Things we leave behind

 It was cold at the bus stop.

Some would say it was just the january winter weather, but she knew why she felt colder in this particular day. It wasn't because she was only wearing pants, a not so warm sweater and a skimpy coat, it was because abandonment had it's cold grip on her. She looked down at the color of her clothes, thinking the red sweater might thaw out the frigidness in the center of her chest. The cheap fabric of the scarf she wore, that usually chafed around her neck, wasn't even a bother anymore, because she couldn't feel it properly. 

She was numb.

Here she was, sitting at the bus stop. And it still felt like she was waiting, ever waiting. The sleeping bag sitting on her lap felt like a dead weight. As her hands clutched on it, she was trying to feel something - anything - rather than the pull. The pull towards that bottomless pit. 

She knew moments like this always led somewhere. And they were definetly here. They washed over you like waves. They brought you down - crashing! - making you tumble on the seabed, until you were just a pile of limbs, seawater, salt and sand. And then they dragged you, suffocating you, and making you dizzy and panic, because you think, you have the complete belief, that this is it! You're going to die. Or, you'd rather die. But then, there was a moment of peace, utter bliss. When for a moment, the movement of the waves, the limbs, the pull and the swallowing of the sea and the breathing - it all stopped. When you stopped thrashing and waves brought your body back up ashore. 

You feel tired, beaten down and battered. You can breathe but each time your chest hurts unimaginably. Nevertheless it was safe again. Firmly laid down on the land. It was just a matter of mustering up the courage to get up and walk on trembling limbs that would rather give up and surrender. 

But alas, as she waited, for no one in particular, feeling the cold of the metal bench, she was tired. Tired of getting herself thrown at the sea and getting back up, just to be thrown and dive dangerously yet again. She wanted to wave a white flag. She was tired of the swallowing down and spitting you up routine. 

It was cold, but this time the cold resolved her. This time, she wouldn't sit around just waiting for the next crushing impact. She had to search for self solace. She had to stare at what brought her down. 

So she waited. Until the bus to her destination got there. It was hard waiting, it required patience. Funny how waiting for someone or something was easy. But waiting for herself, and for what she wanted and needed, was always hard. It was easier letting the cold slip in, easier to let the numbness take over. 

The bus was finally there. Her destination was certain. She got up, left the bag at the bench at the bus stop and embarked on the journey. She looked at the sleeping bag packed tightly on it's case. Just there, left, abandoned, with no purpose. Maybe it would do someone else good, maybe it would just go to the trash. So she tried leaving those feelings behind, leaving in that cotton and polyester dead-weight. As the bus started moving and she sat at her seat near the window, she felt the coldness thawing out and staying behind. 

And so, she headed to the beach. To stare at the waves.