I spent a lot of time walking, thinking and ruminating on the past, my life and what an authentic existence looks like, means and should be. These are nothing new, I've spent most of the last 15 years brooding over these same principles. I've gone through ups and downs, found temporary respite and comfort, and thought I had sorted some of it out. However the same questions always return, the self doubt, the feeling of being lost, malcontent, and disillusioned with the rat race we surround ourselves with.
As I spent time in Bear Pond Espresso, one of the trendiest and supposedly best coffee shops in Japan, and quite possibly, the world, I wondered where I fit into that scene. There was a collection of people who came through those doors while I sat and wrote. Backpacking foreigners, high school girls giggling after school, trendy fashion focused Japanese youth with perfectly ripped jeans and tussled hair. The old men, with battered broad brimmed hats mixed in with middle aged women sporting Bear Pond Coffee bandana's and coin collectors. Some were clearly there for the coffee, some for the atmosphere, a sparse, barely decorated cafe with only a handful of seats and a "No Pictures" sign welcoming you on the counter. The coffee was good, I had a single source cup of black coffee, and after a latte which was made with 3.5% fat milk. Smooth, delicate and delicious. But how satisfying was that really? What kind of person was I, sitting there writing in a brand new journal, with a fountain pen, wearing modern kimono inspired clothes and vintage rimmed glasses. What mask was I wearing to blend into that space? How much of me was simply there to be seen, to be accepted, or to stand out? I felt a mixture of self loathing and comfort brewing within me. The coffee was accompanied with a sense of unease. I couldn't sift through my own emotions, my motivations. I couldn't parse what was real or imaginary in my own motivations. I wish I was brave enough to admit my own hubris. To be able, in moments of quiet reflection, to bring out my own inner demons onto the page, to lay them bare and see myself without compromise. But that image of me, vanishes at the slightest hesitation. It is enmeshed in clothes which make me stand out, habits that I don't even know if I enjoy, and a desire to be misunderstood and unique. I hate it, and yet I can't shake it. I've said it before, the worst part is that this is nothing new, it is the same problems, the same neurosis I've suffered through and carried through all stages of my life. Perhaps I need something radical, something extreme to break the spell, to pull back the curtain on this charade and tap into something authentic.
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