The Silence of My Voice

This year if I've learnt something is how positive hopefulness is. Not just for us, but for others as well. It's just plain, good energy is all. Hopeful to start your day with good coffee. Have another cuppa midday to keep the humanity in you going. Another hot one to erase the day. Coffee is like having a masseuse for your emotions constantly around. I think the world will stop being angry if everyone just buys any stranger a coffee, at least once a week. It'll just be so much better. The only wars in the world will be between tea and coffee fanatics. Coffee is also very situational. For instance, now. It's probably enhancing my torpor, at the moment. It's not so much of a stimulant as we make of it to be, really. I think the thing with caffeine is, it affects only a mind thinking that it will. No matter the nature of the roast, I think coffee is weak on a bushed mind.  Surprisingly enough, most people are like that as well. How spurring people are always depen...

Hello. It's Day Four. I saw a girl who made coffee. Hunched over the notebook, her hand sifted through her hair. The other one wound disturbingly rigid over her pen -  a gesture so simple, and mindless and yet, exuded such great possession, as if she was scribbling God's secret plan for harmony, and wanted to hide His tool, lest everyone found the power behind it. The reflection of the snow on the glass drew stories on her compact stature, and relaxed fingers, both of which that gave nothing away. The primal, worn leather of her notebook, and the rusty and stained tip of her fountain pen, her foot tapping every time Sinatra came on, the heavy cream in her coffee, and the now, very decimated chocolate muffin screamed sonnets about her reservation of belonging to the old world. Yet, the threads of her torn jeans, the scuff on her boots, the red strap of her bra playing peek-a-boo with her cardigan, stood testament of a woman delivered mistakenly by the stork, who was born ...

It poured, that day, Not the kind that puncture, Your skin, slightly, Like the injuries, in the shower, You trace, after you make love. But, the ones that, Fall indolently, nonchalantly, Like a quick kiss, inaudible, Amidst the leaning teak high rising sills, The ones, in funny places, On your head, feel cooler. Wind blew that day, Not the kind that jumble, Your hair, wildly, Like a tree, in autumn, Dancing riotously, before its death. But, the ones that,  Whooshes blindly, drunkenly, Like that beautiful, you saw, On the grass that was rather yellower, Wallowing, laughingly, lazily, In the dress which shone brighter than her smile. He smiled that day, Not the kind that spin, Your head, magically, Like the tresses, under the sun, Of that woman, in the red dress. But, the one that, Was slight, and effortless, Like the way, you breathed, From across that table, When his eyes, from his coffee, Buoyed, wickedly, unknowingly, In the light which was c...

Haunt me, Unlike the ways of spirits, Imprinting my soul by yours, Haunt me, Leaving your scent unto me, Like a room filled out by baked apples, Haunt me,  Until I start hallucinating, And haunt me, As if you truly follow me, Haunt me, By the sweet tones of your piano, Whereby I sat watching you play, Haunt me,  With the bitterness of the morning coffee, With the torn pages of the book, You could never read to me, Haunt me, again, With all the singularly eyed jokes, And the laughter that followed, Haunt me, still, Through the seconds, When you helped me replace my guitar strings, Haunt me,  Haunt me, till I hum the tunes you made, Haunt me, until the edge of madness, And haunt me,  Till I bleed of you. Been long gone, eh? Some inspiration it took, this one. Buzzed, Ak. 

She sat by the same window, stirring her coffee. Looking out - thinking - nothingness. The comprehension of the most simplest activities of the human mind stayed well beyond her reach. She came here often to be astray in the smoke from the chimneys that preceded the green lake. Through the cloud of the smoke, she kept her attention out for the water. Water that seemed misty from the chimney smoke. Water that was true. Water, that was imperviously solid. Water, that reflected everything for what it was. She smirked, thinking funnily, how the haze from the steam of her coffee, was just so essential for her to obstruct the distractions the world was ready to serve on a plate, each time that she was here. Alike the steam of her coffee blanketed her when she rendered herself most vulnerable, the smoke of the chimneys, never let anyone see the true face of the water. She often thought to herself, how unfair for the water to be abandoned out there naked. Oh, how she could understand the sha...