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Dead Cafes|Slowhand


Morbidity. Decaf. Silence.

I now sip my coffee, I sip it slowly, I take it in, I breathe in the aroma first and then I look at its colour intently as if my thoughts would give it a different colour. I do it like they do it in the television, like they do it in the movies, perfect people drinking perfect coffee, their perfect lips coming ablaze as it makes contact with the coffee, their eyes seeing light as the coffee hits their heads. I sit here with a book because one ought to have a book when one is in a cafe and one ought to do so when one is in expectation to  be watched, that is always.

I look at the people, I observe and scrutinise, I judge and I try reading the book in between but in vain. I stare and I expect stares back, I want them to see me reading this book, I want them to come up to me and ask me my thoughts on it so that I can get back to them with an absurd idea about it so that they don’t understand me and hence take interest in me.

I look outside and I ponder, I pretend to ponder because I feel too lazy to ponder. And then the thoughts do come in, but they don’t flow in, they come in breaks, some blurred and some too clear and my stare turns into a gaze and I keep pretending, I pretend that I’m in another world whereas I fail to depart from this and arrive at the other.

Book. Tolstoy- War & Peace. Why? Tolstoy that’s why. Heavy books are attractive, and it ends there, nothing more. Books which are ‘supposed’ to be appreciated, cult books, authorities, timeless classics, but what if I don’t like it? I still read it because my age needs it, to talk about it, to boast of having read one, to earn praises, to earn certain tags from people, to be lauded, to impress, so that people are intimidated by my knowledge.

Work. I don’t work. I think. I like to think, just sit and think. I look at the world and I speak of its madness while I do nothing about it, I speak about its declining morality and do nothing about it, I accuse but I don’t try, I declare my judgments but I don’t execute them. I expose the lies but I don’t clothe it with the truth. I appeal to the masses but I confine myself to my words and the words of ‘great’ men, I talk about love but I stink of apathy and indifference. I know all the problems and I keep myself busy finding the truth but I start my journey bearing the knowledge that I can never reach the horizon. I watch the world change while I read my books, I draw parallels, I write my thoughts about it, but I remain still, I sit and I think, I sit in cafes, sipping my coffee, reading a heavy book.

I talk about Marxist equality but I distance myself from people, I resign myself from the public, I condemn anything that goes against my thought. I think I see things differently and I’d like people to think that I see things differently. Everybody sees things differently so what is the use? Everybody reads and knows something so what’s the use?

I sip my coffee, I sip it slowly, I slip it slowly. My mind feels heavy from the words of the heavy literature that I read. All the words and ideas that I do nothing about. Reading about the world and doing nothing about it. I am an intellectual, slowly receding, slowly fading into black, while the world sees the light. I sit and I sip, I read and I sip.

Morbidity. Decaf. Silence.

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