I forgot how important it is for me to write. I've spent countless days trying to mimic what other food writers are recording and have, in the process, lost my voice. It took going to Breuklyn Coffee House Friday evening to remember why it is I started writing in the first place.
The cafe was crowded with artists and hipsters alike. We all shuffled in and out of each others' way like atoms vibrating almost too close for comfort. The first series of photographs feature women, nature, and mirrors. The grecian-esque style caught my attention and I found myself staring at the black and whites in simple frames. My thoughts were basic and my breathing came to a relaxed pace... finally, art.
Next down the wall was Nella's art. Bright and a little unfocused, I grew connected to the amateur lines and colors. I spoke with Nella after purchasing her poetry book. She is a nurturing and caring Russian woman who lives two blocks from my old apartment in Flushing. Instantly engaged in conversation, I felt a heat flow through my veins, I have to start writing right now.
I went to Franklin Park (around the corner from Breuklyn) and pulled out my notebook. It felt good. Mike met me about an hour later and I felt like a new woman.
Saturday morning I went to Bristen's Eater for breakfast. I wrote. I listened to music. I drank coffee and ate. I left feeling like a new woman.
We get caught up in our minds and have to remove ourselves in order to think clearly. The days become endless minutes of monotonous activity, unless we have a catharsis. Writing is my catharsis and I don't ever want to forget it again.
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