, living her best lifeโattending grand occasions, traveling with her loving husband and beautiful children to places I can only dream of affording.
It makes me pause, a little envious, a little in awe, thinking, โSana all.โ
A sudden surge of jealousy took over me as I scroll further down the rabbit hole, that is the internet.
As my ride isnโt here just yet, I stood up and walked towards the restroom to freshen up when I accidentally bumped into one of my seniors back in high school.
He has always been the kind of person youโd admireโnot just for his brilliance in class but also for his undeniable presence onstage, in sports, and in every competition he joined. Back then, he was the name youโd hear in every announcement, the one teachers used as an example of an excellent student, the figure students like me aspired to become.
But tonight, under the flickering pale fluorescent glow of the terminal, he didnโt look like the golden boy in my high school memories. He was wearing a faded polo shirt, holding a crumpled grocery bag, and seemed tired, as though the weight of ordinary life had finally pressed into his shoulders. His face was familiar but softened by years, by the quiet erosion of time.
We exchanged a polite smile and a brief nod, neither of us trying too hard to spark conversation. And yet, that fleeting moment lingered in me long after he walked away. Because here was someone who once embodied fame and `glory, who once stood at the center of our collective admirationโnow simply another commuter, another ordinary person waiting for a ride home.
And maybe thatโs the truth Iโve been avoiding. That no matter how dazzling our youth might have been, no matter how celebrated or invisible we once felt, life eventually humbles us into the mundane. We grow into our private lives, away from the applause, away from the cheering crowd, until all that remains is the rhythm of living: waking, working, returning home.
I sat back on the bench, suddenly unsure of how to feel. A part of me pitied him, the former star dimmed into obscurity. But another part envied him tooโbecause maybe thereโs a kind of peace in no longer chasing greatness, in simply existing without the relentless pressure of proving oneself.
And so, as my bus finally approached with its heavy brakes screeching against the pavement, I realized something: maybe weโre all just passengers, taking turns at the spotlight before weโre asked to sit back in the shadows. Maybe the measure of life is not in how bright we once burned, but in how we learn to live quietly once the fire fades.
Because in the end, life is just a series of waiting rooms, of benches and bus stops. Some buses arrive quickly, others take their time. Some rides are short, some feel endless. And while we often grow restless, jealous of those who seem to have already boarded their smooth, direct journeys, perhaps thereโs no shame in waiting.
Perhaps the waiting itself is part of the ride.
Maybe itโs okay that Iโm still here at the terminal, caught between where Iโve been and where I hope to go. My bus will come when it comesโnot earlier, not later, but exactly when it should. And when it does, I will carry with me not just my longing for destinations, but the lessons of the pause, the humility of the in-between.
So for now, I walk towards my bus ride. I breathe, I watch, I walk. Because one day, my turn will arriveโand when it does, Iโll finally know why the waiting mattered.
![๐ก๐๐ช๐ฆ | ๐ ๐๐๐ฑโ๐ฃ๐ต๐๐๐ถ๐ฐ๐ ๐๐ฟ๐ฎ๐ฑ๐๐ฎ๐๐ฒ ๐ช๐ถ๐ป๐ ๐๐ฒ๐๐ ๐ข๐ฟ๐ฎ๐น ๐ฃ๐ฟ๐ฒ๐๐ฒ๐ป๐๐ฒ๐ฟ ๐๐๐ฎ๐ฟ๐ฑ ๐ฎ๐ ๐ก๐ฎ๐๐ถ๐ผ๐ป๐ฎ๐น ๐ฅ๐ฒ๐๐ฒ๐ฎ๐ฟ๐ฐ๐ต ๐๐ผ๐ป๐ณ๐ฒ๐ฟ๐ฒ๐ป๐ฐ๐ฒby Neil Bryant Lucas[๐๐ฅ๐๐๐ฉ๐๐]...](https://img3.medioq.com/372/977/791553673729770.jpg)
