#and now i am experiencing those things alone and feel as though ive robbed myself and her of these experiences

[adambomb82]

It's that time again

[ignaciotries]

COFFEE

Coffee

There’s something mystical in waking up right before the sun shines. The sheets are still cold, it’s incredibly misty outside, and everything seems suspended in a half dreamlike state. You wobble between dream and reality, and gravity seems awfully stronger. The air isn’t stale, but gentle and the breeze sends pleasant tingles down the spine. I exhale heavily and roll covered in bed sheets towards the edge until my face meets wood; a bitter departure but needed if I’m to get out of bed. After long contemplating the cold paneled floor, I glimpse at the window. My exhales fog the cold panes. I push the window open and meet the soft breeze outside. I motion my body forward and rest my arms over the damp wooden frame, while the wisps from a low fog outside slither into my room.

It may not be the place for everyone, but here I behold my own small paradise. The whitish peaks shine a bluish hue against the dark horizon. Long lived pines naturally frame the vista and cover my lonesome cabin in the woods from the harsh winds and brutal temperatures that come rushing down from that sparkly ridge beyond. A ridge I would love to describe even further, but I just slammed onto the floor seconds ago and will need a bit to sharpen my senses; though, it is a good thing that today is for relaxation and mindfulness. Today is for taking my time and enjoying my home; as every timber has been chopped, all the meats carved and cured, and the forest peaceful. It is me, and only me on this slope opposite to man and industry.

I take a break from admiring it all. I don’t want it to get too cold inside before I prepare the fireplace. The logs may get humid. It would be far too eventful now for them to split and crack wildly. I pick the driest logs and let the ember gather strength on its own. I enjoy this simple silence.

But above all, I enjoy something more; more than the books I keep safe and sealed away in the living room chests, or a sharpened hatchet gliding through wood as a knife would butter. Yes. The one thing that I can enjoy the most on mornings such as these is the purest black elixir I can filter after one delicate pour. 

I light the gas and watch snow melt away into sweet water. I bring it to a soft boil and then maintain the pot at a low simmer. The vapors contrast wildly inside as the hot and cold airs spiral into a perpetual dance above. Now comes the best part, I gently let the water stream out as a sparkling waterfall into the dry grinded bits I prepared the day before; perfectly roasted and dried. Fumes rich in aroma and force envelop the room as I pour in concentric circles from the center outwards. And in a minute, I will be experiencing a sunrise of my own.

It is the stark contrast of the season against the remedy of man, both night and day in a cup. Coffee. My cup with Coffee. There are many like it across the world at hours such as these. The salaryman has his expresso; the boys, their americanos; and those who fancy the drink as a sweet and quick “pick me up”, their lattes. But this one, this simple stream of black into a stained ivory cup, is mine. It forever will be. I do not pretend to sound like a braggart, but the difference in resulting hue has been something of an art and lifelong learning experience for me. I have drunk from the frothy mixes of the south, partaken of the rich Caribbean tones, and endured the harsh and uncaring smack of the smooth roast. All of these experiences coalesced into what I hold now. My cup. My coffee.

I place it at a table next to a broad window.

There’s a clearing outside. The peaks are as visible here as from my bedroom, and it seems that a harsh orange glow burns against them from the right. The ever radiant towards the irradiant.

I sit by the table, cup at my left, and I look out and fix my eyes beyond the windows, beyond the clearing, beyond the peaks. I take a small taste and follow it with a small mouthful to warm the senses; a sublime enlightenment in such a small broth. Would it even be right to call it such? No, it is preposterous to call it a broth and continue my early ramblings. I apologize. This is no bean soup; therefore, never will it be a broth. Coffee stands on a world alone. It is apart from others by more than just use and origin. It is a lonesome and tortured soul, that has been filled with bitter sentiment against the world.

A cherry is plucked, its dreams to face the musky earth and give rise to something more destroyed, it is then gutted and left to suffer the morning sun, like the peaks. The peaks shine a softer color now as the spectrum reaches further on its path through the void. 

“The void...” I whisper. 

One would think I would compare it through some convoluted analogy or otherworldly metaphor to the stiff dark of my Coffee, but it would result in more or less the same. It is black because it is greedy. It desires all that it has lost and so picks even the color from air, takes it all till not one is distinguishable from the other. The void doesn’t care for colors. When one stares into space, like an astronaut contemplating their place in it all, it seems black, but not because of color, but the lack of it. Here, color roams freely unhinged and uninhibited. The astronaut is both aware and saddened by it, for to let color free in such an unfathomable space is to see it disappear and leave only darkness, and to catch it all and not let it escape is to also be darkness. Only by freeing it among others is to see light and hues.

And so, it is that Coffee is lonesome, tortured, and greedy, but most of all… bitter. We have taken away enough, and it is that will for fight rather than flight that awakens the body. We have made something suffer for our gain. Good Coffee. I know your pain, so I always treat you with ceremony. I admire you and your spirit.

I take another mouthful.

“So much bull,” I sighed.

All this rambling, all the nonsense, the attempts to veil myself in constant thought, and whimsical allusions are just proof that I’m more of a social creature than what I tell others. I close myself in these fantasy-like rental cabins and spin a distinct narrative every morning. Today I’m a coffee connoisseur, yesterday I was woodchopper, and well, Thursdays… they’re just for building a fort of literature as I tangle myself in their worlds, too; it’s how I get new material for the rest of the week.

“It beats facing reality, at least for now.” 

I push away from the chair, inching towards the window, cup in hand.

“Yet, perhaps that’s what I should aim for,” the view getting a bit ginger, yet not as arrayed in hues anymore. 

“Peaks.” I let out. A peak, a sort of maximum confluence in direction, all roads in my mind converging; something far and above these habitual escapes.

Goal oriented is what they call it. I get it, what sane mind would want to develop a new persona each day? To pour myself into the mold, while suppressing any asphyxiating thought of what I really think I am. Of what I can remember. Constant change inevitably erodes the self and time builds upon the remainder as to fill the gaps.

I look back at the chair, at the table with its sleek mahogany finish, and the kitchen at the back; coffee bean bags rushed open, an unseemly grinder with old bits clumped at the bottom, and the hourglass like shape of my coffee dripper, gifted to me by my sister. Around it all, miscellaneous pots, and utensils, all thrown around the small counter.

I turn back towards the window. Under the thin layer of snow outside, foliage from months ago decompose at a standstill pace.

“I better make another cup.”

I light the gas and watch snow melt again. I just bring it to a boil this time. The vapors contrast wildly inside as the hot and cold airs blah, blah, perpetual, blah, blah, above… yeah. I place the bean bits I roughed up this morning on the filter; perfectly beaten into submission. Fumes rich in wakey-wakey envelop the room as I pour in concentric circles from the center outwards or was it inwards? I’ll just draw a star this time. And in a minute, I hope we can all experience less buffoonery. If this were a short story, then I would be a criminal for robbing the reader from his time. In a story there would be a plot to develop and tensions to rise. I’m just shifting from one end of the room to the other, not much action here.

Perhaps there’s something intrinsically natural to just doing nothing. Not that I would advocate for the world to stop working all at once. The economy would collapse! Sure, a week or two would be alright, but give it a month and production halts, travel ceases, consumerism trickles, and the line at the supermarket, where old ladies philosophize on each other’s day, vanishes completely. Oh! What a chaos that would be.

And the silence.

Maybe it wouldn’t be that bad.

I’ve been away too long.

I serve my second cup and walk towards the table, again.

The cup isn’t real ivory, just some fancy facsimile for those that . . . “like to brush shoulders with Norse warriors while gulping barrels of ale after a glorious and visceral skirmish at the gates of Valhalla.” That’s just what’s written on the box. It curves at the bottom making it awkward to drink from. Why would I go to pains to drink something when a simple cylindrical cup would suffice? Is appearance that important for me? Am I vain? I think it is more likely just another tool for escapism, a thing to renounce the typical for the atypical and from it construct a world of my own. But by fulfilling this desire through material objects in order to appeal to a mood or passing fancy is shallow and wasteful. Should I not seek to feel contempt with what I do have, or what I can muster through my own ability or craft? Keeping this cup is just another day in a fit of delusion waiting to happen.

I grab a cup from those provided in the cabin. Pour the coffee from one cup to the new one, a wide brimmed glossy gray cup. I open the windows. The breeze assaults the room. I take a mallet out; toss the faux ivory cup into the air. My grip tightens fast. My feet are parallel to the shoulders.  The hands back, and my left foot forward. My hips burst into motion. My whole torso follows, and away the mallet goes. The cup is obliterated immediately and the projectile bits rain outside like dirt over a coffin. The logs at the fireplace start popping a bit as if cheering me on.

I toss the mallet at the floor, and drop over the seat again, window still open and breeze still rushing in. I drink from the new cup. The logs pop louder as the flames twist the pulp and vapors trapped inside shootout.

I drink from my new cup.

All the confusion tumbling in my head is bound to lead me into exhaustion. I believe that by drinking from that which I described at the start as something so dark and bitter, may help me untangle the weaves of fantasy and delusion I have brought upon myself. Is it not the remedy of man against the season? This seasonal depression I stumble into every night, hoping in the end that I at least manage to see the day again. There are many who go through the same ordeals at hours such as these, but I wish them better than me. I hope they don’t end up attaching their happiness to the availability of a drink, to a drug. I hope that they don’t grow addicted to their escapes. I hope that they return to a less cold and somber place; somewhere they can see and be merry under the light each other reflects upon the other. I never wished to sound so disheartening. I believed that being away from others could help me reshape this mentality.

I used to believe that coffee could help. I still drink it because I have replaced all that I used to know with it. If I drink enough water and eat accordingly, I’m sure to stay fine no matter how much coffee I consume in a day.

Remedies against the season, right?

Remedies of man.

I stare at the cup. It seems I’ve gulped most of it down at some point, made more, and didn’t even notice.

I look back at the kitchen counter; coffee bean bags decomposed, a moldy old grinder, and a broken coffee dripper only able to hold half a cup before it starts seeping through the seams. Around it all, ashes. The fireplace is filled with soot and the walls around it are charred. My books are just tight bundles of dust that collapse at the touch. The cabin has lost its roof and the windows are broken. Snow gathers inside just like outside. The peaks are still there, off in the distance, and I’m still sitting in this chair by the table, cup in hand.

I stroked my old dusty beard and let out a sigh. The low warm exhale dancing gently in front just as vapors did long ago above me. I grow covered in this white dust, but my cup is warm to the touch, my coffee, still bitter, in a stained gray cup.