From a cafe

She sat at the cafe, looking out at the falling snow. The mug in her palms was warm, hot almost. She imagined seeing the steam rise in streams, obscuring her vision. She imagined the snow coming down faster than it was. She imagined sitting in the same chair, in the same room, in the same position for the rest of the day.

The scent of the coffee was bitter, the taste sharp. She drank it down as quickly as she could without scalding her lips and throat. The day would begin before she could stop it. The skies would clear, and the sun would begin to show itself in long, angular rays bouncing off the tall buildings of her small, hometown city.

If they saw her, if they knew her thoughts right at this very moment, some of her friends would warn her of a pending depressive episode. She was prone to them, it was true. But today’s slow start and overwhelming feelings of disappointment were not symptoms of depression. If anything, today she was already falling prey to self-indulgence–the “woe is me” kind that comes after an evening of comparing one’s accomplishments to those of one’s friends. Or even to strangers, all of whom so often seemed to her to be much more accomplished, successful, happy.

She wasn’t worried, as she sat in the cafe, all of the empty tables surrounding her as the morning customers ordered their coffees and scones to go. She recognized what was happening. Regret. Shame. Frustration. She would fight the shutdown today. And she would persevere. But for now, as the window before her fogged just the tiniest bit in response to the invisible stream of her coffee’s rising steam, she would indulge. Wish. Think thoughts of “what if,” “if only” and “when.”

Tagged as: trying something new

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Sarah writes

I see her and I feel her. She has been me and I have been her. We visit from time to time. It’s bitter, usually, like the coffee. But I think I’ve learned to drink it down quick and move forward, too. Still…

Christine @ Coffees & Commutes replies: Do you know, often when I come here and witness your sisterhood it leaves me breathless.

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Charlotte writes

I find I need to have those melancholy moods from time to time. As long as they are just passing, they are kind of healing.

Privilege of Parenting writes

And in that space between “her,” and you, and me and patrons of coffee houses across space and time, between joys and depressions and connections and tumblings into isolation there is, like steam arising from human-warmed liquid, a vast Self that re-organizes us all into its common body and common sense, herding our stray emotions into the unruly herd of common angst and dread and love and longing… those reaching for the stars turn out to be our own finger-tips, our breath against the glass reveals our very own spirit and the secret words we’ve written there on that sometimes invisible plane.

Christine @ Coffees & Commutes writes

I know it well. And that’s just it. We all know it at some time or other, and the others to whom she compares herself have felt it too. That I know for sure.
xoxo

Cathy writes

I can hear the din, the clink and clank of silver and porcelain. And I can feel the mood. It reminds me of a paragraph I read in a McSweeney’s essay. You will like it:

“I thought about this essay a lot over the next few days, like he was beside me, equal parts familiar and strange. But the thing about life is that you simply cannot settle for melancholy, even when it’s true. You are a not a tragedy, you are a personal essay. You must rise above and you must do it in the last paragraph with basic grammar and easily recognized words.”

…But the thing about life is that you simply cannot settle for melancholy, even when it’s true.

www.mcsweeneys.net/articles/a-personal-essay-by-a-personal-essay

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