Coffee sip

is not just about taking inside your gastronomic bag the blend of that fine, pure liquaeous substance pressed from a dark-brownish bean, of that steamed extremely white milk (whether fat-free or not), and of that glucose-enriched crystals

is beyond the sheer pleasure of urgently satiating caffeine-deprivation

is beyond the sheer pain of having to wait to get a caffeine fix.

is about conspiring with time and rhyme with its tick and tack while slowly filling your senses with its potential- the rich aroma haled profusely inside your nostrils, the feverish-like temperature it emits to your palm, and the petite sight of its miniature scale (or depending on the size of the cup preferred)

instantaneously may lead you to a ripped, burnt tongue. You don't have to be reminded with that because coffees are always pre-cautioned to be hot. Worst thing you get is the failure of noticing the best that coffees are made of.

Babblings.

The rivers' started turning dry; your lips, getting burnt by the scorching hot wind. Scarced by water and plastered by the dust, would you let yourself suffer more? To whom shall they be? To the soul who's ever-longing, listening to those heartbeat faraway in a distant shelf. Or to the one you yearned for a million light years, but shows no sign of returning? Are you waiting for your haughtily self-proclaimed saviour? Or to the one who stands mightily to self-worth? Grey skies' far from returning. The mist to quench you un-dry's still at a point of no return. Pick-up or you shall never have the chance again.

Geared Up for a Change

I could use the hands of time to plunge deep into the seat of my memories and unlock the messages therein lies. Veritably at my own predilections, I could turn the tide into my favor and exhaust it 'til it summons for more oxygen to achieve equilibrium.

But in the past, I succumbed even to most finicky of whatever lies inside the corners of my mind. I succumb to self-inflicted pain. I mastered the art of self-pity, mulling over the unecessaries. I fancied over the illusion of ghosts and vampires I created.

All these are perfectly impressed in the memento of my soul. And it was as if that isn't enough. I started recording each blow, each fatal encounter, each misery-turned-absurdity into this virtual prism of visuals and pixels.

With words adjunct another, I created a mixture I have called profound but in truth shallow, mischievous, and loud--a melange that others tiresomely peeped through.

There are a fingerful who noticed me, who heeded to my subconsious desire for attention. In fleeting seconds, they penetrated my angst, read my soul, and reacted either mildy or harshly at my rantings-cum-vexations.

But like any larvae who had to undergo metamorphosis and fulfill its awaiting destiny, I too, must have my own share of a transformation that I craved for so long. From here, I could smell the sweet scent of emancipation. I could taste the sumptuous dish of freedom prepeared before me by the gods.

The favor is on me. I sense serenity popping any minute by now.

More than ever, I am now ready to use the hands of time to plunge deep into the seat of my memories and unlock the messages therein lies. I am never gonna let my past haunt me more. I'm gonna grasp smartly the uncertainties that my future entails.