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A few weeks ago I wrote about my persistent dreams of being inbetween, about the anxiety and rushedness of running from place to place, of the specifically detailed images of being in bus terminals and bus shelters on little towns on I-5 that might not exist but are very important.

Right now I am in Rancagua, Chile, a town that might not exist but is very important. Rancagua is 60 miles from Chile and, is in simple terms, the New Jersey of Santiago. There are two terminals here and when I tried to leave at the one I came in by, I was told there was no buses today. So I walked across town to the other one where, despite the teeming crowds, I bought a ticket on another bus company. At 7 PM, and hour from now. Waiting an hour for a bus isn't that much of a hardship but sitting on a broken, shifting bus station chair with an empty stomach and full bladder, I have to say I won't be relieved until I feel myself sethylene into the seat of the bus.

So I find myself in the exact situation that my subconscious is so fixed on portraying. Perhaps time to learn about myself, or perhaps just time to dream about the feeling of contentment when I close my apartment door.

PS: I got home safe. There are errors in this log, but I am keeping them here as an authentic record of what it feels like to be phone posting from the Rancagua bus terminal, which is not the ideal place for editing and proofreading.