steam curls from green tea
quiet chairs in empty room
old friends take their seats
One evening, at a kitchen table with chipped edges, I asked an old friend a question I couldn’t quite phrase. The kettle clicked off, releasing steam that curled like a half-forgotten memory. We poured cups of green tea, too bitter, and I told him about an idea that had followed me for months: the imaginary committee.
He didn’t look surprised. “It’s the people you call when you’re alone,” he said, tapping his finger against the wood. “Not in flesh, but in thought. You gather them in an empty room inside your head. You sit them down and ask: what should I do with this mess of mine?”
I liked the honesty of that—mess of mine. Life is rarely tidy. It’s a series of half-built bridges and rooms we forgot to furnish. Yet this invisible council offers something solid. A way of testing your choices against the voices you trust most.
Not everyone is blessed with mentors. But inside, if you listen, you already carry them. A grandmother who stretched coins across seven mouths. A teacher who pressed the weight of language into your palm. A friend who laughed at your excuses. A stranger whose single sentence outlived the book it came from.
They gather without invitation.
Walking home later, the street was wet with rain. Neon fractured in the puddles, as if the city itself had split into pieces and had to live with the cracks. I tried to picture my own committee.
I saw my grandmother first. Her voice, blunt as the worn blade of a kitchen knife. She never spoke of wealth, only of enough. Enough was her kingdom.
Then came my literature teacher, who still whispers that words are dangerous tools, sharp enough to wound their owners.
In the corner sat a novelist I’ve never met, silent, almost indifferent, reminding me that mystery has its place. Not everything should be solved.
And there was the boy I used to be, barefoot in Slovenian fields, cupping fireflies in his hands, asking me whether I still remembered how to look at the world without fear.
That was my committee. Not tycoons, not polished executives. Just ghosts stitched into memory.
Travel plants new chairs at the table. A market in Fukuoka, the call of a vendor. A bus ride through mist-draped mountains in Kyushu. The rhythm of a stranger’s voice in Ljubljana. Later, when decisions arrive, those voices return. They argue, they tease, they warn, and sometimes they comfort.
Reading does the same. Each book opens another doorway into the room. A warrior sharpening his blade, reminding you that discipline is freedom. A poet describing rivers that forget their beginnings, nudging you not to cling too tightly. A philosopher who refuses easy answers, forcing you to walk the longer path.
This is why we read. This is why we move through unfamiliar streets. Not for souvenirs or photographs but because every encounter becomes another thread in the invisible fabric, another voice on the council that shapes us.
The room inside grows crowded. Sometimes the voices clash. They argue like old rivals. But even in the argument, there is clarity. You are reminded to test your instincts, to step back from the easy lie of self-certainty. Alone, we are too quick to forgive our own laziness. Surrounded by the voices of those we respect, even in imagination, excuses crumble.
I asked my friend about his own committee. He hesitated, then spoke softly.
“My mother,” he said. “She worked in silence. She never asked for recognition, but everything I am rests on her shoulders. She’s there to tell me if I’m being lazy.”
“Who else?” I asked.
“A poet I read once. I don’t even remember his name. He wrote about rivers forgetting their beginnings. That one line has followed me for years. He’s there too.”
“And anyone alive?”
“Yes,” he said, looking at me. “You.”
The words startled me. I laughed, embarrassed, and asked why.
“Because you remind me not to take myself too seriously,” he said. “Every committee needs a voice like that.”
The thought stayed with me. That we are all unknowingly sitting on each other’s councils. That we walk through the world leaving echoes behind, and those echoes live on as someone else’s compass. It made me wonder whose quiet room I inhabited. What decisions my ghost might be shaping when I wasn’t looking.
Later that night, back in my own room, I tried the ritual. I closed my eyes, pictured the committee gathered, and placed a question before them.
Should I keep writing these strange essays? Or surrender to the practical demands that press like heavy hands against my back?
The committee listened. My grandmother spoke first, her tone brisk and unforgiving. “Do not waste time doubting. You already know.”
My teacher leaned forward, eyes stern. “Words are work, not decoration. Treat them with care, or not at all.”
The novelist said nothing, his silence somehow louder than words. Mystery, he reminded me, doesn’t need explanation.
And the barefoot boy grinned. “You’re asking the wrong question. Stop pretending you don’t know.”
When I opened my eyes, the room was empty again. Empty, but not empty.
The trick is not to ask whether the committee is real. The trick is to accept that it already exists. Every person we love, every book we read, every journey we take—each one leaves behind a fragment. Together, those fragments gather, waiting to be called upon.
And when the silence grows too heavy, when the decision feels unbearable, you can summon them. They will sit with you. They will hold your fear to the light.
This is why reading matters. This is why travel matters. They plant new voices in the room, new perspectives to test your instincts against. A crowded committee is not confusion. It is wealth. It is survival. It is remembering that you are never truly alone.
The world tells us to chase wealth, recognition, certainty. But judgment is the real treasure. The ability to hear the voices that challenge you, not flatter you. Judgment does not come from isolation. It comes from the council we assemble without realizing it. From the grandmother with her frugal wisdom, from the poet whose words outlast his name, from the teacher who warned you to respect the weight of language.
And maybe, if you listen closely enough, you’ll hear yourself speaking on someone else’s committee too.
life 