Weary afternoons drip from lost inspiration. Remember what it was like to be young? Youth, now an apparition of what was passionate and bold. I sip my coffee with a splash of cream. A pleasing mocha mixture settles beneath the brim of my oversized mug. I never wanted to be a writer-not really. Possessed by poetry, I thought I could make a living pumping gas or maybe die young. Inspiration drips slow through the filter of perception. I taste the Costa Rican bean. Damn, I am lucky.
For if I am to write, I must find that young man, that chain smoking, crazy and not yet found, unemployable mess of a man. I must find him and ask him why he pushed forward with vain ambition? It seems vain to write-silly, useless, and vain!
“All is vanity under the sun,” a wise king once said.
And T. S. Eliot said, “Life is very long.”
Eternity seems vain too, long and vain, but still, I am not affraid to die. I drink my coffee gratefully and that brings meaning to my life. Then comes the horror of consumation. Will anybody read this or will it become scrap in some far removed dung hill?
written by: Brett Wiley
A solitary coffee break is quite an appropriate time for introspection.
“An unexamined life is not worth living. “. Socrates