PROSE
ordinary troubles by Michelle Setiawan
Power evades me There is a cup of black coffee on the long wooden table, tepid in the airconditioned kitchen of my house. I have grown used to the rationality of hot coffee—this way, the integrity of the drink will remain long into the day. I take my seat at the end of the table as I had the day and month and year before. I will remain there until the moon has taken its residence above the city, nature’s cruel reminder of reality’s redundancy. In the minutes before 1:00 p.m., the technicolored scene confined to my computer screen flickers to an end—my second movie that day. My eyes sting. The film is poignant in a manner that could only be achieved through experience, and I am envious of the names that flash in the credits. They had lived lives worthy of movies. I live bound to a series of daily routines. It occurs to me that I want to be a screenwriter, if not out of true passion then out of a promise that I will strive for a fulfilling existence when the world resumes its normal pace. It feels right, as though power has not escaped me fully, if I continue to plan for a future that is out of sight. Yesterday, I wanted to be a botanist. Tomorrow, I will want to be a barista. I cling to every piece of comfort like it is the last I will ever see. Does it hide in my dreams? In my isolation, it has been too long since I witnessed the warmth on a stranger’s face as they delay their steps, waiting for me to catch up to them, walking through the door they hold open for me. Before, I amused myself with the imaginary lives of strangers bustling around me. Sitting in a cafe, fixated on the hundreds of storylines occurring around me. 16 TUFTS OBSERVER OCTOBER 11, 2021
