It’s 7 in the evening but today, the sky seems a bit darker than usual. The city of lights is under heavy downpour and has drowned in darkness. The birds have departed home and the sapphire sky makes the view breath taking.
I’m standing in the gallery as I gaze at this world which seems so peaceful, is yet so hustled bustled. The girl next door is yelling jocundly as she plays in the rain. At the same time, the aunt next door screams as the rain water enters her house.
The pedestrian looks scared to death as the thunderbolts and lightning flash across the sky. At the same time, the boy in the park ogles with sparkling eyes at the dew drops on the rose, thinking about the love of his life.
Everyone is present here on earth. But some minds, like mine, are wandering somewhere far far away. In a whole new world full of fantasies we wish were realities. And that’s the saddest part about life: it’s mere reality. I always wonder why imagination had to be so much better, yet so very impossible.
My world seems beautiful. Not because the downpour does not flood my house to some extent, but because in my world, he stands right beside me. And with his presence, everything seems much more beautiful.
He stands right beside me. I’m not in his arms. We haven’t hugged each other. We aren’t talking. We aren’t smiling. We just stand in the shear silence, lost in the beauty of world. I don’t know what he’s thinking. He’s probably admiring the view as he supposes I do too. And yeah, I do admire the view. But not the sapphire sky or the pouring rain. I’m admiring him. His hazel eyes that sparkle every time they light upon me. The ear to ear smile, probably the brightest that can ever exist. The cheeks that instantly turn rosy when they’re speaking to me. The glossy lips that curled up when he was late on our first date.
There’s so much to admire in him. The pilot inside him that dreams to touch the sky. The boy inside him who struggled his way through high school just because his grades are more important than his dreams. The adorably romantic teenager beneath all those crazy diplomatic layers. The true patriot so desperately trying to put his flag up high. The heated debater who freaks out at every stupid thing I say. The true version of himself at 2 am in the night. So much to admire, so much to love.
I go on admiring something I thought only existed in my imagination. All of a sudden, I feel this hand around my shoulder, drawing me closer. I move towards the imaginary figure next to me, trying to put my head on his chest. But in that very second, I realise I have nothing to rest my head upon. That chest isn’t mine to lay my head on. Those hands don’t wrap around my shoulder pulling me closer. That admirable figure does not stand next to me.
All this happiness is mere fantasy. And happiness in fantasy is pain in reality. Because reality is more bitter than black coffee. And that’s why some of us love black coffee. Because we are aware that everything isn’t made of sugar, spice and everything nice. Because we know that somethings are just made of pain, pain and pain. But you know what, it’s better to sip cappuccino once in a while. After all, cappuccino and imagination make everything fine.