“I like my lattes without sugar; thank you very much,” I said, before realising that statement of preference was about as necessary as the roots of a rose. I grabbed my coffee, and sat down under the false ceiling sprinkled evenly with the multicolours of Christmas cheer. It was a simple wooden chair, made cold with mass-production and an over-reliance of air conditioning. In front of me, a computer merely a few years old, yet betraying me at every click. And so there I sat, on that warm December Day.
I thought again about the roots of a rose, those parts so essential to the development of such a powerful symbol, yet discarded every time before the symbol is presented. I thought, “Maybe this would be a good symbol to use for some future poem.” before accepting that any poem about roses would probably be detrimental to my mental health. I stared blankly at the screen, thinking about everything that has been said before about what I write, about how much I had complained how difficult it is to break out and get your work seen, about how much effort I had poured into this pastime while constantly thinking that my work is utter garbage. Inspiration came like the holiday cheer: hard-hitting, and yearly. Or so it seemed. With no possible avenue for me to be taken seriously, and with no motivation to move on, I had no choice but to accept my incompetence and move on.
My next series of thoughts were directed straight towards my routine-driven life and the end of all routine coming soon. Some might liken one’s military experience to a rose filled with thorns, while others, like myself, liken it to the sinking of Atlantis. A probable tragedy with a lot of great stories. And while Atlantis was sinking, my Republic of Optimism went down with it. Filled with a constant bitterness, I had no choice but to accept that nothing good can come of anything unless I move on. Speaking of which, my coffee was a bit too bitter, which sucks considering coffee was my world.
The arctic ice was melting, and my coffee was getting more and more dilute. Ordering my latte iced was another regret to add to the list. In a dramatic turn of events, I went back, and added some sugar syrup, successfully suffocating any remaining resemblance of genuine café-loving vibes. “Some things I do don’t make a difference, and some things I say don’t have a point,” I wondered. While everyone worked on something meaningful, I worked on meta-writing and an unsuccessful WordPress poetry blog.
I would have gotten my latte without sugar no matter what I said. Self-service, they called it. I wish I could do myself a service. My words were like the roots of a rose. Pluck them away and the symbol goes to waste. But at least the pretty picture would still remain.