In Plain Sight

Communal

The cold sucks out the warm inside as the door lets them conflict for a moment. It is not the first or last time the open door would come as it is a busy morning for coffee drinkers and pastry pundits. Watching those passing by through the large windows on the busy sidewalk along the busy street outside is a favorite pass time. One could stroll through a field of slipping hours guessing which will bring themselves inside the shop or just observing them go about their way. The spectrum of different personalities through the glass was a sight, but inside the comfort of the shop itself was group of faces differing from one to the next in the same manner. Perhaps the only thing that makes this group different is that they are affiliated with one another buy the walls in which they have all taken shelter here. Unsystematic are the people that pass, but in here there is at least one thin piece of string that touches them all. On the observations of a single day that string may seem as frail and imperceptible as tooth floss, but if given the time to watch the unique feet prints mark the floor you can see it differently. A footprint comes once, returns for a second time, then a third, and continues returning alongside many others in a similar manner. The time of day is understandably chaotic for some as it is precise and uniform for others, with all their own mannerisms and rituals orchestrating their symphony at this point of the grand show. Whether this little place is the stage on which they welcome their new day, the last retreat before they bow in to the night, or one of a thousand junctions in between does not dispel the connection. They all frequent the comfort as a group, unplanned and unknowing of how communal it all is.

As disconnected as the experience may be sometimes, we can never shake what brings us together. No matter how much smaller it may have become over time.

The World of Black and White

Writing has always been what I wanted to do. It gives me the chance to be creative in a multitude of ways and let’s me feel smarter than I probably am while doing it, That is not a feeling that can be replicated by anything I have experienced, and as such I’ve always found that it is my hole to retreat to. I figure that using my own personal means of escape may not make the best choice of career path, but I think it is worth noting that I do not experience any euphoria from writing; no rush or thrill for me in the act. It is simply something that makes sense to me and in that I find a kinship.

If there is one other thing to be said about writing and myself it is that I have always been afraid to pursue it on the chance that it reveals itself to be a dead-end. Imagine, if you will, that you prayed every night in faith that someone is listening. Would you ever like to truly know whether there is a god or not? Is it worth potentially losing the peace of mind and identity that your faith grants you? In this case I think I need to know. I need to know if this is anything more that a brief reprieve from the rest of the world. If it is nothing more than a placeholder for the “thing” I want to do with my life I’d rather confront that now rather than miss out on something real.