504 & 505

There are two buses that pass by my door regularly: the 505 and the 504. Based on my limited experience of taking them, I’ve noticed that the 505 tends to follow its schedule more reliably, though it sometimes arrives a few minutes early or late. The 504, however, has never once been on time. It operates entirely at random as if the schedule were merely a suggestion.

Taking the 505 feels like a game of strategy. I try to make the most of my time, aligning my tasks to fit the bus’s reliable rhythm, knowing I can minimize waiting if I plan well. In contrast, taking the 504 feels more like a gamble of luck —no matter how carefully I plan, my time spent waiting seems governed by luck rather than anything else.

The interesting thing is, I find myself like to take and do take the 505 far more often than the 504. Yet, paradoxically, I have much less tolerance for the 505’s occasional lateness than I do for the 504’s perpetual unpredictability. It’s as if I’ve made an unspoken pact with the 505 to trust its punctuality, and when it falters, even slightly, it irritates me more than the 504 ever does. The 504, in its defiant disregard for structure, seems to escape my frustration entirely.

Realizing this, I feel a twinge of guilt—for blaming the 505 more harshly than it deserves, and for letting my own expectations blind me to the value of its quiet reliability. But even more, I feel sorry for me treating myself like how I treat the 505, holding it to rigid expectations, discipline, and perfection. Yet the 504 within me—the part that stumbles, that resists structure and moves in unpredictable ways—I let that part off the hook more easily.