From Issue 110 — Author Awakening
Am I posing?
Or am I just holding a filxhan (phil-jun)?
Is it espresso? American?
Or the one that leaves black sludge in the bottom?
You may think it’s a prop.
Or think I’m acting.
You may even think this is a pose.
It’s not.
It’s just another Wednesday morning.
Light hits your face and
honks hit your ears.
Living room becomes a green room,
becomes a studio, then a room again.
It’s a familiar morning aroma,
that feels like home.
Open.
Too honest.
Very vulnerable.
The look that lens steals from me
before I hear the sound,
before I feel it in my gut.
That’s when I’m listening.
Not to you.
To something else.
My hands go up just like the last time,
but now I’m in control.
I think.
Contained.
Suddenly I’m in frame.
You see my hands.
I see a shape.
Feel the tension in my face.
Readiness.
I try to relax, to let go. I cannot.
Suddenly, but expectedly…
Click. Click. Click. Click.
It interrupts my thoughts.
The tension breaks.
Something. Something.
Déjà vu.
My hands remember.
They go up again, like I’m framing something,
or protecting my face.
But something tells me that
I’m only checking if I still fit.
The frame is too small.
Maybe I’ve grown.
Not my ego, I hope.
I let go.
I smell.
I sip.
I smile.
I sip slow and stare down the lens.
Like I have a million questions and no answers.
Who am I?
Who am I afraid I am?
Who am I trying not to be?
I’ve worn a lot of hats in my life.
A lot of faces.
Son.
Friend.
Athlete.
Refugee.
Waiter.
Actor.
Father.
Wait. Wait. Waiter?
Did I wait too long?
Did the white shirt give it away?
Not this time.
It’s been a while.
We’ll come back to this.
You want to know who’s in that frame?
Try to look between the takes.
When I don’t try.
When I exhale.
When I sip.
That’s me.
Not the only me.
But still me,
trying to frame a smile
in a cup that is empty by now.
