trouvaille
“Rid yourself of all beliefs; leave metaphysics to the sectarians of the absurd; understand that hope is fear gone bad; confront reality directly; stop upholding the romantic dream of realization; forget sentimental neurosis; play with your own limits; look at your confusion; dare to be alone.”
As I sit and write from a low table with wooden legs and a metallic top, my coffee pours its steam from a missing lid. The succulents bathe in its oaky aroma. I’ve cracked the ceiling-high window for a bit of breeze. The gentle wind brings bike bells chiming and children's laughter, motorbikes purr, and women speak slowly- their heels clipping the concrete pathways.
It’s been over a month since I’ve had a space to sit and ponder in solitude.
How is it to not miss something until the experience occurs?
I didn’t know how badly I needed this spot. The brick ceilings and long windows are pleasing, though it’s the quality of aloneness I crave so deeply. Not in personal preference, I don’t care about the stacks of books- the dried flowers and soft lighting. And forgot.
Boiling water soothes my nerves. My heart's rhythm matches the steady thrum of water as it builds. Rousing alertness before my first sip of coffee. I let slip the ritual of setting the pot to a flame, listening for the beat, and pouring the hot liquid over the blended beans. My mini French press, a single cup and a half, the just-so amount of caffeine to turn open the day.
Like the steady breeze from the half-open window, I crave just a sip.
A small pink hardcover book sits next to me. I do not recognize the Spanish title, though I know the author as an old friend. Virginia Woolf.
Una Habitación Propia -
I Need My Own Room.
Photo source.
