Okay, let me astonish you for a second.
I LOVE COFFEE, AND I KNOW FUCKALL ABOUT IT!
There! I said it.
When you tell people you like coffee, it occasionally happens that they start talking themselves in a frenzy. Out of a sudden, you find yourself in a whirlwind of grandes (not Arianna), moccas and -cinos. Arabica, aroma. Barista, blend and crema. Cappucino, frappucino, dark roast. Decaffeinated, filter, hard-bean, latte. With or without a toffee.
HEY DUDE! How do you like your coffee?
That’s it. That is literally my only requirement for coffee. No milk, no sugar. Just bean-blood and water. Well, and heat, preferably. Anything else is poppycock in my book. I get it, though. People nowadays have found a trillion ways to distinguish themselves from each other. Why would the simple act of drinking coffee be any different?
However, to me, coffee isn’t so much about taste. It’s more about a particular feeling.
Imagine, if you will, a Monday morning. It’s the all-encompassing January twilight. It’s cold. Not remarkably cold, just chilly enough to be felt. A slight drizzle. Not enough to soak your clothes. Just wet and annoying enough to be felt. You got up around forty minutes ago because your alarm-clock and the inherent need to pay rent said so. You are sad. Not overwhelmingly so. Just sad enough to be felt.
In these moments, coffee is the slightest reminder that I am alive for just that little bit more than making ends meet. Not fully alive.
Just alive enough to be felt.