Caffeine Chronicles
Coffee, invariably classic, is an irresistible invitation. With every cup shared in that house that oozed the nostalgia of a past intertwined with your grandfather, the absence of your presence became painfully evident. In those moments, I would opt for milk, a choice of universal simplicity, yet rarely enchanting. Much like myself, perhaps. Sometimes, I too am capable of turning sour.
Do you remember when our voices entwined through those telephone wires when we were only 13? Were they years? Or were they dreams? We used to watch films that, in today’s world, would be mercilessly critiqued for their lack of subtlety. I feel as if I’ve become somewhat banal, immersed in perspectives fueled by a certain snobbery that reveals itself in unpretentious omissions. Why must everything be subjected to scrutiny, competition, the ceaseless pursuit of accolades? What a naive relief it is not to be the object of scrutiny! For if I were a candidate for any award, I would undoubtedly face defeat. I am devoid of originality, distant from brittle excellence.
It’s not that I like you, but I allow myself, unquestionably, to love you. I deeply desire that your existence continues, though secretly I wish for you to lose domino games repeatedly or for the varnish on your car to be worn thin in those narrow garages. Strangely enough, any other form of suffering that befalls you would cause me profound melancholy. Breaking news: Manaus has been shrouded in a smoke cloud since September. I smoke daily, but this time, it’s the trees that weep.
As I’m transported in a car that doesn’t belong to me, in a body that feels foreign, I reflect on how words disintegrate in my mind, fragmenting like pieces of a complex puzzle. “Impotent,” in its apparent fragility, reveals itself to be surprisingly robust, while “imposing,” in all its splendor, often conceals underlying weakness. Everything that appears to be, perhaps is, an incessant enigma. I can’t recall a single friend who isn’t held captive by the clutches of antidepressants. They say the youth are the future.
Today, I started the day weakened. Yesterday, I fell asleep with a sense of weakness. Today is Monday, and tomorrow will be as well. My weeks unfold like myself, in a chronic insomnia that torments my inner child. It’s like waking up and realizing I never truly rested. It’s me, every day.
I ardently wish to write like a friend, like a true writer. I aspire to paint like an uncle, whose brush strokes capture the essence of his creative soul. And I long to learn to mold ceramic pots with a beautiful young woman who recently crossed my path, a beauty that reflects in her art. I detest being merely an apprentice. If crawling is the best I can achieve, why do my eyes fill with dissatisfaction?
I hope you read this letter and don’t think I’m losing my mind, for in that case, we’d be in good company. Please don’t feel obligated to respond if you don’t wish to.
With exceptions,
S.
