1
Coffee
An alarm blared loudly in his ears. Impossible to ignore. The clock radio begged him to buy the newest CD by the hottest new “artist”. He chuckled on the inside every time he heard that word in that context. Art wasn’t just some thing that you mass produced and sold by the dozen. Art couldn’t be downloaded or found on the cover of a magazine. Art, to him, was like a grandfather. A wise man, who loved life. A man that lay in the hospital, fingers too shaky and bones too sore to hold a brush, or pluck a string. But sometimes, when the wind is just right, you could hear the echoes of his youth.
Such are the philosophical tangents his mind often went on when stalling for time. But he would have to hit the clock’s button eventually. The snooze button was broken from years of abuse. The paint chipped where he so often gripped it for a few moments, after hitting the button. He gripped it in the same place again, and stalled a little longer before finally lifting himself up. As he stretched, the sound of bones cracking filled the silence. He cracked his fingers and his neck. Even his toes. It was probably a bad habit, but it felt…relieving to him.
The cold began to get to him, as it always did. He slept only in boxer shorts, because anything more was just too uncomfortable. He slipped on his trusty, raggedy zip-up hooded sweatshirt. That would do for now. He then made his way through the maze of instruments that made up his room. A piano (it was an electric keyboard, but he preferred the term piano.) stood against the window, while various saxophones, guitars, and violins lined the remaining walls. A forest of paper and laundry shielded the floor from eyesight.
He stepped out into the living room. The only clean room in the whole of his domicile. The need to end the silence was ever rising in him. Silence was maddening. He turned on his CD player, not exactly remembering what was inside. As it happened, it was jazz that escaped from its digital confines. You might say jazz was one of his “favorites”, but he didn’t play favorites when it came to anything. That was one of his rules.
That particular thought reminded him of the many blends of coffee, filling his cupboards like tenants occupying an apartment complex. A plethora of blends, from a plethora of countries. It would simply be rude of him to play favorites. They all had their days. They all had their strengths and weaknesses, their hopes and dreams…Just like him.
And so came the trying task of choosing exactly whose day it was. He wasn’t exactly sure how he was feeling…A little stoic. Perhaps bitter, too. The clock radio only served to remind him that another day was coming, and to also remind him of the demerits of yet another day in this world. Yes…bitter sounded…perfect.
And so he brewed. As he did every morning. He sometimes brewed in the afternoon or the evening. Sometimes he let someone else do the brewing for him in one of the many local coffee shops. He frequented the peaceful, warm cafes. He didn’t care much for the hip, trendy shops that served watered down coffee that was bathed in milk, and all sorts of other unnecessary things. Those people were fooling themselves. He again chuckled on the inside as he poured the coffee.
He blankly stared down, into the abyss of the mug. The coffee mug was a perfect representation of the world…A pure bright outer shell of white, with an enticing aroma seeping out, drawing you in. But all that was contained within…was bitter darkness. Sure, you could try your damnedest to sweeten it and ease the pain. Sugar. Milk. Whatever. But in the end, the core remains the same. Only after the last drop could you ever find a trace of that distant light. Heaven, maybe? He didn’t know. He only knew that coffee was all. All knowing, all encompassing, and all forgiving. It embraced him like a lover, and encouraged him as a father would.
He brought the world to his lips, and allowed the moonlight tide to sweep over his lips, warm and soothing as a fresh blanket. He absorbed the world and its wisdom. He wrapped himself in its very soul. Every drop, and every molecule of those drops, were accentuated by the soul piercing saxophone, wistfully sighing its own sort of aroma. The two aromas dancingly descended upon him, in a beautiful waltz. All his worldly worries were whisked away with this waltz. His mind was, for just a single moment, a clean, pure, entity. Like that of an innocent child, before that innocence has been stolen away and lost forever.
The sea emptied, entering his insides. Like a small, silent stream flowing down. He felt every inched it flowed. He basked in the feeling. The sea came first, and then the sky, and the moon, and the stars, too. They all went with the flow. As we all do. Though sometimes our paths change and we resist, our rivers always reach the sea. And, inevitably, this blend had too reached that eternal sea. As he eased back into reality, the coffee had passed. He lowered his head, and the mug. All that was left was a thin layer of darkness, acting as a veil to the pure porcelain.
That was a good blend. Today is a good day to die. Those were some of the more prevalent thoughts floating around in his mind, which was still a little drunk with pleasure. The world could wait. He hazily made his way back to his bedroom, and fell to the floor, cushioning himself with only clothes and blankets. Never go to work after a blend like that. That was one of his rules. And without rules, what was life, really? We lived to follow rules, and we lived to break them. He closed his eyes and buried his head into his makeshift pillow. And there he slept, among the moon and the stars.
