On Uncertainty and Expensive Coffee

Here I am sitting at a crowded coffee shop in a touristic part of town. Like the ultimate wanderer, I carry my laptop, my clothes from the day before, random toiletries, worn off makeup on my face. My hair has been shaped and glued by sweat, rain, and exhaustion. I wear black, hoping to blend in and get away with not looking like the overnight mess that I feel right now. Being anonymous and getting a bit lost gives me a thrill; yet, uncertainty and solitude come to get me at times. You certainly know they are there once you’re on the last tram to your hostel bunk bed, the city lights flickering in the rain, people sitting at bars, walking around, talking on their phones, heading to a party. Unlike them, I feel like a loose end in this endless network of people and possibilities. 

If a city is a piece of poetry, each individual somehow fits into at least one of the words in the stanzas of this complex poem. I haven’t found the words for Amsterdam yet; I am not sure if I could ever live up to be described by one of them. Uncertainty keeps me waiting, and I question am I waiting for some more torrential doses of that same drug? Yes, I call it a drug. Being uncertain of things makes you act impulsively. Trying to take as much in, while making sure that nothing is tied into constancy. After all, there’s no purpose for an anchor on a ship which is still lost at sea. And like that very ship, trying to envision a safe harbor is impossibly delusional most of the time. Back to the thought of uncertainty being one of the naturally inherited drugs of our generation, that “safe harbor” plays out as purpose. A lack of purpose in one or many aspects of daily life action is the very ground on which uncertain minds are more receptive to craving and abusing drugs. Uncertainty’s prospects are rather blurry, although they are quite comparable to a comedown from drugs: that end scenario often being one of blissful enlightenment or one of total despair and waste. To throw in some more into the equation, there’s nothing like coming down in a city you 1) do not live at 2) have some abstract plan of moving to 3) are stuck at for 12 hours. In the melody of the awful cough from way too many cigarettes from the night before, your palms sweat as you walk half alive through the day-lit streets flocking with people who unlike you, have somewhere to go, someone to be with, something to do besides wandering from bench to bench, art exhibition to exhibition, from Burger King to Starbucks.

I am a stronger believer in people’s auras, and everyday, I can really sense which one my body and mind have decided on. The way you feel really influences the way people perceive you. Today I felt like I was evoking a grungy sense of danger and self induced decay, all wrapped in an all black ensemble and topped with a leather jacket heating up in the faint sun. I do not want to be approached. Or deep inside am I wishing the opposite? Absorbing a place and its people as a voyeur is one of the most valuable experiences one could have. But it’s also one of the most exhausting, demanding ones. Try being by yourself while still having the pressure to be a more polished version of yourself. A version that people can actually look at without seeing right through you and imagining a sample of all the s**t that you’ve done the night before and all the toxins rushing through your head and peeking out in your worn off face and distant eyes winged with some leftover black eyeliner. 

Wandering around like this in such times is actually a luxury. Although the disturbed, penniless artist persona is trying hard to be there in all aspects, this for sure would not work when a sole americano is 3 euros. Oh the irony. I sip the last drop of my now cold coffee, as my laptop dies slowly. One more f*****g hour to go, I mentally whisper as I sit around in my post intoxication limbo.