Dec 19, 2011

The man visits the same café every afternoon. He would order a strong black coffee and sit at the table in the corner. He would look into his cup, stir the dark liquid slowly with the teaspoon, and think. Then, after a while, he would open a book and read for an hour or two. He is not like the other patrons. Mostly they go in pairs or more, and their tables are always filled with laughter and chatter, but he is always alone, always quiet, with a book. Last week, he was reading The Great Gatsby; today, he begins Journey to the End of the Night. The afternoon would go by. Then, when he is done, he would close his book lightly, quietly clear his empty cup, and leave. Nobody knows him, he doesn't say goodbye to anyone, he doesn't even leave an echo of himself as others do when they stand up to go and push their chairs noisily across the floor.

Also, on the topic of cafés:

"And he told me all romantics meet the same fate someday:
Cynical and drunk and boring someone in some dark café."

—Joni Mitchell (via A Poet Reflects)

But if one were able to read minds, one would discover that human beings are not dead. There is so much going on in our heads—on this I assume that we all can think—but we don't make them all happen. I drink my coffee in silence as I think about how I'd be a hero and all fighting crime or just telling the lady who cut everyone's queue to queue up. But I let it slip. I let life slip by. We let life slip by. If only we would be strong enough—because we are. If only we would make this day less ordinary.

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