Observations from afar

My mind is empty. I cannot think of a single thing to write and I have nothing left to say.

2:34pm rolls around and the quietness I was sat in now broken by people finishing their school days and taking their breaks.

I watch from my usual table in the corner of the cafe that i inhabit; the clearly new intern, fidgeting with his nails as he waits to make sure he gets the regular order of sugar free, iced vanilla-cappuccino with soy milk correct, an elderly woman sat reading a newspaper from last week whilst froth outlines the side of her mouth. All the way to the fake smiles we give people, asking them how they are whilst in reality we really couldn’t care less because right now they’re holding up the list of tasks that have been set for the day.

I’ve noticed you as well, in fact I noticed you the most. Everyday I watch as you are rushing past making sure you get everything sorted whilst you’re out, then sitting down, ordering your coffee, taking a photo of it, only to then zone out into a world of your own accord. All whilst being unaware that I’ve seen you.

You never noticed me and not many do, see that’s how I like it. I’m not a fan of the facade people have developed.

Noone ever truly knows who someone is. Everyone’s life is their own story and they can choose how much to tell you and where to begin, the question is whether you know where they have begun and how much you really know about them.

Although there is a recurring theme becoming more and more popular within everyone’s stories, no matter whether you know their life from start to end or from the middle just to the start, trusting what they tell you is indeed what they have witnessed, is up to you.

I’ve become use to no longer pretending to be someone, everyday is repeated; wake-up, go about my day, sit in the cafe then go back to my flat. I’m a prisoner to my own routine and I can’t break free. I watch as a pigeon flies down, picking at leftovers then flies off and in a way I envy it, getting to go where they want, blending into the background of today’s noise but never having to deal with anyone. Returning to their latest collection of twigs, strings and miscellaneous items. That’s their sanctuary and this is mine.

You see everything in my life has a purpose and a meaning, take my shelves back home for instance, at first they are worn, discoloured shelves but if you were to take a closer look and really notice what was on them you will see that it is notebook after notebook, no variation between them. Small, black and leather bound. Each of them adding to the encyclopedia that is me. The only place where I can really confide in.

I have no social media accounts and no emails. I despise those places as they are just as bad as the outside world, everyone pretending to be some flawless version of themself.

Ironic isn’t it? A world where we are more connected than ever we are more alone. Only showing the highlight reels of our life and even then they have been edited.

Looking out the window I see street lights start to fade on and slowly handfuls of office lights start to flicker off, each window encasing a soul with their own version of a story that has been played and praised for the longest time. We live to work and the more money you have the better you are even if it’s not used. Which leads me to think that if there is one thing that I can say with certainty has always existed, it’s ego. Since the days when people were beginning to be segregated into levels of class, ego has always existed and occurs more everyday.

It’s the same theme with a different narrative.

Very rarely do people do something for the sake of humility, including yourself. See you may participate in an act which you think is selfless but it makes you feel good and you can tell others about it later, thus inflating your ego. If it’s not a selfless act it’s a post on social media, you let people see what you’re up to or how you’re dressed because their likes and their comments make you feel good about being alive. They’re not seen as real people instead it’s only the number. It doesn’t matter how many people you actually know that like your post as long as the number goes up, those people are just a statistic in society and another way to feed your ego.

I have seen it too many times not to notice it, every now and again people I once cared deeply for try to “save me”, they entertain themselves with the idea that by helping me they could be the hero and I would be forever indebted to them for taking me back. It’s not their fault they’re only doing what they think is best, but since that day, I have not cared to be close to them.

At times they would come into my room and rummage through my papers that are often decorating the mahogany desk, aimlessly trying to make conversation and relearning who I am, they would spin on my chair and taint my sanctuary with their presence, telling me story after story even though I had heard them before. I have come to learn that I am their stepping stone and by talking at me they feel better in themself. It’s something I should have realised sooner. They didn’t help me when I was younger and needed it so why would they genuinely care now.

I guess if you wanted to psychoanalyse me you could trace my ignorance back to my younger days, days in which everyone else has forgotten about and I only wish I could.

Although I can’t be entirely resentful of the past as it is what taught me that those around me are no more than the strangers opposite me on the train. The only difference is I know their names and I am supposed to love them because I grew up around them.

The truth is I once trusted everyone around me, I wasn’t as cynical as you may think I am. I changed when my Grandad died. I was 9 at the time, we were close and he treated me as if I was his own child, since my parents neglected to do that role. Only when he passed was it then revealed to me that he had been putting his pension in a savings account for when I was older. Knowing no better I let my parents help me with it. A couple years ago I escaped my inverted asylum, refuge and protection it was not. I had gone to the bank to withdraw the money so I could invest in a new flat to stay in, as i was reading over the bank statement it dawned on me that he had left me with $20,000. It wasnt much but it was enough to help me run further from my parents. the foundations in helping build up to the job and life I now have by myself

It took a while but I learnt that the best way to avoid being let down was to do things by myself and myself alone. This way I know what’s real and what’s not.

As a result of this I have found that I blend into the background often, my presence only being made to baristas and sales clerks. However not for long.

Being alone is something I am used to but I am never lonely, I preoccupy my time with meaningless thoughts and observations. I see everyone looking at their phones when I walk down the street, Little girls idolising plastic and trying to change their appearance from a young age. Little boys being shamed for having emotions and being anything less than masculine. I would continue to see mums take photos of themselves with their kids on days out, only to remain on their phone never actually interacting with what was right in front of them. It is this that furthers my gratitude for my lack of interest in socialising. Or lack of anything for that matter.

Until I crossed paths with you, it wasn’t due to you standing out from the crowd, you don’t. It was because I kept seeing you doing the same routine everyday. They say we are creatures of habit however yours were exact. I turned to face you from the opposite side of the room, leaning forward within my chair only noticing now that even the way you’re sitting with your shoulders rounded inwards, slouched over as if allergic to a straightened back was a common habit. I would watch when you would chat to people outside smiling, only to walk away leaving no trace that a smile was ever there.

I wondered how much I blended into the background or whether I had captivated anyone they way you had for me. I stood up and walked away looking at where I once sat, watching the barista look confused to see my black notebook left behind, looking around for who left it.

I believe that may of answered my question. There's only one question left for you; you don't know me nor my story just trusting that what i'm telling you is what i have witnessed.

do you trust me?

It’s 4:34pm

My mind is empty, the page was no longer blank and I have nothing left to say