Photo by Bunko from Morgue File
We all know someone who could use a pep talk… so write them one!
Krystal sat idly at the table. The cup of white chocolate mocha was steaming in front of her. Patrons passed by her table, lost in their own worlds, in their own conversations. A few she noticed, most she did not. It had been a long week for Krystal. Nothing had seemed to go right. She was feeling the “dumps” as her mother use to call it. It always reminded her of the Dylan classic, Tangled Up in Blue. As she thought about the song’s title, she smiled to herself.
Yep, she thought to herself, I’m tangled up in blue alright. And a whole lot of it!
As the noise and bustle around her went from mildly entertaining to annoying, she started to drown it all out and recede further into her own thoughts. She started to picture the lyrics and hum Dylan’s melody. She closed her eyes and imagined the song.
Early one mornin’ the sun was shinin’, I was layin’ in bed . . . Bed, now that sounded good to her. She began to think she should have just stayed in bed and skipped getting up at all.
Wond’rin’ if she’d changed at all, If her hair was still red . . . Krystal felt that she had changed. She felt she had changed too much in fact.
. . . We drove that car as far as we could, Abandoned it out West . . . Krystal always liked these lines. She felt she had lived them on more than one occasion. You take something as far as it will go and then that’s it. You have to abandon it. You have to say good-bye. Krystal had known many good-byes. She had gone out West more than she cared to recall.
As she sat there, continuing to hum the melody and sing the lyrics in her head, her mood began to lighten. Somewhere between Delacroix and a topless place she felt an odd spark of happiness. A smile slowly tickled across her face. Without realizing it, she was now patting her foot and nodding her head to the imaginary strumming of Dylan’s guitar.
She blushed, as the lyricist must have, as he felt a little uneasy as she noticed people glancing her way. When she was younger, she would have been mortified at such attention. Now, she was a little older and really didn’t care.
Right through the pages of an Italian poet from the thirteenth century to a basement on Montague Street she began to sense everything would be okay. She didn’t know how or when. She only knew they would.
As she got up from her table, finishing the last sip of her drink, she whimsically thought of those around her, those who seemed more interested in her than she was in them. She playfully sang, in a half-audible voice, some are mathematicians, some are carpenters’ wives. She was neither.
She was glad now that she had journeyed out of bed. She was glad she had been tangled up in blue. The people in the coffee shop probably thought she was a bit out of touch with reality. But, as she opened the door, she turned and gave them all one last look and said with a giggle in her voice, we just see if from a different point of view!
And with that, she left the coffee shop behind, along with her tangled up blues.