True Love of Coffee

There comes a moment, when trust and faith become meaningless. Little words that define nothing, as if black had no white. They share such a common theme that they are inherently held together, like a body and soul.

Yet my body lacks a soul. I swear that my breath causes my lungs to raise, only if I live. I am not unique or special in construction, only an automation of blood and flesh that is different because of the error of my creation. I do want to be different. I want to be normal.

If indeed I was created, would not my body be worthy of holding something as special as a soul? If I could breathe, would it not be to fuel the light within me, to ignite the passion of my spirit?

I would only wish that my face was not so hideous, that the people I see would know I cared for them. Someone should love me. I am not broken, or I hope that I am not. Am I not more than the monster they think me to be?

Too many questions. Too many indeed. If I could speak, perhaps I could ask Frankenstein to fix his creation.

This entry was posted on Monday, September 18th, 2006 at 9:51 pm and is filed under Coffee - Volume Two, Regret, Loss, Spiritual. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.