Coffeehouse Raw: Stream of Consciousness

mac n coffeeThe coffee here at The Slow Train Cafe in Oberlin, OH is delightful; I am on my second cup of cafe mocha, made from a real coffee press machine I might add. No crappy McDonald’s rip-off here. I savor every last drop as I sit at a table in the window facing the main road. I spy every single person out joyously walking with their friends and loved ones on this unseasonably warm winter’s day; this makes me smile.

The sweet and savory smells of coffee mixed with fresh pastries warm me from the inside out and soothe my soul. I am deliriously happy and alive in this moment.

My mind is free to wander in an environment like this – my thoughts are naked, but I do not feel vulnerable. I have no fear of judgement or criticism – I belong here. This town has always felt like home and it always seems to pull words out of me.

I have never felt more sure of myself as a writer than right now.

This is how I’ve always pictured myself – passing a Saturday afternoon away sitting in a quaint coffeehouse, in a window seat, observing those around me and writing. If I were asked right now to define bliss, this moment would be it.

I love people watching; it stirs my creativity. There are people all from different walks of life populating this place; this is why I adore small college towns such as this. On this particular day some people are sitting quietly reading or writing, like myself, yet others are having loud conversations and catching up on the latest gossip.

I look around the room and my mind starts to wander…

I still have the hope that my life might end up imitating a romantic comedy – so far it has been along the lines of a tragedy mixed with black comedy, with miniscule sections of romance sprinkled in here and there.

Perhaps I will one day meet the love of my life in a place and town such as this.

I want and need a writer or artist, like myself. I crave a man that will want to take the time to get inside of my head and try to help me make sense of the madness running rampant.

I just want a man to take my hand, look me in the eyes and tell me that everything will be ok. I need him to take an honest and vested interest in my art – if he’s not reading my writing, he doesn’t truly love or care about me. I am my art. I really don’t need understanding or sense made of my ramblings – just respect.

I feel so incredibly at home in this town – I need to find a way to make this scenario part of my everyday life.

apollo oberlinThe sun is setting in the distance with a warm and promising glow that it will return once again tomorrow to warm these streets and infuse people with its happy presence.

The street lights just turned on outside and the movie theater has let out of its recent showing; families and couples now line the sidewalk, walking to their next destination.

My cup of coffee nears its end… as does this piece of writing.

Buona notte a tutti… a domani.