Nothing Comes from Nothing
I woke up at 7 yesterday to see if I could feel something — anything.
I, then, went to the bookstore at its first welcoming to the day to search for an early morning coffee shop date.
I was faced with two options (as I had narrowed it down to): Charles Bukowski or Sylvia Plath.
Perhaps my options were merely narrowed to madness, for it’d merely been between unhinged or desperate.
I knew I chose right when I was faced with a bold typewriter font: the tragedy of the leaves.
I blinked and found myself sitting outside of the cafe of my choosing (they had the A/C inside set to freezer), under a tree of deep emerald leaves with jagged edges.
I chose unhinged.
I chose, as they called it, a candied almond shaken espresso.
The smooth espresso shown promising of more enthusiastic days — I haven’t felt a thing since last Thursday.
My latte shown as a disappointment — amaretto, or as I call it, almonds soaked in cough syrup.
I paired it with an apricot pastry, using the tangy preserve as a film to numb my mouth of the taste of ill-conceived almonds.
An ant visited me at my wooden table — I made a deal with him that if he left my pastry in its solitude, he could stay.
God, I can’t stand amaretto.
I looked up from my writing and reading — a pouring of heart and a seeking of another's — the birds flew in symphony to distant sirens and my idea of a fall playlist.
I decided, with this playlist, I wanted it to resemble fall in its essence — calm and hopeful.
I’m still waiting to feel the same in my entirety.
The remnants of my pastry took the shape of a heart.
Lately, I realized that I have no idea what anything means anymore, and that terrifies me most.
When I left the grocery store in the late morning, an older woman spoke to me (and I quote):
“You are a beautiful lady; you stand up so tall.”
I thanked her and went on my way.
I was wearing platform shoes and had been sucking in my stomach to hide my pastry from the world — maybe that’s the secret of beauty…maybe beauty looks different to everyone, and maybe there are nuances of love as much as there is hearts.
I think beauty is a good book you can’t put down — its continents are what captivates me and keeps me.
Whether hardcover, paperback, or a little damaged, I don’t mind, I just desire something to motivate me to get passed the introduction.
Once upon a time is a good place to start.
I have a habit of skipping any work that needs to be done fundamentally, like an introduction.
I started back up again on my French-learning, hoping to visit Montreal and Nice in the near future.
I realized that my French failed me in Paris last summer because I bypassed grammar.
And language without grammar is like a nicely polished book without the story or a beautiful being lacking depth — bland and empty.
Or perhaps it be a vintage skirt thrifted in Paris with the tag gleaming of made in Italy —incomprehensible.
I say Je voudrais in the most American accent I could fathom — not like I have a choice.
As I to a skirt made in Italy, found in Paris, the French also asked how I’d gotten there.
I’ve also been researching on the fundamentals of sewing.
I found myself at the craft store the other evening — I never felt so enlightened by fabric.
I also never realized how beautiful clothes are — from the stitch to their buttons — and I can’t wait to indulge myself in such handy, detailed art.
I love to use my hands.
Today, I’ve been inspired to use them to make avocado hummus again.
It’s delicious, I hope you get a chance to try it some time.
