Coffee shop life. I like the drink, but I like the company. Rather, I like the hope of company.
What is delivered instead is an ocean of unknown faces and a beachhead of granite; the bulk and masses and swells — a tide of people who I could know but never will know — as they crash against the immovable cult of personality that is the core of the gang of regulars, those who gravitate, those who boast, those who play host to the cranes, to the starfish, to the mollusks. To them go the gravitas, the potential best, the evaporated opportunities. To the rest of us: the grains of sand, the tidal pools, the washout. I miss the hope of talk, the warmth of meeting, the sense of feeling and listening and finding someone to play with. But no, the rocks, the boulders, the stones — the big egos — stand along the shore and take the waves, absorb the energy, feed their own lichen moss.
New friends would be good to have, good to know, good to catch before they crash upon the rocks and are lost forever to the spell of solidity, pride, boast. How can one know a future friend if they are listening to someone else instead?