In Continuum.

In the Cafe, My Reverie

(Warning: This entry makes no sense at all.)

Start of reverie.

Did you know that more than 17 million people are affected by the fear of the myth of Friday the 13th according to The Stress Management Center and Phobia Institute, and that it's been estimated that [U.S] $800 or $900 million is lost in business on this day because people will not fly or do business they would normally do? Of course not, because not a lot of people would type "Friday the 13th" into the search box at the top right of your internet browser and look through Wikipedia for the origins of the myth itself - save for me. And today, of all days, I decided to check out the history of this mysterious day on the day itself.

It is Friday the 13th today, and I found my way to the local cafe once again. To be honest, whoever that has a phobia about the Friday the 13th must be the same bunch of people who are afraid of balloons and mustard. I don't see what the fear of this day is about anyway, and walking on the streets at Gardens almost made me wish that a plane would crash into the nearby estate, or a meteorite would smash through the rows of terrace houses, or something. In contrary, everything worked as per normal, everything looked the same. The hawker centers were bustling with life as the day closed in towards the night, and the restaurants were receiving their own fair share of customers. Tucked in the little corner of this circus is my favorite cafe, the same cafe I wasn't so fond of only months before.

It's like a bad hair cut that grows on you the more you look at it. With every visit to this cafe, the smell and the atmosphere grows in you. People prefer their cafes to be quiet, peaceful and would probably ask for a little privacy. But this cafe's a little different in the traditional sense. It's a little noisy, and because of the size of the outlet, the sound tends to echo off the concrete walls easily. It's probably not the best place to be if you seek some serenity in the neighborhood. But being the closest cafe to my house(Ten minutes away), I haven't got a choice despite the dreadful air-conditioning that I suspect to have been calibrated by the Eskimos. Their 'cooling' is probably our 'freezing', and that cafe has that setting mistakenly inputted.

I used to hate the temperature, but to day I learned to appreciate the way it makes my fingers turn pale, and the way it forces me to retract my arms into my t-shirt to keep myself warm. It makes you feel like you are in a different country, or a dimension somehow, and the giant glasses on the sides act like a big bubble, distinguishing between the world you came from and the world you are in now. It mildly satisfy my hunger to run away from this country, to buy a random ticket and fly to anywhere. It's ironic, to have the television advertise the 'greatness' and 'excitement' in Singapore, trying to lure the tourists to stay for a little while longer while the locals - like me - are trying desperately to get out. At least in this bubble-like cafe, I find my momentary bliss away from the humid world that I've grown so used to.

In this cafe also, the air used to smell of memories of the distant past. Like stale cookies in a jar, even the most tasty ones can grow foul to the nose and become repulsive. A shadow in the corner, the lingering conversations in the air, the deja vu of incidences, they all amount to the smell of nostalgia that lingered in the air. That was perhaps why I never liked that place too much - in the past. But today, I learned to appreciate the smell of that cafe, and seeking through the layers of memories I found other depression auras in the air, some even deeper than my own. Unlike shady bars and pubs, the people here are always depressed in a sober way for some reason - or so it seems. I smell coffee beans in the air, blended with those the scent of chocolate and vanilla powder instead of the smell of hard liquor and wine, or the smell of vomit from a drunkard's failed attempt to test out his capacity for alcohol. I have no idea why, but the cafe always gives me a sad feeling, like the way a prison can never truly be a happy place for anybody. Or is it just the piece of sky above, weighing down on me so?

There was a strange desire to have somebody see through my thoughts, to know them without the need to have me speak my tales. These empty seats, I only needed one to fill the other three. Just one, but there was none to do so. Perhaps I am too traumatized to socialize now, or am I trying too hard to do so? That is probably it, that is probably why the following encounter caused a rather violent thought in my head.

Sitting on the far end of the cafe, the pink hair band rudely interrupted the incredible shine in her jet-black hair. The coffee must have already turned cold by now, the stained inner surface disrupted only the transparency of the tall glass but not the illumination of the girl. She sad there with her head bowed low, reading and writing something too far away for me to see. Her jacket was worn in the opposite direction, leaving her back still exposed to the harshness of the air-conditioning above. Those evenly toned skin shimmered underneath the lights that casted down from behind her, and the way she leaned forward into her papers and books made her seem as if she was studying her own shadow. The black jacket slipped down along her slender arm, revealing an olive green sleeveless top, and the beautifully shaped shoulder blades that jutted out like hidden wings.

She came towards me where the bathroom was, and we made eye-contact for that split second. The rush of wind as the heavy door opened blew her perfume towards my face, and for a moment I wondered if she saw me at all - of course she did. I wondered what was on her mind then, seeing the horrendously dressed self in my white t-shirt and shorts. I wondered what she thought I was doing as I scribbled line after lines of indecipherable words in the cafe alone. Despite it being just a split second of visual communion, I had the urge to excuse myself from the cafe and vomit the coffee out in the grass patch just ouside the entrance. The idea that she saw me suddenly became very repulsive, because for some reason I felt that I stained her beauty and innocence.

Somebody explain this to me, because I hardly understand myself any longer. What has this heartbreaking experience just barely a month ago done to me, I have no idea. But it changed something in my head, so much so that a mere sight from a woman would cause me to have the urge to puke my guts out. It must be the weight of the air above my head, or something in the air that was making my stomach to somersaults. But whatever it was, as the girl returned to her seat, I packed up my books and left the cafe for good.

After reading this, please do not ask me what the hell I just typed because I wrote most of the above down in smudged ink inside my notebook, and I haven't the faintest idea why I did so then. Reading back, I confuse myself sometimes, and wonder if the I actually left the house this afternoon at all. Somebody must have left the house, because I could taste coffee in my mouth and the rental DVDs are on my table right now. But that person, the very same person who wrote those notes in the notebook, wasn't me.

And I being too cryptic? Am I being strange right now? I feel like I am making a sauce for pasta with my brain instead of tomatoes by smashing it into pulp. I hardly understand the words that I am writing, typing, saying, whatever. Mr. Hiatus, you are back to tempt me again aren't you? Perhaps this time, I might give in. Perhaps.

End of reverie.