The bus stop, as always, was silent. A little concrete hut, chipped in some places, and covered in graffiti. The mayor's face, painted where everyone could see it, could hardly be seen from the big red X painted on it. Maybe, just like other lesser politicians, he found himself called to a higher position at Senate. Or maybe the House of Representatives. Both offered pretty nice opportunities to earn a little more than the government paycheck.

No matter the ulterior motive for building the said bus stop, it still served a function. Every four hours or so, a jeepney would pull over, creaking after the long ride, check for passengers, and drive off into the next Sitio. Usually, there'd be no one to pick up. It was the outskirts of the industrial Manila, filled with factories and workers slaving away for less than the minimum wage. This was where the provincial telenovela-fueled dreams came to die. Dreams of a glamorous life in the city would become the fuel to drive the country's workforce: a society of hamster wheels running on fantasies.

Everything comes in inverse, however, and this was one of them. Taken in another direction, this is the gateway to the provinces: an escape from the city life. This was where you could renounce the testaments of urban prophets and follow the rules of the province. This was the starting line of a race where you throw away everything you held dear and begin anew.

It was always the notion of motion that fuels everything. The feeling of everything rushing backwards and seemingly melting away is heavenly to everyone. Why do we wish so much to begin something we never finish?

Why can't everything just stood still?

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It was the same graffiti-adorned bus stop. The paint was still chipped in some places, and everything was beginning to wear off. The thin layer of powdery dust coating the bench and walls was brushed off to make room for the lone person partaking in the simple pleasures of the bus stop.

His calloused hands drummed on the surface of his bulging bag, impatiently waiting for the command to let loose and open the Pandora's bag. If he were younger, that bag would have been long open by now, its contents weaving another yarn for the scrapheap.

He was older now. Wiser, deader, and more cynical. Gone were the days of trying to change the world with a few well-placed chapters, like a chess game with a kindergartener. Gone were his enigmatic friends in high suites and even higher literary places, off to work in some dreary publishing suite.

His well had dried up, his oasis gone. Just an overflowing stack of papers took up its place, drying up everything that could've been.

His dead eyes looked around the road, his eyes taking nothing and everything. He would note how the trees lazily swung in the summer breeze, gaily beckoning him to take a rest under their embrace. He would also note the character in his spot, enigmatically looking around and seizing the next opportunity.

His old writer habits kicked in, crafting and weaving a story to be told to the world. A grown-up retreating from life in the cities to the provinces, and comes back with a revelation! It would be a best seller!

His hands, impatiently drumming on the fabric of his bag, now rummaged through the said bag, deftly fishing out a cheap pen and a worn notebook from its depths.

It was always said that the state of the notebook reflected the writer's wellbeing. After all, the vessel of potentially world-changing ideas had to be everything-proof.

If it were torn in places, dog-eared in most, and generally smudged everywhere, that had to be a sign of something.

He flipped the pages of the notebook, frantically searching for a blank page, a fresh start where he could write another way out.

How many "fresh starts" have I had? A dozen? Three?

The pen was uncapped in his left hand, ballpoint ready to scratch and fill the page.

How many times have I tried to get out?

Closer and closer it loomed, bringing itself to scratch and fill away at the blank paper.

NO!

He briskly closed the book along with the pen, and threw it to the ground, where it landed with a thump on the dusty asphalt. It would lay there forlorn, silently beckoning him to pick the pages up and start writing again.

He wouldn't. No more.

He had always tried to live with his dream. Even going as far to live his life through with it, throwing away everything that could've made him better.

For him, it was time to let go.

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Every four hours or so, a lone jeepney climbs up this hill, and searches for passengers. For the longest time, that jeepney has found none.

But maybe, perhaps for today, the jeepney might pick up a dream.