A writer in a coffee shop! Could there be a bigger cliche? Coffee is not the best inspiration to bring out the Kerouac or the Tennyson in you. Especially if your Starbucks at Starbucks is not as good as your Starbucks from another store. Then again, the taste was not my primary concern. I was very curious to know if people were looking at me. As the line grew longer, my craving for attention and the guilt that went along with it grew proportionally. Some part of me, however hard I try to deny it, lives for others. I felt like the character in some crappy, low-rated single season dramedy.
I saw myself as a writer. Correction, I liked to see myself as a writer. But like my dreams, my work was also limited and simultaneously limiting. God! I wished there was a shot of whiskey in my coffee. Even some cheap booze from my college days past, DSP black, Royal Stag or Blender's Pride, would do. I have wanted to be a writer for a while now, but i never quite knew what to write. Maybe, it's because my ideas are too specific or my thoughts are too limited. Maybe it's because i liked to see myself as a tragic heroine, when there was nothing really tragic about me. There was no inspiration, no story to build on and no cause to live for. Wannabe-hipster-centre-of-the-universe wasn't helping either. But then again, when do movies work in real life.
I wish I had a story! Something people would want to read. Something that would influence the world in some way! Positive or Negative. I wish I had climbed a mountain or slept with a C-lister. But that was not me. "Me" was normal, so fucking normal. "Me" was placid, mechanical, almost revoltingly so. "Me" was not crazy anymore. Not extraordinary. Not special. Barely Mediocre.
I sat there musing. I wondered if I used sadness as a tool to feel better about myself. These tears welled up,but not falling made me feel almost like a martyr. Or so. I thought. In a sea of laughing, faking, well dressed people, there was me- plain, fat and utterly unremarkable. Perhaps, this act of writing in a coffee shop made people look at me and say, "Oh so Intellectual!" Perhaps, all this was just another shameless ploy to be noticed and feel important. I suppose the truth is that people don't notice you until you have already done something; not even when your crying for help, languishing, visibly drowning in your own problems.
I suppose the truth is that the more we try for attention, admiration, love or what ever name one may give it, the less likely we are to find it. Man is species obsessed with sensation. It only notices what is happening at that moment. What is big! What is loud! What is popular! things may be happening for years, but people only notice it is hugely sensational, blared out from the rooftops or "if everyone else is doing it". Perhaps, the goal must be to fight you inner demons long enough until you either die fighting or emerge victorious. People belonging to both categories attain eternal glory, while those who "put up with it" vanish into the pages of history. After all, only we can crawl out of the ditches we dig ourselves. In the end, I realize that we have to fight each day, struggle to get past each day despite the mistake we make, despite the regrets we face and despite the haunting memories of our past. Fighting to live is the only thing we can do. Now, how we fight, is what brings us that fame, that glory.
I got up and threw my coffee cup into the bin. Today, they claim to be using fair trade coffee beans and recycled paper, but we all know that these global business are essentially cut-throat and overwhelmingly capitalist. But we succumb to the temptation. Or perhaps we don't care anymore. I felt a sense of pride, along with the myriad of other emotions in my head. I had had epiphanies of epic proportions. I was so one my way, I thought naively. Soon, my name will be on the cover of a book, I thought, even more naively. It took all of about five minutes for the coffee induced high to come down. I was back to square one, with my thoughts, opinions, prejudices and petty pain. The truth is that, I am but one in a sea of billions- billions of people having the same self confidence related issues, regrets about procrastination and inactivity and obvious heartaches. So, its just me and my average thoughts and pains. I realized one thing though- the pain kept me alive. The pain gave me motivation and on rare occasions, purpose. Perhaps, I should learn to live this pain, and moreover love this pain. It may not only humanize me, but also produce a "person" out of me.
I saw myself as a writer. Correction, I liked to see myself as a writer. But like my dreams, my work was also limited and simultaneously limiting. God! I wished there was a shot of whiskey in my coffee. Even some cheap booze from my college days past, DSP black, Royal Stag or Blender's Pride, would do. I have wanted to be a writer for a while now, but i never quite knew what to write. Maybe, it's because my ideas are too specific or my thoughts are too limited. Maybe it's because i liked to see myself as a tragic heroine, when there was nothing really tragic about me. There was no inspiration, no story to build on and no cause to live for. Wannabe-hipster-centre-of-the-universe wasn't helping either. But then again, when do movies work in real life.
I wish I had a story! Something people would want to read. Something that would influence the world in some way! Positive or Negative. I wish I had climbed a mountain or slept with a C-lister. But that was not me. "Me" was normal, so fucking normal. "Me" was placid, mechanical, almost revoltingly so. "Me" was not crazy anymore. Not extraordinary. Not special. Barely Mediocre.
I sat there musing. I wondered if I used sadness as a tool to feel better about myself. These tears welled up,but not falling made me feel almost like a martyr. Or so. I thought. In a sea of laughing, faking, well dressed people, there was me- plain, fat and utterly unremarkable. Perhaps, this act of writing in a coffee shop made people look at me and say, "Oh so Intellectual!" Perhaps, all this was just another shameless ploy to be noticed and feel important. I suppose the truth is that people don't notice you until you have already done something; not even when your crying for help, languishing, visibly drowning in your own problems.
I suppose the truth is that the more we try for attention, admiration, love or what ever name one may give it, the less likely we are to find it. Man is species obsessed with sensation. It only notices what is happening at that moment. What is big! What is loud! What is popular! things may be happening for years, but people only notice it is hugely sensational, blared out from the rooftops or "if everyone else is doing it". Perhaps, the goal must be to fight you inner demons long enough until you either die fighting or emerge victorious. People belonging to both categories attain eternal glory, while those who "put up with it" vanish into the pages of history. After all, only we can crawl out of the ditches we dig ourselves. In the end, I realize that we have to fight each day, struggle to get past each day despite the mistake we make, despite the regrets we face and despite the haunting memories of our past. Fighting to live is the only thing we can do. Now, how we fight, is what brings us that fame, that glory.
I got up and threw my coffee cup into the bin. Today, they claim to be using fair trade coffee beans and recycled paper, but we all know that these global business are essentially cut-throat and overwhelmingly capitalist. But we succumb to the temptation. Or perhaps we don't care anymore. I felt a sense of pride, along with the myriad of other emotions in my head. I had had epiphanies of epic proportions. I was so one my way, I thought naively. Soon, my name will be on the cover of a book, I thought, even more naively. It took all of about five minutes for the coffee induced high to come down. I was back to square one, with my thoughts, opinions, prejudices and petty pain. The truth is that, I am but one in a sea of billions- billions of people having the same self confidence related issues, regrets about procrastination and inactivity and obvious heartaches. So, its just me and my average thoughts and pains. I realized one thing though- the pain kept me alive. The pain gave me motivation and on rare occasions, purpose. Perhaps, I should learn to live this pain, and moreover love this pain. It may not only humanize me, but also produce a "person" out of me.
