Dead Caterpillar

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The coffee cycle

Saturday, Sep 4th, 2010

I wake up every morning with my heart in complete and utter despair. I feel mentally crippled and listless. Pathetic. A void fills my chest. My soul is thirsty, my body: a desert place. Something is missing.

Coffee. Yeah, liquid elation. The nectar of the gods.

The pathway from my room to the kitchen – where the coffeemaker sits – is long and tiresome. At the end I know I will find happiness. It’s a journey, a pilgrim’s progress.

Still. When I get there, I must wait patiently. In weariness. In dispair.

Life is a series of waiting rooms and there is one I enter into every morning: the wait for the coffeemaker to finish trickling happiness into a glass pot.

As I butter my toast, the trickling sound heightens my expectations. But not having been filled yet, I struggle with the usual existential questions.

What compels me to leave my bed? Am I even alive? Who am I? What is my purpose?

Minutes later, coffee is in my belly, happiness in my veins. I feel drive. Purpose. The questions are gone. All is well.

Until sometime mid-day I am caught somewhere else, away from my kitchen. Coffee shops are out of range, and I am in need of another cup.

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