Writers Writing About Comfort Food: Coffee

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The smell of coffee and with it comes a stream of memories:


I have had late night conversations on the nature of reality over a cup of this. I have lost my mind with one constant companion. I have met with a girl in a café, not sure if my slightly falling in love was due to her company or the magic stuff I was drinking. Perhaps it was both. It is my welcomed addiction, my aid when I feel uninspired.


As I write this, I sip a latte watching the words write themselves with ease. I have been wondering lately what will become of me, what will become of my future, or if it will become anything. The air is cold and nothing else warms me in times like these. I welcome the warmth in my hands, the warmth I seem to be seeking from life, but is always fleeing. This is a moment I can have the illusion that I have finally found it. I have figured it out; I have obtained the unobtainable. I have found that moment of warmth and stillness in a life that seems utterly chaotic. For a while, I can make sense of the Universe, make sense of myself. If things go wrong, if it never turns out, I always have this one comfort to turn to.


The smell of coffee and with it comes a stream of memories:


I will stay up all night with friends talking about ideas over a cup of this. I will find sanity with one constant companion. I will meet someone one day and fall in love slightly, not sure if it was something they did, or just the magic stuff I happened to be drinking. Perhaps it will be both. I will write my masterpiece over this. I will sit in a café one day reflecting how things turned out all right in the end.