Looking through the windows of this café, as the traffic rushes away, while I jot down words for my long pending Travelogues, there’s a flurry of thoughts that run through. Like the traffic outside.
Thoughts. My reveries, they stay. Unlike the words or the traffic.
I seek life’s answers. Not in a forest doing meditation nor staring through the meadows of mountains. Sipping the expensive coffee which I could make better at home, I dive down to try and brew my thoughts.
Remembering the conversations that never felt like one and the ones which still echo loudly. Word by Word. Ahh, stupid memories.
Then: I shouted through the roof. With my faults. Baring myself. I let it use the trumpets as well. I want to share my fault lines too. Perhaps they’ll meet somewhere some other time. With hers.
It never did.
Now: I could actually see through. See through the soul. The hollowness visible from the shades of her artificial self. Of thoughts tumbling down, making coherent noises, through an empty vase which looks appealing. From outside?
Maybe I like the vase. Or the hollow sounds. The different sound. The opposite. A positive and a negative, maybe?
What would a life be, if we had all the answers? If everything went according to “our” plan?
Boring.
We try to make it work. Try. That is all we can do. Try to make things work to our plans. Adjust to suit their thoughts, expect them to do the same as well.
Yet, we’d like to strive to make that happen. Try, Try and Try again. Not bad for Mortals. Right?
Or maybe I’m tired of yet another, Try.