I like my coffee black.
But only on weekdays. It starts my day the way I am supposed to act: strong. And bitter. Yeah. You heard me. Bitter is the new ambitious. Why would you want to sugarcoat anything? To make it delicious? Of course it tastes better. Fraud always tastes better.
I’d chug a whole mug of that liquefied energy. You know, ‘cause I’m tough. And it gets me going. If I were able to replace 2 or 3 hours of sleep with just another cup in the morning - I’d do it in a heartbeat - In a damn fast heartbeat - sped up by caffeine. Or placebos. Or whatever it is that makes me dive into this meaningless mess over and over again.
I thought it used to be the sun? Through a cracked open window.
I thought it used to be robins and sparrows? Soft and gentle, as they pursue what God wanted them to pursue: Singing.
Or at least passion, desire, initiative, thirst.
But I’m not thirsty.
If I was thirsty, I’d drink water.
I used to drink water.
Lots of water.
Now I’m having coffee. And I’m having it black. Now I’m floating along with the stream. Right away! Down the river, along with all those wooden rafts. Constructed in a split second. Only built to keep one man afloat. Tops.
Hey Daddy, look, I got a brand new sports-car. Steering a course that’s most likely headed nowhere.
Hey Mommy, look, I’m going nowhere. But I am going twice as fast.
Well what can I say?
I like my mornings rough.
And I like my cars fast.
And I like my days unremarkable.
I like my fingers desperately trying to cling to every tiny bit of freedom, as small as it may be.
And I like my art unrevealed.
I like my poems unread.
I like my voice unheard.
And I like my coffee black. I just like the taste of it.