Just another day. Another mark in the sands of time. Whatever that means. Makes me feel like a grain of sand, a small speck without much of a future. If that’s any indication of what this day is going to be like I think I’ll pass. If I must brew one more pot of coffee, if I must say another insincere hello, if I must be burned by that blasted tea water, then let this be the last day! I don’t know how much more of this monotony I can take. It pays to be an actor, no matter what they say. In this job how can you not. Outwardly your voice is sweet and charming; but the inner self is another story. “Hello how may I help you?...oh my word not another line out the door… “Is there anything else for you?”…will she ever leave?... “That will be $3.85. You want a pastry as well? Warmed up and on a plate? Alright I’ll have that right up for you.” …holy cheese I need a drink… “Oh you want to change your order?” …I could strangle a kitten right now… Every day the same routine. This could get ugly. On and on I go and yet what end do I ever reach? The people must be watered! The cloudy skies match my mood…I am so alone, haunted by the dreams of old…A bit of poetry always escapes my lips when my mood matches the weather.
I will never be rid of the dank smell of stale coffee. It lingers no matter how many times I run those clothes through the wash…oh to be free, free like a bird…I look outside and wonder when I will be free, free from the demands of others. Free to be selfish and to seek my own personal refreshment. Free of that apron the confines me to the name embellished upon it. Ah what a life we lead. I feel a bit of the poet escaping again…
Then suddenly I do feel a bit of life returning in the meaningless monotony of the day. I feel a little shimmer of hope return. The joy of familiar faces and happy hearts brings a slight beat to my step. I sigh a few times, shake my head and laugh sadly at the day. Laugh at what it has brought me, what it hasn’t; the strange coincidences that follow me about…on this cloudy day, life, in all its monotone ways brought me a glimpse of the future. This may seem silly to someone on the outside…someone who can’t hear the inner monologue of the poet, but to me, it makes (almost) perfect sense. If I revealed this to you the mystery would vanish and that small bit of joy from the day will disappear and I will have nothing to keep me going…until I must once again retie that apron, brew that coffee, and again wince as my hand is scalded…until tomorrow…
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