Black Coffee and Cigarette Smoke

Last night I had a Facebook chat conversation with a friend - one who I haven't talked to a lot and don't know very well, either. It was close to dawn and I guess the conversation sprung out of the need to do something other than stare out into space while waiting for the arrival of the ever-elusive neend. It wasn't a trivial discussion. We exchanged condensed outlooks of life in our points-of-view and talked about how we thought fate worked. It was solid, intellectual stuff. As she tossed aside phrases such as 'men, museums and culture' I could not help but recognize an old soul in my verbal companion. In my overly imaginative, sleep-deprived mind's eye, I could even picture a young woman in an old-fashioned dress complete with a veiled bonnet mouthing those words at me, one finger tracing the brim of her teacup, a cigarette holder in her other hand.

Before I start sounding smitten, I'll move over to what really inspired me to write this post.

Towards the end of the conversation, I was told that, from the way I wrote, I could be the editor of some top-notch newspaper. Someone classy. And it was at that that my mind's eye went jittery and I experienced an almost palpable vision of myself in a crisp, grey suit, sitting at a handsome desk of polished, gleaming wood, a newspaper opened smartly in front of me and steam curling from a cup of black coffee sitting on the side. I could smell the aroma of the coffee and hear the hustle and bustle of people flooding the streets of Manhattan outside and the 'extra extra' of a boy at a nearby newspaper stand.

What struck me most was how there was an appeal to this no number of visions of myself peering into the depths of a microscope or mixing liquids in test tubes have had.

I guess what this made me realize was the fact that an infinite amount of possibilities lies ahead of me and I should not write off any avenues as closed. I am not untalented. I have promise. The world is my oyster.