Writings from a French Cafe

by anthony

Lately, I’ve been creating pages in my writing tablets.  Just a moment at the coffee shop, at a bar, anywhere, where I simply just write and create as much of whatever I can in various forms, patterns, etc, to fill up a complete page in one stroke.  I wanted to share one of these pages with you from my recent trip up north though, I have to confess, you will only get 50% of the enjoyment as the layout and art that accompanies it is worth the other 50% of appreciation.  Still, you can sense a feel of it.

The 5 writings from a French Café:


When one has gone years veering from the written word as I have,

finding the flow of exposing the soul becomes as arduous a task as

discovering one exists within me.

In “reality”, it is only four letters creating another word for the

puppeteer of my thoughts.

There are so many dark shadows,

so many twisted definitions of what and how I observe life to be.

I have often wished to be with someone, anyone.

And I seem to be quick capturing the attention of those I am

indifferent towards.

The rest, those of my real desire,

tend to bring about all my cowardice and fears.

It is always them who remind me of the insecurities I shy from.

There is such a stark contrast

between how I know I should accept life kharmically,

how I tend to approach life

and how I would like to live through this existence.


I’ve discovered

once I eliminate sex

as an act and desire

from my thoughts and wants

I am free to express

my childlike indulgence of sexuality


simply put

is a love deeply rooted


the animal instincts I am comprised of.

I, as you, must embrace

not fear

this desirable instinct.

It is the only way I will survive.


Life seems to have as much meaning and it is insignificant

Every thing that is accomplished

every great stride that is made

in the spirit and importance of “the moment”

ripples little or no effect

a fortnight or generation from that occurrence

Death and Life occur once

both as quickly as they are forgotten

Where, then, does that leave our existence?

For what, then, is any purpose?


We are a species now consumed by subtle guilt.

Must find love.

Success will continually define me.

Strive to climb from financial ruin.

Desire all we can.

See it all.

Be a Samaritan of peace and humility.

These are all concepts that should arise from secret, sacred desire.

When did living well become such a pressured obligation?


A writer’s greatest curse

is our lack of ability

in succinctly describing the world as we see it.

If we were able to,

we would no longer be writers,

for we would have nothing more to say

beyond the handful of arranged letters

that would be needed to explain all that is.