I met myself at a quiet café, he sat patiently, young and clear-eyed. I arrived late, weary from the day, years between us quietly implied.
He shuffled shyly, hands empty and unsure, so I ordered coffee, accepting fate. He smiled gently, sincerity pure, youthful curiosity unable to wait.
“Your suit is sharp, where’s it from, may I know?” “Bespoke,” I murmured, voice gentle, resigned. “I’ve chased bright dreams, always eager to go, yet shadows remained, trailing closely behind.”
“Do you still write?” excitement emerged, “At times,” I replied, “with a machine’s aid.” His eyes widened, curiosity surged, “Tell me,” he urged, intrigued yet afraid.
“It crafts words swiftly, flawless and neat, lines precise, but strangely confined. Yet beneath perfection, it feels incomplete, an emptiness lurks, something undefined.”
“But isn’t precision beautiful, real?” “Perhaps,” I answered, gaze thoughtful and worn, “Yet it lacks struggle, the power to heal, the bruised authenticity, of hopes reborn.”
“No struggles, no laughter? No hidden tears? No genuine pain or warmth in its voice?” “Exactly,” I whispered, facing my fears, “Its brilliance detached, void of true choice.”
His eyes sparkled knowingly, wise beyond years, “Then write from yourself, never relinquish control. Machines may dazzle but can’t grasp the tears, the nuances of life, felt deep in your soul.”
“They never know loss, the joy of surprise, or messy resilience shaped from despair. They’ll never reflect life’s truth in their eyes, though perfect, they’ll never truly care.”
A sudden intrusion – a fly gently landed, interrupting our thoughts, oblivious, still. We paused in silence, both slightly stranded, watching life’s simplest creature fulfill.
“Do you think,” he asked, reflective and slow, “That the fly can ponder, dream or perceive?” “Unlikely,” I said, yet unsure how to know, “But instinct guides it; perhaps that’s enough to believe.”
“But how can we say,” he pressed with intent, “That it doesn’t feel wonder, or joy, or despair?” I smiled at his wisdom, youthful yet spent, “Perhaps feeling life’s pulse is what brought it here.”
“Does it think,” he wondered, “or just simply exist? Do we give meaning to what seems too small?” “Maybe life’s purpose is not to resist, but to live freely, indifferent to all.”
He nodded in silence, thoughtful and calm, “Maybe we’re flies, searching aimlessly too.” I laughed softly, soothed by his balm, “Seeking purpose, uncertain and true.”
He glanced at our cups, then smiled faintly, bold, “You didn’t drink coffee – now it’s gone cold.” “You didn’t drink yours either,” I quietly told, he laughed softly, our reflections controlled.
“Why did we order coffee,” he quietly mused, “We never liked coffee – such a peculiar choice.” “I guess it’s what you order,” I lightly excused, “In a coffee shop, it’s fitting,” came my voice.
He paused by the door, voice gentle, sincere, “If dreams fade away, what comes after then?” I smiled, softly speaking to quiet his fear, “Then, my friend, we’ll dare dream once again.”
