Because black’s good for somebody who’s aging a little

I brewed three tablespoonfuls of ground coffee, waited for it to soak the whole room in that comforting aroma that reminded me of my bare room when I was in college so many years ago. (It wasn’t that long ago, but it felt so long a time ago only a handful of murky memories are left for me to hold on to whenever the present proves too thorny to deal with.) When I was certain nothing more can be extracted from that sad-looking mulch, I took my black cup from the top drawer and poured into it smoking black enough to keep me wide awake for the next one hour. Sugarless.

Flooding one’s bloodstream with a healthy dose of caffeine has gone out of fashion for somebody my age. (There was something naively chic about gulping three-in-ones from those cheap giant mugs when I was in the university, but I am having difficulty comprehending it now.) It felt counterintuitive to rob oneself of sleep when sleep has long become a precious commodity, so precious I have long given up Saturday night outs all for the sake of those beautiful 6 hours of peace and paralysis.

But caffeine circulating in my body often feels delicious.


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