The Coffee House

A dim blue light shines on the ground. I step into the building and a low chatter is continuously growing. Clanking of cups is heard with the soft hiss of a cappuccino machine. Poster sized pictures of the 20s hang on all walls against a deep red paint. A light cloud of cigarette smoke passes me as I take a seat at an old wooden table. In the distance a man plays his guitar on the little round stage, which also occupies poets on Friday and Saturday nights. Tonight is Tuesday and I’m here alone writing my poems of depression to share with Friday night crowd. I don’t drink coffee but instead have a mellow tea. It soothes the soul you know. At least that’s what I’ve heard. My writing has been deep lately; mostly about philosophical avenues of life. I’ve been reading a lot of Aristotle and Plato which has had me thinking more than usual. Good conversation is hard to find nowadays, most people enjoy conversing about uninteresting everyday topics, while I enjoy the more intense metaphysical discussions. I once read somewhere that we can learn about god from two books. The first book is the bible and the second book is the world itself, which if read the right way, can yield divine knowledge. I crave that divine knowledge.