journal.coffee

Why did I bother beginning to write again? I asked myself this last week, and my simple answer was that it is necessary. It is necessary, perhaps, more than food, for as per my estimate, I only had about fifteen hundred calories to eat today, and that is far fewer than what is deemed necessary by a large margin. It is, therefore, more necessary for me to write than many other things. Spilling these words here, in a jiffy sometimes, and spanning hours on others, is what brings me back to being a person. My putting words down makes me somewhat tolerable to others around me, and I often think—for instance, when caught in the middle of an argument about taxes with a friend I have not talked to in a while, enough to doubt my usage of the word ‘friend’ and think whether I should have used ‘acquaintance’ instead—whether my words and how I carried my position would have been softened if I had written for the day by then. Naturally, I don’t have any answer to this, for we only live through every moment once. But I write so I do not think over it later. I write so I can vomit all of this out, this catharsis of chaos spat onto a page, so it is somewhat easier for me to be in a room with others, so it is somewhat easier for me to enquire about a stranger’s day, and not for the formality of small talk but to know genuinely how they fared. I believe it is all there is to it. Why did I bother beginning to write again? To not become a bother; that is all.

I lie in the bed to sit and write, but all that comes to my mind are small, rebellious distractions or yawns, large and small. At first, this bothers me and annoys me a little: that I have little to say. But then, I think of how generous the day has been to me, that I feel the soreness in my legs, that I feel the heaviness in my eyes, that my mind has wandered more times than I would like to admit since I began writing this passage are all but proof that I was alive today. I lie here, fretting over the severe lack of profundity in my words today—or lately. But I have been diagnosed with a case of simpler days and, I would perhaps dare to say it, contentment. There is no cure. I am now forever infected. What shall I do, I wonder? Not much, not much indeed. I shall hope these days stretch like the spanning steppes I saw on my journey to and fro last year, going between cities I may never visit again—sprawling and unending. I hope, with all my heart, that this is the case. I believe I dare when I say this in front of others at the off chance of getting ridiculed, have myself painted into a caricature, pronounced the village idiot, but I say it anyway, that I would prefer to do the dishes and the infinite chores in life than anything else. That if it were up to me, I would wake up and eat and live like a person was meant to live, and sleep early and see the sun’s first light in the morning the next day. And what do I suggest when I say living? To not believe in the many carrots they toss in front of us so we keep moving. Instead, make things for the betterment of all, and if all is too large a group, then for those right next to us. And pay no matter to what we make: it could be a painting or even a chair. But to do it with the aliveness of being a person, and not simply for a profit or to serve the needs of some mogul we will never meet, or chasing a bottom line for others, put simply. And I think that doing the dishes and the other chores that lead or follow are the closest to this dream; I reckon that is why I enjoy them as much as I do. It is the only time I am useful unconditionally. And if it is not for anyone else, then, at least, for myself. Now, that holds merit. At least, I would think and say so.

The steam from the hot coffee, which had been sitting, waiting for me in the pot when I woke up, escaped out the window as if it were jailed for an eternity, saw a chance for freedom, and scurried away. But then, it makes me think if being imprisoned for a time as long as that would snatch the want of freedom itself. Either way, the sip was warm and delicious, a hug to begin a wonderful day, metaphors aside. And then, I began the day, which in this humble life plainly means that I sat comfortably on the couch, both my legs on the table, stretched in remarkable comfort, doing nothing. Then, I sat for a little while longer and kept sipping in intervals. Then, some birds cooed outside, and I realised time was going by, so I got up and got to writing.

It surprises me that up until a few days ago, I was wound like a spring in a convoluted contraption, and it would have eaten me alive this year again had I let things be as they were and not made a decision. The decision, of course, was to not pursue grandiose achievement and instead sit and write and to protect my time, to not be running across halls of strange hotels with a lanyard bumbling on my chest, to not be stuck at airport after airport, to not be caught in the margins of error of systems of weather and people alike, to not recite elevator pitches about things I did not make, and to not rush—at all. And it makes me think once again about the furtive steam that escaped through the window. And I thought about how it might be that the want for freedom is more important than the act of escaping, that I must protect the want, that the escaping will happen of its own volition, so long as the want remains.

After a long day of toil and work, and a little bit of wastefulness, we lie in bed and laugh at nothing. The moment turns into a battle of who can tickle whom, and I think, right in that moment, of how much love there is in this life. Then, terrified, I suggest a pact to end today’s battle—a ceasefire. Hands are shook, cementing it, and very carefully I get up and begin writing. She reads a book and takes a peek now and then to check if I am done. She will be the first to read these words. And now, I feel clever for this, and I reckon, somewhat proud of the meta nature of this piece. Laughing on the inside still, I give myself some credit and smile a little. Then, I realise that the melatonin strip has begun to work its magic, and I blink my eyes twice to keep the cadence of these words up. I believe I live through the day for this, so I can spend it laughing with her. Sure, we have our share of silent nights for reasons as many as there are apartments in this city. But tonight is different. Tonight is a night of playfulness, of levity. Levity. There is a word I have not used in a while now. How frantically I pursued it once. And look at this day now; look at this life now.

It has been a day of plenitude; there was an ample supply of everything. I am fortunate for days like these. I am no stranger to days that are only one colour. But now, despite my preference for certain shades, and I admit the jokes my friends make over my decor and wardrobe are not unfounded, I would much rather have all of them than one of them. And this includes joy. That is the thing about colour. It is not what it is but what is beside a shade that matters more. Well, colour me surprised then: what a beautiful picture this scene in front of my eyes makes!

Walked to the refrigerator to get some water but saw a bottle of wine and could not resist. Took it out and poured a glass and sat with some music playing. Kept the bottle near the couch in case there was a need to top it up. The sun seems to have tucked itself into a good night’s sleep already. The moment, I suppose, passed me by when my nose was deep into work that matters to a degree. Thought to take a stroll but gave up on the idea remembering how I slept for only a ballpark of about three hours. I ought to not be this stressed. I reckon that is what I realised today, that my worries are all imagined and only exist in my mind. I only ought to make my life lighter and put this necessary evil of a job into its place. I ought to put it into its bounds before it begins to bleed into the rest, before it begins to bleed into the other parts, before it destroys any ounce and semblance of peace I have come to know. I must sit here and finish this glass of wine and hope for more days like this one than days of grandiose achievement. There will be many of those. There will be time for those. I must not rush. No, I must not rush at all. Time for another glass. And then, she will be home. And then, it will all be fine. The simple life I aim for, I must begin creating it for myself. And I think I will begin now—in this well-rounded, fruity moment full of wild swirls of fruit. At least, that is what it says on the bottle.

A colloid of chamomile floats about in the mug as I sit and deliberate over the parts of this day that fit the bill of these scribbles I have begun to write around my days, and I cannot find much for it has been as befuddling a day as it could be, like rain with the sun and other improbabilities. But most days have the quality of being redeemed towards their end. Not because they did not happen, not because their impact is softened, but only because hope is forgiving, and somewhat relentless. I stare at the golden tea in the cup before I take the last sip and decide to shut the lamp, which, in perfect choreography, is gold too. I do this, and I put my chips on tomorrow. I wager it may be better, knowing all too well that it may very well be worse. And I hope, with all my heart, I claim the pot. And that is perhaps why I set an alarm. And that is perhaps why I kiss her good night. And that is perhaps why I did the dishes. I reckon tomorrow may bring what it does, but it could be good; it could be grand, and I must be ready. We are perpetually gambling with our fates, and our days are the prize, and I have won more than I have lost. I brush today off as I remind myself of this. I look at her reading, and I remind myself of this. I keep the lights on for a little bit longer. 

Yes, I have won on most days. I have won on the important ones.

Frankly, I do not feel like putting words down today. The whole day has been topsy-turvy and turned on its head, and it has been scrambled worse than a batch of eggs that were supposed to be an omelette but broke down the middle. It has not been kind in that the turgidity has spilt well into midnight, and now, I must furnish something to call it a day quite like an assignment written too late and possibly with half a heart. But I am the only one who carries the blame, and I am the one who has been in disarray since I awoke. For there could have been pockets of peace, and I squandered them like we often squander minutes that turn into wasted hours, which in turn become wasted days. Then, we sit to complain over a pitcher of beer or a bottle of whisky. “Where did the time go?” We ask. “Where indeed?” A stranger answers. No one knows. Everyone knows. And that is how, I reckon, this day has been. It could have been different had things happened differently; days are often only as simple and as complicated as that sentence. And now, I must sit and assume all is right now that it is time to shut my eyes, and I hope, ever so earnestly, that tomorrow will be different. Or at least, that things will go differently, that I will touch the hours softly and not break them through the middle and cause the yolk to spill into everything else. But at least there is tomorrow. Yes, at least that is true.

It is a Sunday morning. I believe the sun woke up right on time today, for the light outside is unrelenting and has managed to not only sneak past but break through all barricades of physics. And in its path and wake, it has illuminated every still object in this flat, and it all looks so wonderful in its motionless visage. There is no movement around except my hands that move on this keyboard. Everything is—like it were some painting—absolutely stock-still. And this has stirred in me a soft realisation for this present moment. I will not be writing this piece ever again. This precise falling of light will never occur again. Things and objects here will never be as they are today. The slippers near the door will not be in disarray in the precise way that they are right now. The package that must be returned will be returned and never sit there on the shelf. The leaflet from last night’s opera might end up in the bin at some point. The wreath on the door from Christmas would be pulled down just in time for spring. All of this will move, and all of this will change, but the way I see it all right now will remain etched in some unaccessible corner of my memory with the many different images I can no longer remember. But it will inform something. It will inform the words I write from that point on, and if it does not, it has done something still; it has informed the words I write right now.

I sit watching an opera in a somewhat regal auditorium, and for a moment, I am lost in a murmuration of memory, taking me back to when I was a boy in school. And it occurs to me just then: what a marvellous education I have had! This is not to say that it was filled with lessons about baroque operas or that I could tell the Gymnopédies apart or knew words that were long and only got longer as I aged, no. Instead, I was given, more or less, the right tools in the toolbox of my mind. And sure, there has been a lot of independent education of my own self that I carried on over the years, what with books and courses, and conversations most of all, but I reckon even all that was just a response to my years as a boy. And even in the years of my rebellion—of which there were several toward the end of my time at school—I simply was set onto a path of greater discovery. One that, I believe, would not be possible had I not been disconcerted with what was present. The limitations were catalysts, and all that was good, I still carry with me. And I reckon I shall give credit where credit is due, and remember those years not with the ill will of a rebel any longer but with reverence for even rebellion, I reckon, must be an idea I heard there in the walls of the classroom, or outside, from the few teachers who cared enough to be remembered today, in stray thought, or otherwise.

We must believe in the little subliminal fictions that we create along the way, or none of it makes sense. The first cup of coffee is worth a thousand, and for good reason—there is a myth associated with it, and day after day, the myth is regurgitated without words, and day after day, its effect is emboldened. And when you build a life as I have, around many such stories carved out of my own hands instead of handed down by a mother or some wayward priest, you are protective of it like a bear for its cub. This life is my own, and not because I am living it but because I have made it, and I have done this brick by brick, myth by myth, and all of it is an archive, and all of it is an orchestra, meticulous in its arrangement, precise in its sound.

Intuitiveness, attentiveness, consciousness are mere words people learn at a seminar. I reckon it is not until you have sat for hours and looked at the sun and thought of why it is that your heart sinks even when the world is burned by hope and warmth, repeatedly, until epiphany strikes and you know why, and that the answer does not matter for they seldom do; only that you have found one, and now, you must place the rug a certain way so that when the first light strikes, it touches the corner with the grasp of a toddler, and it refuses to let go, and it shines brightest in the room, and so, when you enter, you see it, and all is well in the world, and when you sleep the next time around, you sleep on time; you look forward to entering the room again.

In little instances of mild discomfort, I am comfortable. Only in the middle of my chores do I feel truly alive. I believe there is something to say about the normalcy of my life. I could wager it will be said when I am no longer living it. Because whatever I, myself, can say is and will sound conceited. And thus, I shall wait for when I am here no longer. Not to say there is any sense of urgency in this, and I have not been one known to be impatient. It simply is a hopeful assertion in some sense. Sitting here, thinking about the day that is ordinary in all of its measures—even the pitfalls and potholes—and writing these words brings me some sort of soft solace. And now, it occurs to me that I have dampened the mood. No, I do not mean to sound ungrateful for the life I have or eager for my demise. I reckon my saying this suggests the opposite. It suggests I am at peace with where it all is, where the dominos have fallen, and where the days are heading. Things have occurred in this life, and sometimes, this life has happened to things. There is a galore of memories, of great emotion, of fantastic tragedies and glorious triumphs, and there shall be more; there shall be more tomorrow, intervaled only by hours of nothingness, of dishes, and of vacuuming and laundry and dusting, hours and hours of it.

In the rush hour of the morning, when everyone has a place to go, I find myself fortunate enough to go to a cafe and solve a crossword. At least, before working, and before all of the pollution and noise of the day-to-day funnels into my mind. I believe we must always strive to get the important things done before we realise we are citizens of the world. I try to write before the world wakes for this reason. And if I find that I was unable to do it before I became a part of the global workforce, smilingly minting money to pay bills and taxes we never asked for, I try to write at night when all of my conscience is numb to the proceedings of the day. Either way, in the magical hour, marred only by the honking and the traffic, I make my way—on foot, of course—and reach to order a scrumptious coffee and breakfast. And then, I sit and solve the crossword.

And then, the bustle begins to rile and rise slowly as people enter the cafe, late for some meeting, or a meal, or just to get a takeaway for wherever they go next. And now, an hour has passed. I am sated in all of my appetites. The people around sit embroiled in a cacophony of numbers and figures, of plans and businesses and decisions, and politics—things that do not seem to agree with my inner nature and are sieved out before they even reach the innermost corners of my mind. Still, I must join the fold, too, now, only to meet myself again at night. The day will pass as the day does, and I have no complaints. I have written, and I have solved my crossword.

I think of love, and I think of you—my wits are not about me, and I am dying of exhaustion, but I need to get some words out, and what better way to get this done than talk about the only thing that is on my mind. I do not know if you noticed the other day when I held you in the morning and you fell asleep in my arms. Not that this is new, and not that this shall change, but I lay there, my eyes wide open, and I decided that the time could pass and I could lie there forever, and to hell with all the things that would not get done, and I realised I was not going to move an inch, and I would let the sun wake us up. I closed my eyes and slept again. It was a wonderful morning. And then, I woke up and made myself a cup of coffee and soaked your chia seeds in the mug and waited for you to wake. Not that this is new, and not that this shall change.

I sit here at this desk at half past eleven, and I think of love, and I think of you—my wits are not about me, and I am dying of exhaustion, and I might just sleep here if I were to stay any longer. And that is beyond reproach; that is unacceptable. And so, I must try and finish this piece, and I must get into bed. I think of love, and I realise it is this: to be alone and want you and to be with you and want you all the same. To hell with all else. To hell with the world.

I see an hour where no one has any dire need of me, where I can slip under the blankets of minutes and seconds, and I grab the opportunity. I wake up, groggy and disoriented; I wake up rested. Then, I get off the bed, picking up the cup of coffee gone cold in waiting for me, in the same swift movement, and sip off it to gain some semblance of my step, and then, I realise there is still work to do. But there was work to do earlier, too, and now, I have stolen a nap. What a crafty little manoeuvre. Nothing changes as far as the world is concerned, and yet, everything is different for me. They shall never know, and how can they? This is, after all, a victimless crime.

And I believe this is not a new theme, nor is this description new, and that, too, is what I have realised. The story beats of my life are repetitive enough for me to know that I am doing something right. My day-to-day changes wildly for a little bit but then comes to some sort of mean position on its own. For all the fantastic things I have seen and felt, I reckon my life has been but a finely adjusted balance of routine—even my delinquency follows suit! And this brings me an unrelatable joy. It is mine and mine alone. I can smile over it for hours, and yet, no one would understand. This, too, is a privilege.

I lie in bed, under the warmest duvet known to man on an otherwise nippy, pouring day, writing. The love of my life sleeps next to me, and my eyes too would shut any moment now. I lie here protesting against the last will and testament of mundane exhaustion. To think that I would find myself in a moment like this, that it will feel as if nothing is out of place, that this is how things truly are and should be continues to perplex me. That I am happy addles me and makes me afraid of dozing off lest I arise in a world different from this one. So, I must, at least, make a record of it.

As I look at her, taking the softest breaths possible, and letting them out even softer, it occurs to me that I would give her all the love I have to give, and not leave a drop in the barrel. And on the coattails of this thought comes another: how often do we not realise we are in our greatest days yet? But I have. I reckon I do.

And so, I continue to look. And then, I continue to look. And another minute passes. And the piece reaches its end. And the rain stops outside. And the world goes to sleep. And the dogs stop barking. And my eyes force themselves shut. And still, I continue looking.

And then, I fall asleep.

I barely have something to say to the world besides the marginalia, the little notices of joy and mirth, and sometimes the occasional sigh of melancholy. While one may call it my humility, I call it the truth. I sit here and pretend to have something to say, but what is it that I aim to tell, that I attempt to shout? Drink your coffee and have a grand time doing it. This is all I have told people in conversation, in writing, and, often, in passing. Do not take the answers at face value; find your own way to live, and then find another way to do it when your solutions inevitably run their course, as they often will. And then, when you find your footing, use it to walk to the café still and get a cup of tea, if the hour seems inappropriate for coffee. And if you are so daring, then be it: get a coffee still!

And while there is a figurative quality to it, I wish for you to not read between the lines for a change and take this as literally as it appears. These words are as explicit as the numbers we read and surrender to day after day. And I say this only because tonight I have nothing to say, and if I had something to say in the morning, I have long forgotten and left that train of thought behind. Now, I simply sit here, striking off a task, a chore, and in it, I have brought myself to jot the truth down, which, by all standards, suggests I have exceeded expectations. Whose? Mine, of course; there are no strings on me.

I will never be in university, wasting time at a cafe with my friends, a single cup of coffee serving as our token to have the table, and our audacity on our sleeve keeping any hints of embarrassment at bay. There are several things I will never do again. I will never sit at the bar of some restaurant, lost in the tiny passageways of my mind, no feeling of home in my heart or on the stool or the counter or in the air. And my words make this realisation sound morbid. This is not washed over me. Yes, it may be morbid in instances, but as far as life is considered, it just is. This feeling is, perhaps, the only indication we have of the unending, unrelenting passage of time. And yes, today it has made me sad, and this idea sits in some corner of my heart, marinating over and over, and it has punched me in the gut. I do not intend to deny the feeling. But I do wish to turn it around, look it over like an old keepsake you find in boxes your parents packed years ago, when they did something for the last time, before taping and covering it for all the years to come. I wish to look at it and inspect it, and I have done that; I have made my inquiry. And as I sit here, writing, I conclude it as what it is: there are parts of my life I will never be able to live again owing simply to the fact that time has passed. And yet, does that not make things worth doing in the first place?