So I sit here in my make believe coffee shop, sitting and imagining the sounds of the match stick on its first strike against the matchbox, the tearing of the sugar sachet and to the many other sounds the clacking sound of the coffee cup on its saucer. The breeze is novel like, I would love if prince charming would walk in the same way, but I’m guessing today he chooses not to.
The simple thought of avoiding the glares of the older women walking across this very coffee shop, staring at every single smoke filled breath I heave out, seems to have flooded my mind. The street dogs are doing as they always do, chasing the flies that once flew over a rotting packet of bread from the bakery close by. I sit here dreaming of days when I could spend all my hours fantasizing every moment and clicking and clacking away on my character filled keyboard of my laptop.
For the many times that I’ve spent in coffee shops, almost always with friends, family, foes, strangers, ex’s and most of all those arbid people one “bumps” into who’s name we never seem to remember, but seem to recollect the exact name of the girl he was doing 3 years back; today was going to be coffee with me and me and me and me.
I wonder, there have been umpteen times my mother has spent hours trying to tell me that I could direct my dreams in any which way I wanted, but as ridiculous it seems, when I’m in my heavy state of dreaming in my half awake sleep, dreams never seem to go the way I want them to. For instance, the many mornings I’ve woken up in a sweat and all my mind would recollect fresh from my dream was one line, “Don’t go there, it’s dark and weary, Don’t go there” – I must have said that at least ten times, but truthfully as my dreamy brain tells me, I must have screamed it a seven hundred and thirty two times. Point being, that moron whom I was screaming to, did ‘go there’ and I did wake up in that sweat to not know what happened in the end!
Of butter sculpted bodies, I begin a new rush of thoughts. The twist and the turn of every inch of that body on me, the sudden rush in my head like a heavy dose of a brain freeze and the intense heat of a melting man, strong in his glory; this feeling I can’t express in mere words, but my mind seems to have collated a beautiful mash up of words, scents, images, feelings – of the more physical and a strange touch of references. The shift of control between two beings in a setting like this is something to look for. The concept of surrender, the idea of accomplishment, the moment of absolute joy and the smirked second of pride are the side effects of this DNA prescribed drug.
I could feel a sudden sense of emptiness. I feel a bit uneasy, a sudden overpowering weight over my back. This creeping allergy called guilt. He sensed my vulnerable self from miles away, in my trance he chooses to grip me. For all the times I’ve copied in a math test to the last time I easily spit a few nasty words at my closer friends. He drags me down, with a conscious effort to make me sick in my stomach. Small things I know, for some of the bigger sins wouldn’t have let me fall into these creepers in a coffee shop as this, would he?
Images of my mother, images of my neighbours, images of me when I was 6. Sounds of my father coming back home, sounds of the aircraft landing, sounds of my grandmother’s veena. The slow smile crawled its way back onto my face। The feeling of falling asleep in the homemade cradle hanging off a ceiling fan, even though engraved in my memories purely because of stories from my parents, took me to the exact make belief sense of comfort. So as I spent my time sitting on this not so comfortable wooden chair, I sank into a bean bag like space, someplace I could easily go into, but have the hardest time getting out of. This is where I run blank. Almost surreally with no connotations or denotations to anything I was feeling or wasn’t feeling – just blank.
p.s.: I'm not quite sure if this done yet....
p.p.s.: I lately seem to be obsessed with ending my every post with a "p.s."!
