Sometimes I just miss me, my thoughts, and what it is to be happy. This cup of black coffee, strangers I could have run into, places I could have been in now. But now I am here with the perfect kind of black. The smell, the freedom. I can be everywhere. I can be everybody.  

I stare into bottom of my cup. Black is never a sad color. Although it’s worn in funerals. In big ceremonies. I think people wear it to stand out. It shows a contrast against their skin. They want to be noticed but subtle. I hate this word, subtle. It’s delusional and charming. Maybe it’s why I’m always drawn into black. Maybe I should love white instead.

I could wear white. All white. It’s even a trend now. I could order a cup of hot white chocolate instead of coffee.  I could stare at the clouds. Weave weird new faces. Laugh at them and the way they surprise me. The shapes… I could handle the white page of my notebook I have to face every morning. Color it up with white words. Foamy and plain. But white scares me. It’s just very white. Black is purer. Black is more human.

I thought about the black and white pictures I used to admire. They are never black and white. They are grey.  Just different shades of grey. Exquisite and dreamy. It’s the way I remember every building. Every special face. The optimistic spice seller with  Mashmoom flower tucked to his right ear, the Madame in high heels in a feeble attempt to catch the train, high school couples. Clouds of smoke, the sound of coffee machines, my feminist grandmother. Grey faces. Grey buildings. Grey memories. Grey sounds. It’s a world of truth, here.

I love to write about it. It makes me want to listen to Phillip Glass. Draw my own world of glass. But I will always wonder about the next wild party. The new friends. I just love people as much as I love this. To write.