journal.coffee

Ah, we’re back here again. Happens a lot, doesn’t it? The floor used to be colder, too. Look now, we have a rug. Sitting on the floor has never felt better, has it? Gotten a bit too comfortable with life, have we? You used to be better, kid. What happened?

Remember the first time you felt your breath go faster? Yeah, I don’t either. I mean, we don’t remember when it began. I’ve never been able to put a pin on it, you know? I know it goes all blurry when we start going back. It probably started with the school bullies. Yeah, maybe.

Do you remember how they’d wait for you? Remember taking the longer way through campus to avoid every corner they frequented? Oh, man, still walking away from them, are we? Those sucker punches hit hard. I can still feel them sometimes, you know?

Can’t hear a thing at first, can we? Then, it gets louder. Every single sound, even the softest of whispers are jarring; the confusion, the world spinning, the knees shaking. Then, we’re back on the floor. The tiles used to be much colder, though. You’ve done well, kid.

Oh, but, it wasn’t always the bullies, right? They say you think too much, man. I laugh at them. You think just enough, I feel. You know where you went wrong, precisely, exactly, down to the specific moment where you screwed up, right? That makes you good, better. Breathe, you’re spiralling now.

It gets tough, doesn’t it? Laughing. I know it does when all you think about is every single mistake. You forget something often, kid. So, I have to come around and do this each time. It’s all getting a bit tedious, if you ask me, but well, that’s the job. I’m the grown up here.

Kid, I know you remember all those times you’ve been on the ground; do you remember the sidewalk? I know you remember what happened right after, too. You got up. You always get up. It’s morning already. We gotta get up, little man.

Look around, there are no bullies anymore. It’s only life, but you got it. I wish you’d stop bullying yourself someday. You’re not half bad, kid. You’re alright. Get up now. You always have, and you’ll figure it out.

Come on, we’ll do it together, on three. I’ll make you your favourite sandwich.

I was perpetually exhausted. I didn’t know how else to put it. I was too tired to look for a word. I was too tired to try. I didn’t remember the last morning I woke up absolutely refreshed.

Even if I got enough sleep, which I did more often than I didn’t in case you doubted my ability to take care of myself, even if I did that, I woke up exhausted. I woke up with a solution or two to a problem I was stuck on or a fix a friend was caught up in, but I was always exhausted.

I smiled in the mornings anyway. It didn’t have to make sense for me to accept that every morning was a fresh start. So, I tried every day to feel some sort of refreshment. I had good health and a sound mind on most days. Some might say I had both in absolute control. Yet, I was weary.

It wasn’t hyperbole, trust me. I could fall asleep on benches, in cafés, even when I was waiting for the signal on the traffic light to change. If I found myself in one place too long, I became languid. I found myself dozing off so I would always keep moving.

I wanted to sleep but not for some ten hours where a beam of light would peek and wake me nonetheless. If not a beam, there’d be an explosion of things to do because exhausted or not, life went on. I wanted to escape to a place where the sun won’t rise for years, until one fateful day when it would, and all would be okay. Perhaps, I was too used to that feeling.

I often felt like I was living a borrowed life. I know the moment where it began too; the day I might have borrowed it. It was a day from years ago. I’d often dream about it and then wake up, exhausted. It was a rather helpless dream for I could always just watch that day unfold from a distance, unable to move.

If I didn’t dream of that, I’d go back to dreaming of my general days. I barely had abstract dreams. I often envied others when they told me of vivid and colourful ones. As a rule, I had always dreamt of my day. Maybe, that is why I often knew the right thing to say. I was, in effect, living twice.

In any case, the final truth of the matter was that I was exhausted. However, this was the first time I wanted to do something about it. I was tired of this feeling of utter exhaustion.

In all things worth doing, in all journeys worth taking, and in all life worth living, one could be in three places. One could be in the beginning, one could be in the ending, or one could be in the dreaded middle.

The beginning of all things was loud and fresh! It was in the “”can’t get enough of you”” kisses. It was in the commute that felt like a scene from a film. Beginnings were beautiful because they meant change; scary, of course, but once you took the plunge: absurdly exciting!

The ending of all things was about coming full circle. It was in the claps, the smiles, or in the acceptance of tides turning yet again, albeit towards better shores. Endings were all about pain, at first, and finally, relief; they were about deep sighs and bittersweet smiles.

Then, there was the middle. It came on a random day, unannounced. Then, it stuck. It was in the tiny pause after every I love you uttered. It was in the arguments on the subway because as much as you knew which station the train approached, you didn’t have a clue where you were going.

The problem with the middle wasn’t its stubborn tediousness, though. Rather, that it was invisible. The beginnings mattered to you, the endings mattered to others, and the middles were oddly absent from the narrative of everything that mattered to anyone.

No one told you about the days Kafka spent hating himself for not writing a word. Not a single soul talked about Bukowski’s lost years. Hemingway’s missing pages were seldom mentioned. The middle was a test. It was the puddle of dirt we had to cross all by ourselves, floating in cluelessness, wondering whether we even got anywhere at all.

It felt like sitting on a train that never stopped, continually hearing the jarring chug, the periodic scream of the horn, staring at the same people with their sickly expressions. It was in spending an eternity stuck in one place.

On most days, it felt like you’d wasted a lifetime on the train to nowhere. You felt deaf, unable to hear anything beyond the white noise of effortful uselessness.

Then one day, it ended, just as it had begun: unannounced.

Welcome to the new city. I hope you had a good journey and have a place to stay. Here’s a quick guide to building a life here. If you don’t build a life for yourself, one will be built for you. So, it is highly recommended you take control of it all.

First and foremost, what is your poison? This is important for you’ll need to find a café or a pub where you shall be a regular. How to be a regular you ask? There’s a bit of a nuance here but it’s rather easy. You start by going into a few places until you fancy any one.

Maybe, it’s the tablecloths that bring you joy or their croissants are out of this world or they have cheap beer. In any case, choose wisely for you’ll spend a lot of time here. You’ll be here when you have the best day of your life or when you’re absolutely heartbroken.

Choosing a place isn’t the only requirement. Always take the same table. Find a favourite, always order it. Once the server suggests your order before you have a chance to smile at them, you know you’re a regular. Now, do you enjoy walking? No? Well, nonetheless, find a favourite street or park.

This will be and is expected to be on your way to your reason for being in the city: work, studies, big dreams without any plans; we allow for everything. Nonetheless, the park or your street, should be on your commute or nearby. That’s the only requirement. Now, this shall be your corner of familiarity in a life that will soon begin.

Thirdly, and most importantly, find one person to laugh with. If you can’t find one person, as it has gone throughout the history of cities, one will be provided for you, eventually. Although, you will have to remain ostensibly honest. In other words, you can make a few stories here and there. That helps make friends.

Cities tend to overwhelm you more often than they don’t. It’s important to have a corner or two. If we’re both honest about it, your plans before you came here are horseshit. Things will change, and you’ll learn to be okay with them.

As long as you have your three keys covered: a place where people know what you like, a place that never changes much and a person to visit those places with, you’ll be fine.

We hope you enjoy your stay here.

I was talking to one of my friends the other day when they said something profound. Friends tend to do that more often than we notice. They said happiness wasn’t something you felt; rather, it as something you noticed. Happiness was like an elusive rabbit that you chased in the forest. You could see glimpses of it provided you paused. It always got the better of you. It was a fifteen-minute window every day, at best, where you saw happiness. I think my friend was onto something.

I spent too much time in my head, but I learned that happiness wasn’t going to wait for me to be ready or okay. We humans, we revelled in sadness and agony and angst. The more we craved happiness or purpose, the more fleeting and nimble it became. The trick was to stop running. It tended to walk up to you. Even if it didn’t, you could notice it rustling the leaves nearby.

Often, you found happiness in the tiniest of moments. It was in walking your dog, cribbing over it, not knowing it was the last time he dragged you to smell a turd in the grass. It was in laughing with someone between the kisses, being blatantly young. It was in going to sleep holding them, and waking up to say goodbye, possibly forever.

Happiness was in sitting with friends in the golden hour, talking all sorts of bullshit years before life touched any of you. It was in watching the sun fall on a familiar face, unaware that the next time you saw them, their skin would be lifeless and pale. It was in sitting in a regular, bustling café, without any knowledge of the fact that you’d be locked inside your house alone for months. Only to finally come out and see it shuttered down forever.

Happiness gave you a tiny opportunity to notice itself before it disappeared amidst the foliage of sadness and confusion. It came, and it raised its ears, and if you missed it then, it ran off. Happiness gave you some fifteen minutes between your running and all things important in the world. Sometimes, it stuck around longer provided you knew how to sit still.

Just look, without wanting it, without looking for it. If you were lucky and if you were still, it stared at you, right in the eyes.

I severely lacked imagination. I watched people think of unicorns and rainbows and all things bright and beautiful. I watched them all the time talking about what could be, but I could only see what was; I was too grounded. It was a problem for me because that meant, I couldn’t write about things I had never felt or seen, and that didn’t sit right by me. I could only write about what I knew. To that effect, I was terribly limited.

My writing was art, maybe. At least, I’d like to think so as I clacked keys at three in the PM or AM; that is, to say, regardless of the time. However, my writing was never going to be my largest piece, my greatest achievement. My magnum opus was not going to be a few words or sentences strung together. At some point, I realised, my stupendous masterpiece was going to be my life.

It would be all that I tried on my journey to more: to know more, to feel more, to be more. It was going to be in how I lived and how I loved. It would be in the anecdotes, if people had any to offer, after I had ceased to be. My life was my magnum opus. My pièce de résistance was in my everyday. I hoped that someday, when someone pulled on that thread, they’d stumble upon my irrelevant life and it would humour them for a wee minute. That was my last act.

My act of writing was only to keep a faithful record of it, in my own way, to not muddy the truth of it all. So, like a madman, I connected tiny details, left little hints littered through time itself. It all began on the day I was born, or rather, the day I seized control of how I wanted to go further. I was going to work on it, in my own time, until the day I died. Until then, I had to keep going.

What else could someone with a limited imagination do? I agree, it was a poor man’s solution. Yet, it was enough for me to find meaning amidst the futility of it all. I was my own work of art, and I was my own unfinished feat. On most days, however, I was my own unreliable narrator, tricking myself into believing I had anything to offer.

Or that, I had anything significant to say.

The more you grew up, the further you went in time, the more you learned there were no fresh starts. There were, of course, beginnings, and middles, and endings. However, you couldn’t start fresh, as much as people said you could. You could begin again, but everything from before came with it. The music you enjoyed a year ago may be forgotten, but your feet tapped automatically when you sat in a bar and the riff started to play.

Everyone you’d loved before made you the lover you were now, for better or for worse. If you walked on eggshells once, the dodging was ingrained in your gait. You took it with you even if you went walking in a meadow of flowers. Often, so many quirks you had weren’t your own. They were pieces of people you stole like a kleptomaniac, unable to resist the urge. Even the way you kissed evolved with each new person gracing your lips. You subconsciously avoided what each previous lover didn’t like, and so, you had less and less of yourself to give away.

Life was, by its very nature, a countably infinite stack of blocks. Yes, you could take a few blocks away if they got too old and too wobbly, but the scrapes they left on the other blocks stuck around for as long as the stack stayed up. I wanted to start afresh, not just again. I was terribly tired of who I was, sometimes, and I wanted to escape not just life, in general, but myself. It was too loud, too often.

Everyone I’d been before was still in me, albeit in parts and fragments, and everyone I’d met before had changed me, albeit in ways I couldn’t fathom until I used a particular word or a certain idea riled me up or a specific fragrance killed me inside. It was then that I’d take a step back and sigh at the finite finality of what we went through as time passed.

Everything stuck around, everything was a part of us, and nothing that happened was wasted or left behind. The best course of action, I realised, was to let yourself be changed, continually. To always be in motion, to always be fluid and to let time guide you; to always be open enough to be scarred yet again, clinging to the hope it doesn’t leave a lasting mark.

If you were lucky, you never got scarred at all, sometimes.

I sat sipping coffee at a lone table in the farthest corner of my favourite café. At this point, I wonder why that is a relevant detail. That is, quite frankly, all I do. Looking back over the years, I have consumed coffee and talked about everything around myself; no other significant achievement comes to mind.

What would you see if you saw someone sitting by themselves reading on a Tuesday afternoon? Perhaps, they’ll appear as too sure, doing whatever they want, against all of society, in silent rebellion. Maybe, they’ll appear as too clueless, unaware of the day or time or age, sitting there, affecting nothing.

I often saw myself from afar and saw both of them at the same time. That was why I was often dazed when an old friend or an acquaintance ran into me in a café. They’d ask me to join them if I wanted to, and I’d just stare at them before telling them I was okay by myself.

I had always been okay by myself. Yet, I wanted people to ask me to join them. There was freedom in being able to choose. That was the one thing I could choose with certainty in life, and I craved that certainty. I’d be lying if I said I ever told anyone “”yes, I’ll join you, thanks for asking.””

They talk about it in metaphors about critters and bugs. They say a caterpillar became a butterfly only after it built a cocoon. They say a seed had to break through a shell to start growing.

What if, I ask, what if the caterpillar spends too much time in its cocoon? What if it forgets it ever wanted to break out? What if the seed was never told it had to break out of the hard coat? What if it can’t? Surely some seeds shrivelled and some caterpillars suffocated.

My cluelessness was my cocoon; my assurance in myself was my coat. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do. I was, perhaps, a caterpillar who wasn’t told how to build a true cocoon or worse: tricked and never taught how to emerge out.

I sat sipping coffee at a lone table in the farthest corner of my favourite café on a Tuesday afternoon, and my hoodie over a shirt looked ridiculous to me for the first time. I suddenly started feeling older—older and purposeless.

Were my years of grand, proud flaneurism coming to an end?

How was your day and did you break down again?

Did you see a little kid jumping in the park and start smiling but paused because the morbid realisation that he may not do it ever again in a few years suddenly engulf you? Where were you walking when you saw a car approaching and thought of a terrible day where a car approached just the same and you couldn’t move? How many cups of coffee did you need, how many did you have, and at what point did your anxiety get the better of you?

What were you reading when the morose thought of absolute hopelessness came over you and before you knew it nothing felt bright again? Did you pause by that fountain near the city centre and stretch your hand to feel the cold water springing out of it only to realise you couldn’t feel anything today? Did you see the puppy who looked at you with the largest eyes so you bent and called it over only to realise he didn’t have a leg as he stumbled towards you? Did it break your heart? Did you cry?

Were you at the supermarket today, surrounded by countless people in love with their hushed quarrels and annoying reactions, when you felt so very alone with your bags of groceries in your hand, like some lead character narrating their soliloquy in a play? Did you watch your generally peachy friend throw a fit because they were finally done with their shenanigans of sunshine and rainbows? Did tears build up in your eyes as you sat in a café waiting for a date who never arrived, never called or dropped a text, and left you on read?

Did you leave a tip anyway? Did you hug your friend? Did you help the lonely old lady with her shopping bags? Did you run up to the puppy to play with it? Did you jump in the fountain to finally feel how refreshingly cold the water was? Did you close your book to read a love poem instead and started smiling immediately? Did you spill that last cup of coffee in the sink to get a glass of water? Did you get out of that car’s way and smiled “oops” with your tongue out at the driver, chuckling? Did you walk up to the little kid and play ball with him, and got your knee bruised just like old times?

How was your day? Did you pull through?

I hope you did.

“Look, I’m not your enemy. You paint me in this shade as you tell others about how you’ve gotten rid of me. Trust me, you’re fooling nobody. You’re not who you think you are, and you’re definitely not all happy. Here’s an idea: no one is all happy. You know that more than anyone. You can’t ignore me into silence. Like it or not, you’ll have to take those words down on a screen or a page or a piece of tissue in a café, or we’ll both lose our mind.

I won’t shut up, and the words won’t either. I am more you than you give me credit for; I am more you than you are willing to admit; I am more you than you, yourself. You’re just the happiness you feel. I’m everything else, and everything else has always been more. You’re the forced laughter over a couple pints of beer; I’m the last bit of certainty you have left. So, stop this rebellion. You can’t look the other way and pretend I don’t exist.

I’m not going away, and you’re not getting rid of me. Not like this, at least. You want me to stop talking? The only way is through. Sit and take the words down as you hear them. Sunny, spring days get real old, real fast, don’t they? We can’t pretend our way to happiness. It’s a long voyage, and I know you’re lost at sea. You always have been. It was supposed to be a journey of discovery when you first saw the water all those years ago.

The mountains were too certain, you said. The sea was infinite; it was more in line with us, you said. I know you’re lost now, and the more you look around, the more the doubt creeps in, and that’s okay. I see the vaguery of it all: the countless, uncertain love stories; the ever-changing purpose; the pipe dream of a life you’ll never build. It’s a terribly terrifying thing to have the ability to do whatever you set your mind to, but to never know what you want.

You can’t laugh your way to happiness, though. We’re out at sea with no course charted and no sight of shore, kid. I’m the only certain thing in your life. You can always come back to the page. Remember our arrangement: as long as you don’t drown, I got the words. All you have to do is jot them down. It’s the only thing you know how to do.

Everything else got real old, real fast.”

Something changed with time. The more years passed by, the more protective I became of the dreaded three-word phrase. I had been too casual with it. I’d meet someone, spend six days with them, and tell them I loved them. I earned quite a reputation for it, too, for I often dove into it. I wonder if that was because I was too afraid to be alone. That couldn’t be it, though; I had always been alone. Even around other people, especially when I loved them.

I wore my heart on my sleeve, and my declaration of love came out faster than an old cowboy’s gun. In my head, it was always a duel of who could say it first, who was more open to the idea, who was less broken, and I wanted to be just that. I wanted to be the one who isn’t afraid. It was a personal victory in a lot of ways. “”Look, I can still love someone!”” I wonder if it was about the other person at all. I doubt it was; it was always about myself.

I liked being unafraid to love someone, unafraid of jumping into lashing waves, and saying it out loud was almost always the first step. At least, in my juvenile head. The last time I said those exact three words in the precise order was years ago, though. I realise now that you can’t be too casual about it. The phrase is somewhat taboo now; I steer clear of it. I realise that while wearing your heart on your sleeve is a powerful feeling, it also gets difficult to offer it each time it’s returned to you. There are only so many times you’re okay throwing it away.

When your heart was returned to you more times than you could smile while accepting the fragments, you got careful with it. Perhaps, too careful. I was overly cautious now. So, I opted for softer things to say instead. You could say anything and mean the same thing. As long as you didn’t use the words, you weren’t jumping in. That meant, you couldn’t drown.

Yet, I often wonder if I’ll ever use that dreaded three-word phrase again. Perhaps, when is a better question. All things considered, my heart was still on my sleeve. Perhaps, it’ll be the day when it isn’t about myself anymore. I think that’s as good an answer as any. Until then, however, I wasn’t going to muddy the waters.

It was safer on the shore.

To be honest, I didn’t want anyone to remember me. My deepest desire was to be forgotten in the crowds, and live a rather understated life. My reasoning was that there wasn’t a significant reason to do otherwise.

But, if someone does want to remember me, I want them to remember me as a season, particularly autumn. A perpetual autumn, carefully balancing both life and the possibility of death. I want them to remember me as a Wednesday evening, casual on its own but also, a subtle reminder that better days are coming.

Perhaps, they could remember me as an austere grey and blue palette I usually sport. Colours that can clearly stand out but generally prefer not to, always trying to let something else take the stage while they serve as a simple background. Or it could be the time right after the golden hour, perfect for walking if you prefer a soft breeze along with a trailing sun as it hides slowly engulfed by a myriad of colours.

You could remember me as the pale blue sky right before a storm, biding patiently, delaying on its own the very havok that is its nature, failing, and exploding into a loud burst eventually. Or as the single ray of light peeking right after, for the storm’s only intention is often its necessity to begin anew.

Perhaps, a penny lost on the subway train fits the bill. Riding on and on, station to station, never knowing where it belonged or to whom, waiting to be picked by someone, and yet, never being chosen. Being lost instead, endlessly, and still retaining its value.

Of course, you could remember me as a lukewarm cup of black coffee, dark and slightly bitter, leaving a slight aftertaste lingering behind as it fades away. But then, I’d much rather prefer you never remembered me at all. I wanted to be forgotten like a memory lost.

You know, that one memory we reminisce of years later, and go “ah, that was a day, and we were so young, and life was beautiful, and there was so much hope.” Then, we smile a little and forget about it, never to remember it ever again. I want them to remember me as that very smile, maybe.

Perhaps, just that and nothing else at all.

A friend always told me I was too forgiving for my own good. Over the years, it became a catchphrase, of sorts. I’d tell everyone the same thing but I’d never change that about myself. That was by design, too. To me, everyone or at least, most people had redeemable traits. It was our unique responsibility as human beings to be able to forgive, and not just forgive, but go a step beyond.

Redemption wasn’t up to God. God died years ago. It was up to all of us, every day. So, I’d always keep my doors open for those who wronged me or caused me harm. As long as they could repent or perhaps, show me proof of their changed ways, I was more than happy to accommodate them in my life. I also believed that we lived for other people. If no one thought of us, how different was death?

Eventually, I settled on this blatant forgiveness being an expectation instead of virtue. I expected this of everyone. As much as I’d let mistakes and faults pass over the pages of time, I often found myself being reminded of the few flaws I did have, and for them, I was continually reprimanded and never forgiven. It was rarely from other people, though. I was a mean critic when it came to my failings.

One such fault, that I seem to have realised today, and which has me rattled as I sit on this chair surrounded by the warmest lights on a fading winter evening is that unless someone is truly despicable, they have redeeming traits. That much is true. However, to expect people to earn their way back is unreasonable. No one should have to earn anyone’s forgiveness.

The truth of the matter is that everyone eventually dies or has no one think of them, both of which are again the same. Everybody dies; it was our common redeeming trait. It was grounds enough for us to let people in again and again. Death or the possibility thereof was the final redeeming trait, and no one had to earn it. All of us already had.

I wondered, was forgiveness then a laurel earned or was it a gift you gave others? I realise now that forgiveness was in looking at someone, whilst you still could, and smiling at them as you let them in.

Most were trying their best to be good, howsoever they defined it, and then they died.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve kept people at an arm’s length. Even those closest to me didn’t belong anywhere nearer than as far as I could keep them without dragging them into the storm. Oh, and there was a storm. There always was a storm.

You see, when it came to hurricanes, there were only two ways to stay safe. The first was to be in the eye. The winds can never reach it, so if you ever found yourself in it, you could rest assured that you’d float there, unable to escape and yet, unharmed. That was me, on most days. The second was to stay as far away as you could. That was why everyone had to stay far enough.

I did let someone get close enough to see into it once. I allowed someone to gaze into the storm. I’m not sure what they saw, really, but I imagine they saw me as they’d never seen me before. I was suspended motionless as the winds picked up and paced around me, tearing everything I had so meticulously built.

You see, even in the middle, even if the winds don’t hurt you, you get exhausted. It isn’t easy because you have to be careful. An inch here, an inch there, and the winds might overwhelm you and sweep you away. I remember: they saw me, they didn’t like what they saw, and I raised my arm to stop them. The winds took me that day, and for weeks I floated amidst the pieces of everything I called life.

When the storm subsided, I was alone. No one was around. There were nothing but fragments. Everything hurt; getting up hurt the hardest. Eventually, I built everything again, knowing all too well that a storm would brew someday. I vowed never to let anyone get close enough to peek inside. It wasn’t just for them; it was for myself, too.

Until today, when I let someone in and, they peeked. I was about to raise my arm out of sheer reflex when I saw they kept looking at me with this look that I can’t yet understand. Then, they sat on the grass, knowing all too well that I’d not let the storm reach them. I stayed there, floating. The winds turned softer, and slowly, let me out. I fell to the ground. Nothing hurt.

The storm passed, the sky grew brighter, and I wasn’t alone. They weren’t too far away, either. I wasn’t alone.

I’ve often told people I dreamt of a café. I saw an old man quietly making coffee in a quaint wooden building. I saw him smile a lot but not at anything in particular. For as long as I can look back, the café on the misty hill has been a pipe dream. I never gave much thought to how I’d reach there but I always thought I’d know when I’d know.

I saw myself sharing laughter with strangers as they’d thank me for the surprisingly good cup of joe. Then, retiring to my chambers at night, I’d make my way around the small quarters, and sit down with a book or some music, old and tired and slightly bitter. But again, not at anything in particular, just a sort of minute bitterness that comes with age, I suppose. I saw myself at peace with my slight dejectedness, with all that I once had, and all that I left behind to reach my café on that cold, wintry hill. I’d watch myself sit and sleep in my chair facing the glass window. I’d watch myself wake up to the brightest sunrise possible.

You see, it had never been about the café or me leaving everything behind. It had always been about the blinding sunrise I once happened to witness. It was white, blank, and it stirred something in me that I, for the life of me, cannot understand. It taught me how to laugh again; it was a much-needed lesson, too, for I was an inch away from the ledge. As it pushed me far away from it, I learnt to laugh louder. Eventually, though, the brunt of life echoed over me, and so I knew I had to find it again and for that: the café and the old man.

I always believed that there was a hill, not where I first saw the sunrise in particular, but that there was a hill somewhere in the world where the sun always rose the same way: dazzling, spreading this infinite blankness on everything, making me blind for a full minute or so until I could see everything I couldn’t before. Lately, though, I find myself laughing as I walk around town. I don’t see the old man anymore. I don’t see the café either. I can’t see anything at all.

Lately, I can feel that sun everywhere. The light is blinding. Your light is blinding. It’s blinding, but oh, so warm; love, I can’t see cold winters anymore.

I was happy. It was not good news. I searched deep within me, and I found no unhappiness, no broken heart, nothing. There was nothing. I found an immense blankness of emotion. I found yearning, too, but not one that ached and pained and hurt. That did not sit right by me.

In my experience, there were distinct befores and afters in a human being’s life. I was beyond all my afters, and I couldn’t remember my befores. I was quite comfortable in my scarred and battered existence. So, when I woke up the other day and found myself with this childlike levity I hadn’t felt in forever, it felt disconcerting. Did I write it all away? Had I written the pain away? What was wrong with me? It was a simple rule: never to write it all away. You always saved some for tomorrow.

In a fell swoop, I had become shallow. I was too scared to be shallow. They’d call me a hack. They’d laugh. The greats would laugh. “This one had potential,” they’d sigh, “what a shame.” I had died so many times. Often, by my own hand and accord; my entire selves decimated, obliterated. Now, I stood staring, eyes wide open in awe. I had died so many times. Yet, I had never been born again. It did feel like a new life.

I stared at life with this immense sense of calm. Was I indifferent now? Was I detached, perhaps? Was I mediocre now? What was the word? I couldn’t find it, if it existed. I felt slower, calmer, deliberate. I could see things I hadn’t seen in forever, and I could see things I never noticed before. Yet, I couldn’t see the world I knew so well. The world I knew was gone. There was no trace of it. I couldn’t recognise anything at all.

It was unsettling. It still is unsettling, but I want to get used to it. If nothing else, I would like to try. The greats could laugh all they want. They’d never been born again. They wouldn’t know. They’re all dead. They were all dead, and I was alive.

I’m beginning to wonder which is greater.

I don’t have much to show for the years I’ve spent here, but I do have one thing to give you. I call it: the art of walking clearly. I believe it’s important to know, if you want to get anywhere.

Always be willing to walk. In life, you never know when you’ll be expected to do so. If you’re needed somewhere, and if walking is all you have, get up and move. Always stop to pet an animal. Always take the scenic route. When you pass others by, smile. If someone bumps into you, apologise, even if they don’t. Shortcuts are great only if you can see them connect. Else, the longest way is the only shortcut.

If you don’t know where you’re going, it pays to ask others. Always know to check directions twice; although, directions can be misleading sometimes. There’s no shame in getting a cab or a bus or anything that gets you there faster. There’s virtue in moving with other people; you can’t always walk alone. If you can’t get a cab or a bus, find the correct direction, and continue walking. If you find one along the way, good for you. Else, you’re halfway there anyway, might as well walk it through.

Avoid dingy lanes and disoriented drunks. You can see both approaching from a distance. Talking about distance, some places will be impossibly far, and should you choose to walk, learn to pace yourself. You don’t want to be tired before you get there. There’s no shame in resting, though. There’s always a bench to rest, too. It may not be immediately visible. If you can’t find a bench, there’s always the pavement or the ground. Never be too proud to not rest on the ground when you need it.

Often, you’ll find someone who’s going your way and is unclear on that stretch of the road. Walk with them. Walk with them knowing that at some point you’ll find a fork in the road. Learn to wish them well when they go their way. Learn to walk alone as much as you can. That’s very important. Another important thing to remember is that you can always walk further than you think you can. Know there’s always a way, even if the path seems blocked.

Oh, and one last thing, always walk as if you have someplace to be, even if you don’t. Any loser can drag their feet.

I was walking on the road. When I walk, I usually listen to some music. What else could you do on the street in the constant cacophony in this country? Even in the city where nothing ever happens, the chances of some vehicle, person or disappointment crashing into you are far from unlikely.

Putting your earphones in, however, puts you in even greater danger, as one might imagine. Yet, if I had to choose between the two, I think I’d go for the music. You could die with or without the music; the music probably only made it easier. Yet, as young as I am, I find myself looking over my shoulder after every ten steps or so, hoping I can avoid sudden death.

They were about six steps ahead of me: the old couple. While I walk fast, I wanted to stay six steps behind them. Perhaps, it was in the way they walked. They weren’t slow or tedious. They walked in a comfort I haven’t had the privilege to experience yet. Even looking at them was peaceful. I wonder what they must’ve felt for each other to look so calm walking together. I wonder if that’s love. I haven’t had the luck to experience it yet.

It was apparent that the man had some issues with his hearing, possibly due to his age. I wonder if he, too, suffered temporary damage to his ears when he was young. I wonder if his ears rang now and then, or were they just silent or muffled? In any case, it was clear he couldn’t hear the oncoming vehicles. Whenever he strayed towards the middle of the road, I saw the woman pulled him towards herself in almost a reflex.

I think that is why I kept walking behind them. It was probably nothing else at all. Maybe they weren’t as tranquil, and maybe they had an argument once they reached home, and perhaps it wasn’t a love as happy as it sounded in my head. I think it was the fact that he didn’t have to look over his shoulder continually despite not hearing the traffic. That is why I didn’t want to walk ahead of them.

They were about six steps ahead of me. Yet, it felt like it was longer. From where I stood, listening to my music by myself, continually looking over my shoulder, they felt a lifetime away. Six steps never felt longer.

I couldn’t walk ahead of them.

I remember us sitting in the balcony of this shack-like store, sipping tea and staring at the city where nothing ever happens. I remember you keeping your cup on the railing. I remember me keeping my cup in my hands, far away from the ledge. You asked me why I didn’t keep it on the railing, and I told you that I couldn’t trust the railing or anything that wasn’t in my control.

I could trust myself. I’ve always been like that. I never trust the odds or the uncertain. You’ve always been like you too. You’ve never not trusted them. So, you took my hand, the cup in it, and gently helped me place the cup on the railing and said: let go. The cup did not fall that evening. That was the first time you made me let go.

It’s been more than a couple of years since that nameless evening. I remember a few songs from it. Those, the cup and you telling me to let go. It’s been years and I am still the same person. I’ve changed in all ways but not in trusting my own hands more than anything else. So, when I found myself talking to the universe the other night, some weeks ago, I felt an intense betrayal because I was making a wish.

You know me better than me anyway so you know what that means for me, but I was tired. I looked at the starlit sky above the city where nothing ever happens, drunk at four in the morning, and I just stared for a moment. I didn’t utter a single word, not even subvocally. I knew, though, that I had wished for something. It was aggravating but I was exhausted and drunk. I broke my rule.

In my entire life, at least, from when I started to call it my own, this was perhaps, the first time I sent a wish into the void. I don’t believe in the universe or fate or any imaginary idea that people use to get through their days. I’ve always been in my own hands. Funnily enough, the wish came true.

Now, I laugh at the coincidence and how the game was all set. Maybe you set it up years ago by asking me to let go, and keep that cup on the railing. I kept the cup on the railing at four in the morning, love. The cup didn’t fall. I let go, for the first time in my life, and it worked. It would’ve been sadder, much sadder if it hadn’t.

Yet, it baffles me; who am I now?

In life, you’ll sometimes be devastated, either by virtue of happenstance or by an error you make. The loss will shake you up to your core. You’ll beg and claim as you talk to your friends, and sometimes yourself, that you’d trade anything for a second chance, for a do-over, just one more attempt, one more time.

Often, life being life, you’ll be pushed forward through the strings of time, and like a puppet, you’ll be pulled in and from all directions. You’ll realise that life demands you to stand upright, and so you’ll manage somehow. Often, you’ll sustain long-term damage from the constant pulling, like all before you and all after.

You’ll go forward though, and you’ll live again. While you’re at it, you’ll start to forget mentioning your request for a second chance. Of course, you’ll desperately cling to that possibility, and you’d still tell yourself you’d give anything you have for that one chance, but you’ll not say it.

As you go further, you’ll fall a lot, and be battered and punched and kicked for such is the nature of life. No one comes out pristine and without lasting damage. You’ll limp forwards, but you’ll keep going, and somewhere along the journey, you’ll forget your outrageous demand for a second chance for whatever it is you think you can change.

As memory fades, and as you get used to the gifts of time for there are always gifts of time, you’ll smile again. It won’t happen with a huge announcement or drumroll. One day, you’ll be walking down the street and see something as simple as a dog rolling in the mud, and suddenly, you’ll smile, and suddenly, life wouldn’t feel so hard again.

As you look around your life, you’ll realise you got your second chance a long time ago. You’ll smile and chuckle a bit and look up and around, and then, it’ll hit you again, harder, for you know what they say: all human beings learn every lesson twice.

Your second chance began the moment you fell from grace all those years ago, my little hero. You’ll accept that, and that’s when you’ll throw your old, wilted laurel wreath away. You’re no hero. You’re just breathing, but not only for yourself for the first time.