Sometimes while I’m writing here, I catch people watching me write. Sometimes it pulls me back to the cafe; I forget I’m here. I get swept up in my words and worlds, the area around the screen goes entirely black and I forget everything if only momentarily. I wonder if this is how other writers or artists create. Lose literal sight around them and become their world. Sometimes my hands fall away from the keyboard entirely and momentarily dance to music in my earplugs, bringing me back to some memory not in that world or in any; fall back onto the keyboard, vibrating through my fingertips and echoing what I will never know onto pages no one will ever read. It becomes the chase. It becomes my fugue. My masterpiece is an abstraction, an impressionist’s first poke on an empty canvas that, when looked at from a distance, is more distorted than when close. My head sways to the music and I feel like the pianist. My eyes close and I forget if I typed the ‘r’ or the ‘g’ frist but it doesn’t matter because my music is sielnt; mistakes my own. Sing through me now, onto this page, create storms, strike lightening and singe everything with honesty. Create my heart and even if unreadable, put down the words I need to s e e.
I can see why they stare now. I’m performing a solo act in the cafe corner. No applause. No bow. They go back to talking, or reading, or working or writing. Stiff. Hunched over. In their world. As I am, mine.
Around this time there’re only regulars. Most wears ear plugs and distance themselves from those here to talk. Some are on phones, others talk to their computers; others, like me, sit stone faced at a monitor, giving passing glances to everybody who wanders in hoping to find inspiration in their eyes. Sometimes it works. I look up and around often; I have no idea what kind of signal this is sending to the people in the cafe but sometimes it’s met with a flirtatious glance back, sometimes it’s met with a look of wonder, or irritation. Usually, when they pass, people look at my screen to see just what I’m up to. What’s causing me to look up so often, at them, at the cafe; “is he drawing us?” Most times I’m not, except for the nows that occur when I’m constipated and can’t come up with a single word to a story that I don’t delete 5 minutes later. It’s a frustrating process and continuously writing is the only way out. I’ll look to this short piece sometime in the future and become frustrated with it as well, it’ll go into the “shitty writing” pile with the other words so much like it and get opened once a year with one eye opened hoping the words somehow changed to include some kind of overall symbol, some metaphor or significance other than “I’ve got nothing”. Some of the people alter from computer screen to phone screen, punching in characters from a keyboard to those on the phone. Others are always studying for the same test, with the same book, with the same glossed over face of general apathy thinking of the millions of places they’d rather be. Here we all are, together in our mutual confusion. I can’t write. They can’t focus. She can’t study. He can’t help but stare at her ass.