Café #2 – The Wake Up

I’m sitting in a café.

Through the window before me, I see a church built in 1843 surrounded by trees abandoned by leaves. The darkened stones of the church, and the hibernating trees, allows for an eery painting within the frame. I resonate with the feeling this view perpetrates. My chest feels tight like the claustrophobia I feel when I look at the tall spires of the church. My mind is a spindly and uncontrolled mess, like the branches and twigs stemming of the trunks of the trees. My breathing is short and in sync with the cars that drive past.

I’m sitting in a café.

Everyone else in this cafe seems relaxed, shoulders softening with every sip of their beverages. My spine is rigid. There is a man leisurely reading the local newspaper – every minute, near to the dot, he leans forward, takes a sip of tea and settles back into his armchair to read on. My tea is going cold. There’s a man sat in my favourite armchair duo, with his jacket over one of the seats to deter anyone joining him. I dislike this man for depriving me from one of the most comfortable seats.

I’m sitting in a café.

I am dreaming of the day I get sucked into a book. I wish for a one-way journey into a world where magic exists; where the rockstar falls in love with you; where adventure is freely accessible. When I was a child, I was convinced I was a witch. My name ran in sync with one of the most famous witches on a tv show called Charmed, so who was to tell me I wasn’t blessed with the same magic she possessed.  As a child, barely at 12, I possessed so much imagination and magic within myself that I believed that every potion or spell I created was true. It was creativity at it’s most raw and pure form – unadulterated passion.

I’m sitting in a café.

I have taken a sip of my tea, and it has softened my shoulders. The man sitting in my favourite seat has left. The tall, black armchair surrounds me in a different way to which the dark spires of the church claustrophobically smothers. As I sit down, I feel calm. I find my breathing return to normality, and my chest loosen with every bar of the jazz which is playing. I am now reliant on the strength of this armchair.

I’m sitting in a café.

I am now going to bring out my book. I want to find myself immersed in an imaginary world for a while. I don’t mind that I can’t stay in there forever, I just find comfort in knowing that there is always another place to escape to.

Café Series | Post #2 | Poetry #1

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