Describing Writing in 3rd Person.

I often wonder what someone else must be thinking. The moment I come out of bed to the moment I grab my morning coffee to when I sit down to get to work… there are moments I wonder what the people around me must be thinking. It’s something I’ll never truly know but can’t help wonder.

People I love and those that love me back may share their days and moments with me. But I cannot know what they think every second. 

You’ve probably felt this too. 

It’s the realization of how alone we are. Every one has thoughts of their own that are private to them. As I sit and look out of a coffee shop I have felt the importance of what I do. But I bet all the people that walk by have thought something similar at least once in their lives. I wonder what they think and do with such a thought. 

What could the person across from me.. beside me… be thinking?

I wonder if the person across from me actually wonders what I must be thinking. What I must be writing furiously about as I glimpse out the window. 

When one writes…...

The fingers are tense. It leads to a tightening of the upper trapezius muscles. 

He must relax it. He shakes his shoulders like a bird ruffles its feathers. Hoping this would relax it and allow him to get into proper writing posture. 

Shoulders are peeled back and the back is arched. Not too much but enough to maintain a neutral spine. In the process, he ends up bracing his core. Not enough as to brace for a heavy load but just to maintain rigidity in his form. 

Due to his short height, he needs to sit near the edge of the chair. This is the only way that his feet will actually touch the ground and he will be able to maintain this neutral spine position. 

He can’t really feel the floor given the cushion provided by the shoes. All in the name of ergonomic support. Who knows if that’s actually true or even worth investing in. It’s what he believes and that’s good enough it seems.

The smartwatch buzzes to remind him that he has sat for too long and that he needs to walk a couple hundred steps. He ignores it. How will one write something with focus if he were to get up every little buzz he got? 

The laptop has provided mobility so he could write from wherever he is inspired. However, he is too aware of how un-ergonomic it is. He thus writes on an external keyboard as the laptop is propped on a stand to allow for proper adjustment to meet the screen to his eye level.

He is surrounded by people all around him. He recognizes that he lacks the discipline required to concentrate in the warmth of his home so he is out in public. Surrounded by people.

Yet, he does not engage them but keeps a distance by wearing a headset. It blocks him from the outside world and the outside world from his existence as he silently presses down on the keys of his keyboard. 

He takes a sip of some liquid. Whether it’s to quench thirst or as a mere action of habit to take a pause from the writing…. It’s unclear. 

They say that hands reveal one’s age. He has no idea what age these hands appear to be. They are neither a child’s nor an elder but something in-between. 

He types. Keys clacking. An attempt to put down the thoughts racing through his mind as he looks out at a world that zooms past him. 

He pauses. Confused. He is hit with the familiar eerie feeling of uncertainty. Uncertainty with the ideas on the page but also the uncertainty to what he writes. 

Will this be read? If so, by who? Is this smart writing? Does it matter? What will this writing mean for me? What continues to drive such a practice?

The thoughts are fleeting at times and ingrained at times. 

With every moment of pause he shuffles his feet and shakes his right leg. Another sign of uneasiness. 

He continues to look out the window. Hoping for some kind of inspiration. Or maybe it’s to rest the mind from the incessant self talk as he types out the words. 

Maybe it’s his safe space. Putting his hands together as if he is praying but instead using the top of his conjoined hands to create a shelf to rest his cheek. 

Tilting to look out the window. Staring at the many people walking up and down the streets and the cars ever so in a rush to get somewhere. 

He types. Clacking and clacking on the keys. Hoping for an idea to arise because he dislikes the ideas he has now. Most have short fuses and fizzle out. 

He is familiar with this feeling. 

He has to sit here and stare. Sometimes for hours and hours until something worth clacking more about comes into his mind. 

After the first hour… as the sun slowly sets in the horizon and he feels the bright rays on his right cheek instead of his left… he starts to feel his heart rate jump a little. 

It’s the anxiety. The feeling of the day passing. Maybe its the subconscious feeling of decay in life. But more likely the panic of not having much on the page. 

He looks out the window again. Wonders if a walk or reading a book may change his mind. Maybe reset it and spark some kind of creativity. He hopes anyway. 

As he types away, he imagines everything. This piece of garbage actually being revered as a wonderful piece of writing to the other end where it is completely ignored. He doesn’t know what’s worse… being hated or ignored… ignored feels safer. It’s probably better to be hated. 

He’s sat long enough. His right calf is starting to feel a little tight. Probably a sign to take a walk to the bathroom. It’s just one the ways to take a walk without appearing… too out of the ordinary. 

Just like that. The sun is setting over the horizon. The day is passing. 

He still stares at his screen. Worry and panic remains but he is somewhat numb to it. He is somewhat used to it now. He usually feels something like this every week. 

But yet he still writes. 

There are moments when he pauses not to think but because there is nothing to think. Because the mind is actually empty. There are no thoughts to be had. 

It’s like trying to squeeze the remaining droplets out of a wet towel. You wring it until the towel looks like some kind of rug and no more liquid will come out of it. But you don’t know so you just twist it again to make sure. 

That’s how his mind feels…..

If you are ever sitting beside me on a Monday afternoon… this is probably what I’m thinking.