"Coffee Shop Observations 1" are writings created over an afternoon on 02/03/17
5.10pm - 5.35pm
The coffee shop has filled up again with a new batch of people, predominately wearing black. Everyone in the queue is laden with bags and dark colours, whereas most of us who are already seated have lighter colours on. I suppose we all have taken off our outer layers. Are our cloaks and outdoor skins always black? Will we hope to blend into the night, or into each other? I must make a point to spend a full day here. People-watching is easiest when your subjects are in motion. They may be seated, but they are still moving in their minds. There’s a bus to catch, another friend to meet, a dinner to make, a dog to walk. It’s already in place in their future paths, and no matter how still they are in this moment, they are traipsing towards the inevitable, pushed by their schedule. Or pulled, depending on how you look at it.
Within this example, we can assume anything of Push and Pull, they can be both positive negative. A push can be a drive, a way of lighting a fire beneath yourself to keep you dancing forwards. At least you have a plan, an agenda that will not budge or shift, and therefore, you must be the one you moves for the good of everything. You are pushed. But of course, you can only be pushed so far, so fast, so much. You keep running from that fire you’ve built and, by the odds, you will trip and go flying into a cavern nobody could have foreseen. Because all you know is the fire, or more specifically, the fear of fire. Suddenly the fire is all there is, a raging furnace pushing you to ruin because it knows more than anything, it can make you run.
The pull. Perhaps we all feel the pull, even if it doesn’t register consciously. Somewhere between your pelvis and the root of your tongue, there’s an invisible cord, small but strong. Maybe it is attached to thousands of points inside you, or maybe it’s just one thick knot you can feel shifting throughout your body. Call it ambition, call it fate, it’s this curious connection which seems to tug you in the right connection, even when you’re sleeping. Feeling the pull is like a guiding light, like it’s very existence is proof of a higher order of good, bad and everything in between. Why else would you be pulled? It must be the way things should be, right?
Then there’s that other pull. I guess I can bring up schedules again, but really any concept we can rationalise can pull at us, regardless of if we trust the tug. It’s the kind of pull that makes us feel our skeletons are being slowly torn out of their limiting flesh casings. The kind that doesn’t care if you resist, because hey, guess what, buddy? It’s not about you. This pull is relentless much like the fire, except there is no light or warmth. It is dragging you, intensely and feverishly, into the rocky trail of repetition and monotony, and into the deepest possibility that you will never be able to untie that knot so tangled in your stomach. It may even sense you don’t have the energy to try. So it pulls. We are pushed. We are pulled.