#coffee and writing

[logophilist1982]

Typing

[saturnianthots]

[ariasmontage]

Worked on my midterm paper in an interesting cafe. It was architecture-themed🤍

The latte was so good! It was just the right amount of milky.

[eloquenthubak1982]

Poem

[coffeeandthoughtspoetry]

“it’s so easy for you to love me when everything’s good.”

[itsawritblr]

Starting my writing day.

6 AM.

5 hours of writing and 5 cups of coffee later.

Still, it's better than working retail.

But then, everything is.

[cursemyexistences]

there’s just something about them

[jayalovesplanner]

new opportunities

here’s my first for 2025! haven’t posted journal spreads cuz i spent my days with the family & unplugging online :) but here’s my calligraphy work during the ny’s eve & my first visited coffee shop which has good coffee and very much near us. what a way to start this year!

how about you all? how is this year treating you for the past three days? i hope everything is doing well for yall. have a great rest of the day! 🤎

[incompleteddiaries]

We'll make memories our entire life,

But when I die I hope you keep them alive.

Safely with you till the day death comes.

Our memories will always stay there,

Fine and healthy between us.

Even if our bodies rot and turn to dust.

Don't worry my dear we'll meet again

In another life as strangers, to create

entire new memories together.

We'll meet, meet and meet somehow,

Because we're meant to be

In each and every life.

[giandnt]

I've been sitting in the middle of this lost city with a coffee that reminds me of a memory I could never let go of. Spending hours in the same spot sipping the bitter taste of what I thought we called our own. It was my favorite. It once became our signature even after you told me that it would never be the type of drink you would have. I know I sound funny, but it’s been two summers, and I still picture your face when you tell me that it's weird to have something bitter and sweet at the same time.

Yet you always grab my cup and take every last drop. So I didn't believe you.

I thought you wanted how I like my coffee—bitter and a bit sweet. Until you walked towards me one day with your cup, leaving mine half empty. You wanted me to taste it knowing pure sweetness isn’t for me. That's how I understand that your cup will never compliment how bitter I prefer is my coffee. You don't like it bitter as I never like sweets. We can't be like my coffee—bittersweet, and it was never our thing. It was just mine, never yours. You were never mine as I wasn't yours. It’s been two summers, and I like my coffee now bitter, without sweets, yet much stronger.

Bittersweet is never a thing, just how the memory of you will forever haunt me and will never be my sweet thing.

[logophilist1982]

Writing desk

[saturnianthots]

[ariasmontage]

a good brunch heals my soul.

[estellaedgewater]

Day 15 of writing until I finish my book.

I’ve learned that none of my words exist without coffee

[coffeeandthoughtspoetry]

When you mention the city I once called home, it doesn’t feel the same. It’s like a place I used to know, but now it’s just a name on a map, a vague outline in my mind. It’s like the faded pages of a book I never finished, the cover still intact but the story lost in time. Like the sound of an old friend’s voice, recognizable, but hollow, like it’s been erased by the years.

When I first saw the ocean in two years, it was nothing like I imagined. The waves crashed with a kind of raw power I never understood. I stood there, staring, feeling something I couldn’t place. It never occurred to me what it really meant, until the day the tide swept away what I had built on the shore, leaving only remnants behind.

The city, my childhood, the places that once held meaning, now feel like ghosts, memories that linger but don’t quite belong to me anymore. You can almost touch them, but they vanish as soon as your hand gets close. It’s like the smell of rain before it falls, the sound of a song you know but can’t remember the lyrics to. These things, beautiful yet elusive, remind me of a life that was, and a life that is no longer mine.

I tried to hold on, but like every sunset that disappears beyond the horizon, some things are meant to slip away. The streets I once walked, the people I once knew, have all blurred into a single, fading moment.

I’ll carve their names into the sidewalk, whisper their stories into the winds that pass by. Maybe the world won’t understand, but I will. I’ll remember what they meant, what they gave me, even if it’s only a shadow of what once was. Some things don’t end with a bang, but they fade, quietly, until there’s nothing left but the echo. But while the memory lingers, they’ll never truly be gone.

—patatas

____________________________

Facebook:- Midnight Melancholia

photo: Ivany Micah

[itsawritblr]

Why I don't write in coffee shops.

The writer to her left.

The writer to her right.

The guy behind her who just got an email that his brilliant, amazing, unique, genre-breaking experimental novel has been rejected for the 1000th time by publishers who don't even sell his kind of bullshit, so he takes it out on everybody.

The clumsy guy.