I start my morning with coffee, always.
It is the same daily ritual, always.
I awake when I feel it is the right time.
Slowly I get out of bed.
More than often the bed is slept just by me.
Loneliness paints the bed in a colourless way.
I walk down the stairs, two staircases made of wood and without any squeaking sound.
The kitchen is a desolate place.
It is cold, empty and monotone in colour.
I pour just the right amount of water in the kettle and put it on the stove.
I turn on the gas and wait for it to boil.
I prepare the filter and cup.
I grab my bag of beans, grinded beans.
I try and remind myself to buy a coffee grinder.
I take out one scoop of grind and let it slide into the filter.
Steam rises from the kettle.
The water is boiling.
I turn off the gas.
I slowly start pouring the hot water onto the grind.
The first pour, ever so gentle, makes the grind bloom.
Delicate scents escape up into the air.
A second, and even a third pour find their way into the filter.
I can hear the coffee drip into the cup like a slow, rhythmic beat.
The pouring is done.
The coffee is ready.
I take my cup and go upstairs, just the one staircase.
I open the window blinds, I open the terrace doors.
A blend of sun, spring air and aromatic coffee come together.
I take a sip and stare onto the horizon.
A minimal skyline of houses and offices, made to mix together perfectly.
Two worlds caught in a twilight.
The coffee makes me see a less colder place.