Looking through the French Window

At times I wonder why sitting in my room behind a closed door makes me feel so calm. I seem to like to keep myself locked away, ironically from myself. And that too not merely to find myself, but to be alone with my thoughts.

These thoughts are what get me going. And at the same time, these thoughts are also what make me want to run away from these the next day. I try to avoid these thoughts throughout the week. I try to tell myself that my life is okay. That it turned out pretty great. However, when I think, alone with my thoughts on a Sunday afternoon, I do not agree.

I do not think things are fine, that life has turned out great. I think about the things I could have had, I think about what life could have been like, had destiny not interrupted. Or rather how it might have turned out to be, had destiny responded as I wish it should have.

It does respond. Occasionally it does. I won't complaint it doesn't happen because it does. Or at least, so we are led to believe. It just doesn't respond at the right time, under the required circumstances.

I wish I had that...instinct. To second guess myself, second guess others, second guess destiny and do that perfectly. I seem to have lacked that instinct, if not the courage to want to do that. Mostly I admire people with instinct. Those who not only observe but get to know what is going on. At times I feel jealous. I want to share a similar experience. However, that rarely happens to me. The world outside of my head, feels like a different world, which I can see through a large clean full length French window. I see them, I see things, but I fail to understand these, and not because of lack of trying. I seem to have now started accepting my fate, on being on the opposite, unreachable side of that French window, of observing from a very thin distance the world outside. I have stopped looking for a door or a way out.

However, I wish if someone could reach out to me instead, from the other side. Notice that I sit there waiting, observing, trying to keep myself busy in a tiny coffee shop, fiddling with a pen at the table, not even looking for a paper, just looking from time and again at the French window I try throughout the rest of the week, to avoid. I mean, I don’t even drink coffee. Yet I find myself in a coffee shop every day.