One Day at the Cafe

I woke up feeling like crap that day. The night before had been really hectic. Phone wouldn’t stop ringing, notifications wouldn’t stop popping up, the neighbor’s dog wouldn’t stop yapping over the street cats that teased it.

They seemed to mock him with their freedom. He was held back behind a fence, enclosed to a limited space to walk, play or do his needs. And whenever he went out it was on a leash. They mocked him, alright. His solitude. His repressed state. The cats seemed to sing to him about how he would never be free of himself, or the others.

I sympathized with the dog that morning. I wrote for a living, that much was clear. But it had been weeks since I could sit down to write something worthwhile. I had begun to spiral down into depression for no apparent reason. Everything stressed me out. Anxiety came to make itself my host whenever something came up. It could be the simplest of things, like calling one of my parents, and I would begin to shake and sweat. My chest would tighten, and my mind would begin to wander in absurd thoughts. But that was how it had been.

That morning, an hour or so before noon, I decided I would drag my mess of a body down towards the cafe in the corner of the street with my phone and notebook, order a french vanilla cappuccino (I swear these are more addictive than the regular coffee), and I would write. I would not move from there until I had written an acceptable amount of pages. I would force myself out of the shell I had begun to hide in and create a new piece of work that would change my life for the better.

Things didn’t go exactly as I thought they would. The medium sized cafe was empty. Mellow jazz music played in the background, and the smell of fresh pastries perfumed the inside of the store. I tried my best to give a sincere smile and to seem polite and collected. I knew the workers for quite some time. The last thing I needed was for them to worry about me. But I was sure I fooled no one. With coffee in hand, I made my way to the most secluded table I could find. It stood in a corner at the back, with just enough space for two. And to add to the sweet deal, it had an outlet right beside it. Just perfect for myself.

I sat the coffee on the table, opened the browser on my phone just in case I needed to research something, and quickly reached for my notebook and pencil. I had everything set. But I wasn’t quite sure of what I would do. I wasn’t sure if I could write. I doubted its worth.

“Won’t it be just another piece of scribble that people will ignore? Won’t I be wasting my time? I could search for another job… Earn better money. Why did I even thought writing was such a good idea? This is hard!”

I kept thinking this over and over again. I tried so many times to answer these questions. But the more I thought about it, the more these questions became appealing. They were beginning to implant themselves over my motivation yet again. That wasn’t new.

I silently sipped my coffee, staring blankly at my notebook. Surfing the web and social media every now and then, reading news and posts about puppies and science. Looking at pictures from family members I barely spoke to or knew. It wasn’t that hard for my focus to shift completely towards the phone instead.

It was the chatter of the horde of people that came through the main entrance that broke my trance. I hadn’t realized, but it was now midday, and I had yet to write a single word on my notebook. The environment was no longer peaceful. There was no longer a chance to concentrate easily. I had lost my chance over dull actions.

I was down to my third cup of coffee now. Ignoring the hordes that kept entering, and all the background noise created from it, I decided to give it another try. One more sip from the cup, and with pen in hand, I was ready to start.

However… This, again, proved fruitless. The thought of this no longer being for me once again snooped its head over my shoulder and whispered its toxic words onto my ear. I had extracted all that I could from my brain and was now running on fumes. “I think I should start looking for a new career.”

I think I said those words a bit too loud because the chatter disappeared for a moment. My face turned towards the crowd. Some were still staring, giving soft smirks of pity at my red face. I didn’t dare say anything else or move at this point. Then it continued.

“You seem like you have hurt your foot with a stone and can no longer walk over a hurt pinky.” A chuckle followed. “Are you alright.”

Now I was being humiliated. I darted my face towards the source, only to find an old man of small stature staring at me. There was a warm smile to him hidden inside a thick beard. He held in his hands a small cup of tea, as well as a pastry. I turned to look around and found no more seats available, except for the one in front of me. Now I had to share my afternoon with a complete stranger. But it was the right thing to do.

“Yeah… Kind of. Please, have a seat.” I said to him as I rubbed the back of my neck.

“Well, thank you, lad.”

The man sat and quickly took a sip of his tea, then laid it back down on the table. We spent a while in awkward silence. A good twenty minutes if I recall correctly. But this didn’t seem to bother him at all. He just sat there, staring at his tea silently, as if he were collecting his thoughts. I tried to keep my eyes off of him until it became somewhat inevitable. I, myself, was looking for ways to gather mine and find something to talk about. I did not wish to bore him with idle talk. Finding a good topic became as hard as trying to find something to write about. And just when I had given up and decided to say my name, he began to stroke his beard with that warm smile again.

“What seems to be bothering you, lad?”

I didn’t respond right away. I didn’t know what to answer.

“Don’t be shy now. A man my age has nothing more to do with his life other than bother family members and wither away.”

“Don’t say that, old man. You still don’t look a day over twenty.” I said, trying to lift his spirits up.

“Under twenty? I look a day over sixty! Ha!”

I laughed. The old man had taken me out of my sorrow and had made me laugh. And he knew about it. He sat there with his hands around the cup smiling.

“So, what is it, lad?”

“I uh… Just can’t seem to be able to find any motivation to write. I think I already used all I had to give.”

“That be so? Might I ask you a question?”

“Other than those two? Yes.” I made him cackle.

“Who are you?”

Who was I? I told the man my name. He listened and kept silent while taking his tea up to his face and drinking some of it.

“Glad to meet you. But again I’ll ask. Who are you?”

“Well. I just told you. I’m me.” I responded, perhaps a bit too harshly.

“That much I got, but who are you?”

“Wha- You- Are you serious?”

“So much so my beard will soon fall off. Who are you?”

“Like I said. I’m me. I am a writer. I’ve lived almost five years in this neighborhood. I’m single.” He stopped me there.

“You say you’re a writer. But are you? Do you truly believe yourself to be one? One who says is what he thinks he is and believe it to be so then he will be. But if he says is what he think he is and believes it to be so with doubt in his heart will never be. You be giving it too much thought. We are all created with a purpose. A gift. But we doubt it. And when doubt is the one constructing the path, we lose it.

“You’re trying to label yourself. And that’s alright. That’s how you’re defining your gift to yourself. But there’s the thing. You’re losing yourself, your identity. Your first answer was correct. But you did not believe it. You are you. You’re unique. You are your own voice, your own presence; you are an instance in the universe that holds an identity alongside a gift. But you must believe it to be so. So it can be so. Believe. That’s all you must do.”

The man then ate his pastry. He shared part of it with me, even when I politely declined. What he had said confused me more than what he thought helped. He then thanked me for the company and took his leave. When I realized I hadn’t asked him for his name, he was far gone.

“I am an instance of myself?”

I pondered that question for an entire week. Each day, I would go down to the shop looking for the kind man, but he would not appear. Each day the question grew. And with the question came possible answers that I would write down on my notebook without paying much attention.

After two weeks passed, I went down to the shop once again, hoping to see him. And again, he was not there. I opened my notebook again. There were possible answers and thoughts to write, and then I realized all the pages marked with ink and glyphs. I had written! After so long, I had gotten myself to write!

And I understood then. I am an instance of myself. I must believe on what I love for it to work.

I began to laugh loudly. The cafe was beginning to get full. And I’m pretty sure I might have scared some customers away. But I had finally understood. I lifted my eyes and turned to look outside through the window, and there amongst the busy crowd that ran back and forth with errands I saw the bearded warm smile staring at me from the other side of the street. I waved at him to come and at that exact second he got lost in the crowd. He simply vanished.

I won’t lie. I began to cry senselessly. I understood who it was at that moment. I had tea with a special person. One that broke the veil of desperation and depression and allowed the light to pour in. I was thought a lesson.

But the biggest price of it all? I had tea with God.