Another lazy Thursday spent sitting inside the tiny cosiness of my favorite gallery-turned-cafe.
The decor is as eccentric as my grandmother’s house, except that somehow, in the clash of colors and the excessiveness of patterns, there’s a certain beauty that my grandmother couldn’t quite bring out in her own place.
The long open doors and big lace-covered windows of the little cafe look out onto Rainbow Street many decades after the streets intital fall from glory. The cars that pass are probably heading to Books@Cafe a few turns away or Wild Jordan down the road. The mosque two buildings down insists on cranking up the volume of the radio way too loud for the call of prayer. People of all ages, colors, and sizes are making their way with their carts and supplies to the alley around the corner, getting their stalls ready for Friday’s weekly flea market. There’s even an ice-cream cart being rolled, how many tongues will feel this icecream melt deliciously tomorrow?
My thoughts are suspended by a question from those around me, “What’s on your mind?”
My mind spins a thousand tales, a thousand thoughts, a thousand questions.
Why is there no balance between my ability to lose myself in detail that only belongs in my mind and my inability to concentrate on details that other people consider so easy to take in?
My friends insist I will end up a Mazen. Scary thought.