When I used to browse for new books on Sentinel Street and Borant Avenue, a specific gift shop would grab my attention. It stuck posters of the same font on the front door all the time, Times New Roman, splashing some serious tone onto an almost forgotten little shed sitting on the intersection of two quiet streets. “Economy is booming!” “Our great future…” “Restore faith in yourself,” — a collection of exciting quotes motivating no audience whatsoever. These posters were almost completely free of wrinkles, carefully glued onto a tinted wall with some fresh paint over at one corner and scabs on another.
The owner’s loud manner and determination to present himself as a diligent guardian of this resort town led me, not so willingly, to the fascination that he once enlisted himself into a war he didn’t believe a bit in and returned with desperation nobody can combat, nor anyone to cope with. Shy of traffic, it would be absurd for him to declare his faith and longings well fulfilled.
At the corner of Haven Avenue, there is a burgundy stand displaying wool socks and linen sleeveless shirts at the same time. To the self-sufficient shop owners of this distanced resort town, it made sense to use the same catalog all-year-round. Every once in a while, they would change up the order that the items are displayed. The water bottle that says “I love vacations!“ were in front of the one saying “Best vacation ever :)” yesterday, and today the other way around. It occurs to me that this particular way of thinking is passed down from a time where decisions must be made even when not needed to show loyalty to a higher purpose one attached their identity to in order to live for the sake of living. A time where holding hands is soul-shattering-ly thrilling and therefore needs to be restricted so the boredom of the alternative reality is not exposed in plain sights, and when a family of three starts their day like this:
“William, how many cups of water have you drunk this morning?”
“One and a half precisely.”
“Well, you should work on that — two is certainly more ideal. It makes you more hydrated. And we all know hydration equips you to be a better soldier for our country’s great future.”
“Yes, mother.”
A good family friend of mine often complained that the city life he was forced into gives him too much anxiety. The mind, he would say, is too busy, and life even busier. I don’t have any energy for anything, not to mention the four figures sum of some monthly bill I barely used properly, or as I thought I would, at least. He says that he wants to live somewhere quiet, somewhere people won’t ask him how his day is going or remind him that his shoelaces are untied, an artistic choice. Information overload drains me, he says, I need to tidy up my mind — everything is so messy, just like his shoe laces. This could be the very reason that the shop owners displayed their few goods in such organized order even when there was no mess to stress with.
The shop owners and my friend all struggled hopping between black and white: too busy to be organized or too bored to be motivated. They need to rest their mind somewhere, and off they go: inventing some mess invisible to most eyes but unbearable to the few desperate to see. I imagined dialogues with my friend like this:
“Let’s say you take a week off — fully paid, of course — and go live in those mountains saved on your Chrome tabs. How would you feel?”
“Super, super exhilarating — intrigued, even.”
“Alright — and after that?”
“What do you mean?”
“How are you gonna feel after that?”
“I’ll feel much better.”
“Are you sure? Or do you hope that you will even though you know you won’t? Are you holding onto a thought to make yourself feel more in control or actually finding a way to free yourself of the burden created by your very own hands?“
He would probably go in silence. After all, I just hoped that he could realize he can free himself if he wanted — what he felt is only problematic when he saw from the perspective he was in. In this gift shop, his bittersweet experience and reflections upon his pragmatic way of being could taste so much better.