Endless Cups Of Late Night Coffee

You are a victim of desire and determination, so you lie awake revising and accommodating. Drinking endless cups of late night coffee.
You watch the right films, and pretend to watch the right films. You read the right books, and pretend to read some more.
You are shocked at how easily you will allow the contours of your being to be moulded by an outsider. Perpetuating an idea is key. An idea that incestuous, niche groups accept. An idea that air kissing social madames thrill about, and want to bed. There is simply a single rule - never a moment of doubt, never a moment of acceptance of the truth.
Women are dispensable, and men by the dozen. You swirl bitter in your glass and smirk in condescension. You share carnal pleasures with a communist-fire breathing bearded man or a woman with thickly lined eyes and heavy silver jewellery. Promiscuity is the unaffected and undisputed norm. And in the afterglow of air doused in the last dregs of cigarette smoke and sultry panting, you read Beat Literature and discuss politics.
You have fused with the story you created, like a parasitic zygote that attaches itself to the crimson womb.
You write using words like effacing and phrases like sycophantic distortion. You repeat the last word of a well-crafted sentence for a supposedly pointed effect. You cash on being Indian, and hence make more than seldom references to the Casuarina and Jacaranda.
You watch the right films, and are pretty sure you enjoy them now. You read the right books and are almost certain you concur. You have become the regular with a table by the window. You sit with a dog-eared Sartre, handwritten notes in the margin, by your side, and make Kafka-esque observations about sugar sachets.
You are now one of them. You drink expensive whiskey and share partners. Smoke outside theatres and find infinite entertainment in Post-Modernist discussions. And yet sometimes when you are drinking that last cup of late night coffee, you cannot help but admit it to yourself. And although you tell yourself in secret, and you have listened in secret, the world knows. But you stupid, stupid intellectual, the world always knew.
They watch the right films, and pretend to watch the right films. They read the right books, and pretend to read some more. And in secret, over that last cup of late night coffee, they admit it to you.