Often, you don't really think about the gestures you make, often mechanically, often out of the need not to interrupt the day, not to take a break, not to let thoughts get where they might start to laugh, to ask questions, to unpick you, to change, in fact, the taste that coffee might have that morning. Mechanically you walk from room to room and build your future step by step. Small, frail, fragile gestures complete everything. These people don't know anything, but they want everything, they don't understand reality, but they pretend to know it and that, more than that, it belongs to them. Or at least that's what they claim. You smile, unhindered, in the solitude of the one, two, three or four-room apartment. A few windows closed well. Outside, always in the morning, a drill, a flex, a construction site. You change your shirt, you change your TV channel, you change your cup for the simple reason that you can't find the one you drank from yesterday. How much taste can coffee have after all? And all promise you the sweet-sour taste of bitter chocolate, oranges, flowers, the core of the earth, the hot and rolling flavours of the wind. I remind you all of the places you'll probably never visit, not because it's not possible, but because everything in your world is mechanical. Everything. In any case, too much coffee contributes to the stomach pain that occurs when your stomach is curled up, and anyway it doesn't matter more than how hard it has been roasted: easy, more burnt, very burnt. Can you smell it? A journey never begins where you think it really begins as a first sentence might have given rise to an entire novel, but not where everything is far too mechanical, far too rigorous. You don't want to use metaphors, because people try to decipher them, and they do bad. These are just trials, as many others have done. Some have consistently blamed each other throughout their lives. They just kept drinking coffee or drinking. But I still think you need a good reason for that. Coffee, you hang with, when you don't hug her. Mechanical mornings are getting a little more vivid. There's a strip of sunrise sneaking in, you can understand what it is and waking up early when the whole human breath is asleep. Or at least half the world's population. You blame less in the hope that others will do the same. It just doesn't happen that way. And yet, you have only one purpose. It doesn't matter the direction, it doesn't matter the object of your concrete passion, forgotten, rediscovered, reinvoked. You count on the shred of your own universe, small, incredulous. You count when you get the courage to write again, drink bitter and yet perfect coffee. For the bitter taste of coffee is bitter only for the unknowing. If you end up drinking it carefully, with the gratitude of being able to prepare it, of being able to enjoy it, then you fall prey to it forever. You let her make you feel better, let her bring you back to life. To save you. Coffee can have many tastes, have you ever tried to drink coffee when you are very nervous? We might as well drink directly from the tap in those moments, the effect would be the same. The taste of courage we're looking for isn't there. This year I saw all kinds of shapes and faces, and smiled at them without believing in them, grateful for some of the most beautiful drawings that formed there, on those mornings when you could start your day with a surprising dose of creativity simply by chance. But it's not, is it? It's not chance that flavours you to feel whenever you imagine, since the evening, that you'll have it in front of your eyes again in the morning. It's not random, it's not random desire. Mornings aren't mechanical when you dare too little, when you take the tiny step toward reawakening everything that's been numb, clenched, chilled. No, even these words are not random, and many of the things that seem incomprehensible are, in fact, for lack of patience. What does coffee look like that gives you patience, confidence, non-mechanical morning? I tried to buy, at a significant discount, a special packet of coffee, suitable for espresso machine, light-medium roasted, delicate, aromatic, prepared as if for me, but not with the discount that had been offered to me. I left it there, in the virtual basket, to wait as mechanically as possible, as long as I make a real coffee, with delicious restaurant taste. And I left a few more questions, expectations, troubles, little glimpses of dreams, hopes, in various doses. And fortunately, if the coffee is good enough, and I can wait just 24 hours, tomorrow, I can get myself back. Tomorrow morning.
