Everyday life, Faith, Uncategorized


The music is pounding in my headphones, which makes it feel a little like a dream.

I don’t know what the words are but I see their mouths moving and I imagine.

He’s happy to see her and his hands dance wildly, too wildly, in the air while he talks. His shoulders finally lower and his fingers wrap around the warm cup, eyes never leaving hers. It’s a surrender of sorts, and I bet he’s thinking about what it would be like to enjoy silence with her one day.

He’s in love.

You don’t need sound to know that.

Textbooks spill from tables while they stare at pages, trying to become whatever the studying will make them one day. Their mouths don’t move, but the pencils dance while they furrow their brows and wonder if they’re good enough.

If I had a guess, I would say they are.

And that woman. She comes here often and she always looks like she’s running from something. She settles into a chair, lifts her scarf to loosen it, and wipes the coffee spill from her novel. She’s lost in it, and I imagine it’s because it reads better than whatever waits for her on the other side of the glass. Something in her eyes tells me she’s been made a fool of, and she doesn’t save a chair. Not this time, not ever. I can’t tell if she’s lonely or grateful to be alone. Probably both, I guess.

There are a few brave souls outside, no doubt chilled to the bone. One couple stares, each in a different direction, and never says a word.

They don’t have to. There’s space between them, and the bitterness is palpable. I don’t know why they’re angry-I doubt they know. The motion of life has pushed them under, and they don’t remember how to dream anymore.

I can’t help but wonder if they’re just happy to feel something.

It’s not too late, I almost whisper…

He’s reading a book about Truman in a sport coat today. He’s always in the leather chair, always with non-fiction, never a stranger to anyone.  He strikes up conversation with whomever sits beside him, and as he smiles gingerly, anticipating the words,  I wonder if he’s waiting for someone. Maybe every day he sits, wondering if she’ll come and never leave. One more day drifts to “not today” while his fingers fumble with the pages and another car leaves.

I have never been accused of having a lack of imagination, that’s for sure.

I can’t hear it now, but I know there’s laughter. There are hands on shoulders, children tapping the pastry window, and memories recollected. I need the music louder, louder…until everything moves just so.

And when it does, I see exactly what I need to in order to take another step, and I feel the weight of it deeply. It catches my breath, soothes my soul, flushes my cheeks, and I let it move me the way it wants to.

We are, every one of us, just like them.

We wait, we dream, we chase the warmth of the right words, and we sip slowly, wanting to taste every moment, clinging to the way it burns while it slips down our throats.

And in the event that you should wonder, there is a girl here as well. She doesn’t sit in the same seat when she comes because she would rather let it be new. That’s what she prays, at least.

She pretends she has words when she knows there aren’t any, and she watches. She hides here amidst the chaos because it makes her feel less lonely. Her keyboard is her confidante and her tears taste the cup she has been drinking for hours.

Is it only hours?

It feels like more.

She spends her days watching, writing, waiting…

And more than you will ever know, she is broken.

The soles of stranger’s shoes and the way they tip their heads ignite stories in her, and she remembers the reason she watched in the first place.

Because years ago, more years than she can count, she heard a voice when there was only darkness.

It was, to her, a promise that she would never be fully alone again.

Eyes heavenward, she drank it deep, savored it fully, let it bring her the life-breath she was gasping for.

And even now, she remembers.

And above all else, she chooses to believe it.

“Tell your story, love. And when you do, they will certainly hear theirs…”


{May it be, Lord…}




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