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It is a gloomy midweek morning and all I can think about is it’s a good day to write.

The upcoming rain, the bed weather, the need to cuddle in a wool blanket or even just a black thick blazer, the smell of coffee which brings forth the promise of a productive day (but no, not work-wise) – do you have that too? Do you also associate coffee with a productive moment of writing? 

And because I’m just clicking away in an overdrive. 

Deviating thoughts: Whenever I try to will myself to write, I make myself a cup of smooth coffee latte at home (I made it up so its name may sound way better than the actual). It’s different than the coffee I make in the office, which is 3-in-1, fixed and easy to drink I can finish it in I think five minutes. At home, usually on Saturday mornings, with the security of a long undisturbed day, then I make my coffee. I’ll spend minutes in the kitchen heating water, finding the right cup, mixing nescafe, creamer and sugar, and then a little bit more nescafe because I always put just a little amount at the start. And I have my perfect coffee for at least half an hour.

Sometimes I’ll get the right words, sometimes just the good ones. Most often lately, none of them comes and I am left with a blank Word screen, its cursor blinking like hundreds of silent screams and my left brain murmurs the possibility of a more productive day studying stocks and actuarial notes.

But it’ll be okay, I say. I saved my perfect coffee for days gadammit. 

You met me at a sad phase of my life. When everything I do seems like a contradiction.

This is the reason I will never pass actuarial exams in a cinch. This is the what when I said “what I wasn’t sure of with you”. This is the face, the one I was looking to flip when I turned my cards, every twenty-different of them and I couldn’t find what I was looking for.

I have three cards on my table now. Three last cards if I can be blunt, to emphasize the overwhelming reality of my situation.

Because the thing is, I will never be happy this way. No matter how I conceal in buying the things I want, or the weekly date nights, or the endless movie viewings. It doesn’t work that way anymore. It no longer comes in waves. It’s a constant feeling everyday, that the life you knew and would have wanted years before are so far away from reality. And at 25, that feeling peels away at any happy pills you’ve got left.

Fortunately, this is not me just ranting away. Because in between blinks, I know what I want, and I know the right thing to do. I’ve got three cards left, and I had everything betted on those three (literally up to the last strand of my hair), and I feel good about it.

There’s got to be more to this.