Tuesday, November 30, 2004

a coffeehouse on carroll

She sat silently in a coffeehouse on Carroll Street. Contemplating. After yoga. Before a second cup of tea. Why did she always write about sadness? And why was “write” such a seemingly important word? The answers (if they existed) did not care to show, to whisper promises of a deeper, more restful sleep.

So, she just sat there. Thinking. And trying not to think.

Wondering instead about the boy who had most recently professed his love. And the boy who she was desperately longing for. And why neither boy was the girl of her dreams.

Even though she knew none of it mattered anyway.

That the ten thousand things are as they are and ever will be. Rising and falling and rising again. And all that was left was to watch their return.

And to mark the time by writing on sadness, which, she long ago realized, wasn’t so horrible, so scary after all. Sadness was simply the most beautiful, indescribably wonderful thing she could conceive of. It was intense and alive and awake. And real. And every person ever born could understand. Could relate. Could feel.

And so she wrote about sad things. Not because they made her sad, but because they were beautiful. And they made her exist—and (she hoped) made others exist also.

And that, she thought, is what it means when we say Together.


And then she finished her second cup of tea and biked home.


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