"We sleep on the grass, homeless in a country that is ours for only a handful more days.
We wash our faces. We brush our teeth in bus station bathrooms, stealing bits of toilet paper to have for when there is none.
We know the rhythm now. The outfits to wear in case the bus is too cold or too hot. I pop Benadryl and Tylenol to induce the sleep that alludes me on these long trips. The other two sleep whenever possible, curling into balls, but I am never quite able to do this. There is some part of me that's afraid of missing out, of missing an experience, a moment.
It's getting close to ending now. In a week I'll be home and thousands of miles away from here. Will I be happy, will I be sad? If I'm happy does it mean that I didn't make the most of my time here?"
(I'm writing an article that requires me to go back through my journal and find quotes and pieces of information that I meticulously collected and stored in a battered 250 page moleskin. I am missing those days today.)
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