I have felt coffee to be my ally for years now. I haven’t actually considered it an inspiration-triggering device, but I have come to indulge in larger and larger daily quantities.
I have grown interested in coffee’s literary history, entailing my own fascination with the drink. It was impossible in my mind not to be able to find worthy strings of thought on its benefits, cynical retorts about its heart-acceleration effects or odes dedicated to its magical aroma. I imagined lines going on and on about the enticing touch it has on the human being who engulfs in the scented vapours floating above hot cups of coffee. I wondered if any famous writer had ever been indelibly charmed by a spiced coffee drink, as I was won over by the first ever tasted cinnamon coffee. I asked myself more than once if any scientist had ever attempted to identify the alchemy inside the brewing that has allowed coffee to become the most popular drink. I even went as far as to question humankind history for crimes committed over a hot pot of java. I ran through the quotes that I came across, I caressed some with my own train of thought, I dispatched others on account of superficiality and I appreciated quite a few for their seasoned wit. I have a personal collection of tiny scraps of paper, bits of old calendars and an archived folder with electronic documents, all related to coffee remarks.
Although I am quite aware that my searches are not exhaustive – I will keep digging for coffee-tributary material –, I was predominantly thwarted by what seemed to me too little, too light, too timid. I am still waiting for a pièce de résistance to crown my findings. I suppose I am waiting for somebody to put in writing precisely how I feel towards coffee. And maybe, just maybe, I should be the one doing the writing instead of expecting an unknown figure to read my mind.