05/08/2026
๐๐๐ง๐๐ฅ๐๐ฅ๐ฌ | ๐๐ฎ๐ณรฉ ๐ณ๐ผ๐ฟ ๐๐ต๐ฒ ๐๐ฟ๐ผ๐ธ๐ฒ๐ป
Is there anything better than a cup of coffee to liven up a restless soul?
Picture a cafรฉ somewhere hidden from the city center, often overlooked by the crowded streets, towering skyscrapers, and the bustling office buildings.
Sitting at the street corner, where cars and people pass by and stare but are never bothered enough to enter.
The inside of the cafรฉ is peaceful; it doesn't have blaring industrial lights, but rather candles and lamps that rest the eyes from the luminous city.
Rickety wooden tables, stained cushioned chairs, creeping plants, and not much of a catalogue of options for food; all this reminiscent of home.
Upon entering, a cloud of warm espresso aroma greets you, with a barista who wonโt even look at you in the eye.
He has been doing this job for years.
Even with this, customers still enter as if the place was just what they were looking for.
A rest from the noise. A quiet place to linger. A home to heal.
Some stay for weeks, others for months, ordering. Right until the empty cup of their heart is filled.
Filled with coffee the barista brews, but wonโt drink himself.
Making remedies for others whilst he suffers the same fate.
Deep inside his troubled heart, the Lord knows how much he bleeds.
Healing otherโs cuts and bruises, pouring out their weary sorrows.
One cup at a time.
๐๐๐ฝ๐, ๐ฏ๐ฟ๐ผ๐ธ๐ฒ๐ป ๐ฎ๐ป๐ฑ ๐ฏ๐ฟ๐๐ถ๐๐ฒ๐ฑ; ๐ฐ๐ผ๐ณ๐ณ๐ฒ๐ฒ, ๐ฏ๐ฟ๐ผ๐ธ๐ฒ๐ป ๐ฎ๐ป๐ฑ ๐ฏ๐ฟ๐ฒ๐๐ฒ๐ฑ
Cracked cups leak the love he pours in, while shattered cups are powerless to hold his warm embrace.
Hearts too broken are simply incapable of accepting the love they are given.
Who would be willing to heal a wounded heart anyway?
Inexperienced hands cannot repair chipped and fractured cups.
And yetโthey try.
Piece by piece, as the jagged shards of porcelain turn scarlet from the bleeding fingers that mend them.
A shattered cup after another.
Too long, for far too long.
Anxiety for breakfast, agony for lunch, and heart ache to top off the day.
Barista work is not for the faint of heart.
Memorizing orders is exhausting.
Balancing the weight of others, while burdened by his own miseries.
Hidden hypocrisy masked by a smiling face.
Some day, the barista will leave his apron, and venture into the promising city.
Heโd still brew coffees, but for once in his life, heโll pour himself a cup.
Thenโonly then shall he taste the sweet and savoriness of love.
Relish in the warmth of a doubtless embrace.
But until then, a hard fact remains.
This is me; I am the cafรฉ.
All who are weary and heavy laden, can weep and wail on my shoulder.
I am the barista.
Like the coffee I brew, I pour myself out for the lost and weary.
Helping those who are helpless, at the expense of my sanity.
After all, what else is better than a warm cup of coffee?
To rest from the open, in a cafรฉ for the broken.
via Ivan Nicko P. Dalayap |
