The coffee cycle
Saturday, Sep 4th, 2010I 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.