Lately, I’ve been focusing on my interest in writing more- chasing the idea of making it a part of myself. If I were to pursue poetry more often, an underlying symbol in all of my prose would be a coffee shop. Maybe that’ll work for me. Like Bukowski’s crudeness, that can be my schtick.
Coffee stirs an emotional response in me. I feel at home in those 15-60 minutes I spend in coffee shops watching people, or reading, or actually doing work. It could be the reason I write in the first place: a desire to spend more time on my own terms, sipping expensive bean water and being, or pretending to be, productive. Despite what I’ve accepted to be farcical promises of digital nomad bloggers, one of the PDFs I keep on my laptop, regularly open and stare longingly at the cover of, is Coffee Shop Entrepreneur. Maybe you have a similar dream to mine.
It’s the allure of the lifestyle. The fleeting glimpses we have at those seemingly fragile moments of clarity over a warm cup of Joe. It’s the welcoming smells of fresh grind, pastry, cedar, and sugar. It’s the gentle sounds of cutlery and ceramic clicking over conversation and soft jazz. A shared interaction and a cheeky smile with a barista to start your morning, or a sense of unity felt with everyone here seeking shelter from the day outside that lumbers on without us.
We’re exchanging glances at the pretty thing across the way over the top of our screens, and maybe we’ll share some conversation or maybe just flirting without words is all we need. The bloke next to us feverishly hammering at his keys, and we never know if he’s frantically trying to reach a deadline, or living our dream life, or both.