Coffee-Stained Pages

Coffee-Stained Pages
Suggested by: Grace Heimerl

Water. Grounds. Brew. Pour. Cream. Sugar. Stir. Sip.

How many times have I gone through this routine? As the nights wears on and I wear out, any little boost of energy will help. A moment to myself, letting the words formulate in my head, readying to dance their way across my fingers.

How many times have I gone through this routine? I sit at my desk, ready to dive back in to the sea of ink, only to falter at the end of the pier. My goggles filling with steam; the lamp light blistering on my skin; the vastness of the paper ocean an overwhelming sight to behold. I push myself back from the edge and grab hold of my glass and take a sip, and another, and another. I calm. I drink in the smell of the sea before me, willing my nerves to allow me to set sail without the fear of tipping or losing course as I have so many times already. 

How many times have I gone through this routine? The amount of time I have spent adrift on the lost waves of unconscious memory has left me parched, for life, for escape from myself, for freedom of this task. I close my eyes and watch as the words sentence themselves to a lifetime of imprisonment in the dark recesses of my mind, locked away in a cold and lonely cell, feeling unwanted and unloved. I open my eyes and shed a tear for the poor souls that may never dance on the paper waves again.

How many times have I gone thought this routine? I amble back to the kitchen. Water. Grounds. Brew. I pace back and forth, trying to release the pressure from myself, to relax, to breathe. Pour. Cream. Sugar. Stir. Sip. I inhale the bitterness and exhale the blandness. A fervent energy now coursing through my veins. I go back to take aim once again at my task. Strewn about the pages, dark rings surround the words that are already set in place, wrangling them in their pens, stopping them from crashing in to one another, from drowning my thoughts as soon as they dive into the ocean, formulating the beginning of a new adventure. A click; from somewhere deep inside I feel the doors swing wide as the imprisoned rush forth to freedom, down my arm, into my hand, ready to dance through the long night, across the paper waves, and into the rising sun of dawn.

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