Two months into my job in advertising, and I am more artistic now than I have ever been in my entire life. It's not that the job provides me with venues for creativity. It does not: I am not in creatives, so I am not supposed to be creative. But I don't know. The whole working experience has somehow rekindled the passion for writing that I had long feared lost. And here's when I realize that there might be some purpose to me sticking out this job after all.
Every morning, before I step into the office, I spend an hour or so in a coffee place, scribbling disjointed words on the office-supplied intermediate pad that has become indispensible to me. Last week, my regular companion was a tall cafe latte in the Starbucks two blocks away. When my dad learned of this, he pointed out, in no uncertain terms, that it was not economical to spend, on a daily basis, that much money on a mug of coffee and a place to write my thoughts down.
Upon his suggestion, therefore, I decided to look for another place. I settled on this quaint cafe that is right across my office building. Jackpot. The ambience here is terrific. The tables are clay orange, and the bare cement floor is sprinkled with dull Mediterranean tiles. The waiter is attentive but not pushy. The songs, and there are only four of them, are Christmas-y and mellow without being annoying.
And speaking of songs, it's a bit ironic that I spend my mornings with melodies and my nights with rock. For the past how many days, I have been basking in Green Day's "American Idiot." Favorites there are "She's a Rebel," "Holiday," and "Boulevard of Broken Dreams." "Jesus of Suburbia" is cool as well, but I'm not quite sure if it's blasphemous, so I'm suspending my preference for that. But I digress.
On the coffee place again - the best seats in the house are mine. For two days now, I have been parking myself on a table for three that is right beside a floor-length window that allows me a full view of an almost quiet street. And the best part is that my ticket to stay (also known as the bottomless cup of coffee they serve) costs me just 50 bucks. Not bad at all for a place where poems are written and poets are born.
Well, I'm not sure if the poet in me has been born yet, but I have written a few lines. Mostly haiku (don't ask me why), but I've also started work on longer poems, as well as essays. I'll be posting them up here eventually or having them published (I wish!), but, for now, I am keeping them to myself. They're little children who can't stand alone just yet, so I've got to keep them close.
I am so glad to have finally settled on this routine. There's something almost romantic about playing the part, if not actually being, the budding poet who scribbles stuff down just because it feels right to her. After debate, this is the next instinctive thing that has inserted itself in my life. It's about time too. At this point, I desperately need something to look forward to.
Life does work in mysterious ways- in this most routine and uncreative setting, I am starting to realize that maybe, just maybe, I was born to be a writer after all.
