it’s hard to write a blog post that doesn’t come out sounding like the juvenile whining of an ingrate when my life hasn’t been particularly extraordinary lately. the same old elements are there – love both unrequited and tried-but-failed, soul-draining work, hedonistic escapes – and the players are unchanged, which means it’s the usual spin and familiar selection of topics left for me to write about.
i’ve found it increasingly tiresome to watch and compose stories about the people who walk in and out of the coffee shops i sit in. they’re hipsters trying desperately not to blend in but being very successful at doing just that, young families hanging onto the remnants of their carefree youth, couples having brunch the way brunch should be eaten – with someone special.
it makes me all the more self-aware that i don’t fit into any of the above categories. i’m usually there on my own, feet tucked beneath me on the sofa nearest to the window, book in one hand and coffee in another. i’m seeking a few extra hours to myself, but once i get there i feel obligated to write a tale about the man gesturing passionately while talking politics with the faceless woman opposite him. or spin a tale about the men next to me, who are obviously the stereotypical “couple having sunday brunch” but are making an immense effort to disguise it.
the romance of having a heart etched into my takeaway flat white disappeared once i realised that every barista practices his/her craft in every espresso-based drink. the monotony of complaining about work leaves me more drained than the work itself. the constant worry about my parents’ health and dwindling lifespan. the despair of looking for passion and finding nothing there.
and so we’re back to the juvenile whining of a 28-year-old pretending to be a doctor.