On occasions when morning tremors hit, I cry. Tears not from the aches, from the thought my painting career may finish sooner than I’m ready for it to be.

      The casting of the die is almost done. I’m turning 31 soon. 35, a close friend said, is the year people either double down on their ways or you learn to live. Losing the cigs feels manageable; the coffee, however, does not. I allow myself few solaces; the rich, bitter flavor pushes away the weight of it all. When Decaf hits my tongue, words like unloved, carpet stains, and burnt light bulbs surface. The good stuff has an edge to it, cuts cleanly, cleanly like a perfect memory.

      With every sip, memories flow. Dinner with great-grandpa; starry nights on the high seas; teenage youth mispent in cafes–believing physical distance was a stand-in for meaning; and the rare mornings splitting a cup with those seldom few loves, I genuinely miss but wouldn’t go back to.

One of the baristas looked at me while ordering another quad shot, said it all, unsure of what to make of me. Or more, I didn’t know what to make of myself. My movements don’t feel erratic, though mildly misaligned with the room. Whether this is honest reflection or paranoia creeping in, I can’t tell. But the roots of my habits, though, I can.

      ‘You are going to be on top of a mountain by yourself,’ my father once said. His words were filled with guilt as an apology worked its way out. Guilt for all that he and my mom’s life had flowered into. You don’t have to become us, he frequently reminded me while growing up. Looking into the large window partitioning the patio from the cafe’s lobby, I see my reflection. I see them, and I see unique parts too.

      As the last little bits of now-cold coffee went through my lips, the drawing was complete. Poetic? Possibly. Did it have any meaning? More likely no. Artists are experts at mistaking damage for destiny–calling the confusion discipline.