A man analyzes the sudden lack of joy found in his favorite hobby.
I should be enjoying this tea. But I’m not.
My father liked tea. My father’s father liked tea. And if tea existed before that, I’m sure someone in my family enjoyed it.
I should be enjoying this tea, but for some reason, I’m not.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve been drinking tea. Even when I wasn’t drinking tea, Life was preparing me to drink tea. Somehow, it always knew I would be a tea-drinker, and here I am, drinking tea. Only this time is different.
I don’t have the desire to drink tea anymore. It’s like waking up and realizing you no longer have the biting urge to breathe air, and when you hold your breath, it doesn’t hurt. Obviously, the analogy is a little extreme; one would not die without the intake of tea, but before recently, I would not have agreed. You see, tea was the medicine to a disease I could not cure: lackoftea. Some medical term, I think. Anyway, it was the adhesive that held together the scenes of my life. Preparing for dinner? Make some tea. Lying down to read before bed? Make some tea. Waking up in the morning to get ready for work? Make some tea. It became as routine for me to drink tea as it was to eat, to sleep, to breathe.
Hopefully, that will clear the up analogy a bit. Get it? Splendid.
Then one day, I woke up, and as I began to prepare my cup of liquid Life, I suddenly realized that I was not thirstea; which, if you didn’t know, is the specific thirst for tea. There I was standing in my flannel pajama bottoms complete with a matching flannel robe (comfyand fashionable, if you would believe it) and I no longer needed to breathe, to drink tea.
At least, not for that day.
Well, I let days go by, thinking that perhaps I would come across the urge to have my tea if I just kept up with my usual routine. But no desire ever came. Day after day, I would wake up and venture to the kitchen, yet no tea or tea-variant ever beckoned, called for me to drink it. I drank plenty of other things. Water. Milk. Juices of all walks of life. But no tea.
I was somewhat shocked, and a tiny bit relieved. I didn’t need tea anymore, it seemed. Weeks, months; not a single drop of tea did I drink. And I tried! too. You remember, right? I often visited the kitchen, walked by the small jar holding the tea bags I once so carefully collected. Something had to click, was bound to repair whatever severed tie that kept my beloved tea from entering my body. But nothing ever did. And life went on ever the same.
It makes sense now, right? I should be enjoying this tea, but I’m not.
I figured I would force myself today. All this time, I was waiting to be “ready” for tea again, and that moment never came. Perhaps I was doing it wrong. Maybe I needed to have some tea for my body to realize what it was missing.
Before, tea would relax me. It felt wholesome and restorative. After a bad day, tea could fix just about anything. But today, it makes me feel… irritated.
Irritated that I should have to try to like it. This is tea, for fuck’s sake. I love tea.
But no matter how much I think about it, or try to like it today, I’m left with being angry at the fact that I cannot enjoy it. Something that provided me with such benefit and peace before, and now it only reminds me of the hole that has been left in its place.
It does make me wonder, though. Why? Why be angry over something like this, over something so inconsequential and unaffecting as whether or not I can enjoy a cup of tea? If anything, I should see it as a gift, as a boon, that I no longer need to rely on a drink to fix my problems. As I said, my days have been no different, save the lack of tea I have been able to accept and live with.
It didn’t scare me at first, but now I worry a little. I had initially assumed the desire would one day return, but now I’m not so sure.
Six months. Half a year with no tea until today, and all I can do is sit here, sipping this reviling cup of hopelessness.
It’s like a pit, one with no hole for light of any kind to peer in and, at least, show some assurance that there is an escape, a way out. Like falling into a box that someone has now closed, but the sounds and the swaying have long gone, asking you, forcing you to forget that anything outside the box has ever existed, just as all that does exist outside has forgotten you.
Try as hard as you might but the one answer you had before is gone. You have the key, but the grooves warp anew every time you try to open the lock. How do I get out? How do I let go? Will the key ever be right? Or is there something else I should be looking for?
Of course, these are questions that cannot be answered so simply, and what answers might have existed before do not exist in a tea-free world.
Everything should be fine, but it’s not, and I am scared.
Every damn day, I wonder if the urge will come back. Maybe I’ll wake up and become thirstea again. Yeah, that’s it. It’s just a phase. It’ll return, no worry. Like with a pet. It knows where its home is; I just have to be receptive when it does return.
But, like with a pet, I can’t help but worry while it’s gone.
And its only at this point that I realize I was never the master. I was never in control.
Tea came to me in a time that I had nothing else, and it showed me that it could be so much more than I had given it credit for. But that’s when I lost control. And now without it, I am alone, and I cannot see but a few steps in front of me.
I guess there isn’t much I can do about it, you know? Desire resides on a subconscious level of interaction. As much as I’d like to choose to enjoy my tea again, I cannot. I can only hope that perhaps one day the thirst might return.
It’s probably not healthy, to just sit and wait. But I can’t let it go. Maybe now just isn’t the time for it, and maybe I just don’t need it right now. It’s hard to believe that when I feel so uncertain without it, but there isn’t much I can do.
Just sit and wait.
Perhaps I’ll pour myself some coffee instead.