07:56 May 11, 2011

stop for a coffee

At my morning coffee spot behind a guy whom the cashier was flirting with with such abandon that she forgot how to operate the cash register. This further disconcerted her in the presence of a hot boy that she accidentally charged him an arbitrary amount, points to be worked out later after he left her morning. I wondered what it would be like to be her. Covering my paper cup with a plastic Solo-brand traveler lid, I spied the book she was reading. While I did not know the title, I judged the book not by its cover but its relation to the reader, ascribing to its words, its author, all of the facets of her witnessed through a typical moment's fumbling. I wondered why she read. Did she read because she enjoyed it or because it was a thing to do?

In my obsessiveness, I applied the same lens to myself. I once thought I had a good understanding of how things worked, at least from the point of view of a hyper-evolved monkey in an ephemeral civilization built on economies of imagined exhuberence. Now....less so. Why do I read books? Do I read them because I enjoy them or because they're a think to do? Have I fallen from some intelligent perspective and am now an artefact of what I was (likely) or was I just never that bright in the first place (also likely)? And what does it matter? Nothing has changed that the greatest relief in my life is that the universe is not my sole responsibility. So I learn to take solace in my inadequacies and insignificance