I have a morning coffee spot. Every day, I wake up and make myself a cup of coffee. No matter where I am, where I go, the ritual remains the same. The coffee might be different, but at that approximate time, I enjoy a blissful sip of a morning cup of coffee. Somehow, the coffee tastes better when I am in that spot.

Every morning by the window with a faint morning sunshine in summers, a whiff of cold in winters, my coffee wakes me up gently, prepares me for the day, and in return only asks for my undivided attention for those fifteen minutes. I even fail to give it what it asks in the moment. Yet the coffee never fails me. Whenever and wherever.

Over the years, I have had several such coffee spots and times. My tangled mind looking for a place and space to unwind and untangle. My anxiety looking for a place to nestle and calm down. A quiet spot for inspiration and motivation to get me through whatever I am going through in that moment—one constant through my travels of life, helping me through anything and everything. Yet I wonder, what would the coffee beans say if they had to unwind the years of my life I spent with them? 

Would they be gentle?

I never went through any professional therapy. It shows.

I am from a generation that preferred to unload the state of mind on inanimate objects and interests rather than wanting to indulge in a healthy discussion. The same old music collection repeated through the years, the same TV series, the same movies, all on repeat, through the seasons, somehow magically fixing every turmoil within. Not to put too much weight on these interests, but if the same old video game helps me calm my mind and gets me through the day, I will always fall back on it. And I have. If the artists from my music collection, the characters from the TV series, movies, and video games were to talk to me, what would they advise me about my life?

Would they be considerate?

The question I continue to ask myself: what is it about these inanimate objects that speaks to me so clearly to always guide me on the right path?

What is it about these inanimate objects that comfort me during my trying times?

The answer is obvious, yet not clear.

There is very little logic in me depending on a few interests and hobbies to guide me through the complexities of my life. Yet, here I am, totally dependent on them. Some of these decisions have worked brilliantly well for me, while the debris of others that haven’t is still lingering around in my life. I, irrespective of the failures, continue to trust them. But why?

In an effort not to sound completely out of my mind, it is something or someone in these objects that speaks to me at the exact moment I need them. There is an uncanny familiarity to the voices.

I will be entering the fourth decade of my life soon. The voice from the inanimate objects has been with me through every decade that I can remember and trace back through my life. They have molded the life I currently live, like an intuition that I always carry with me, in good times and bad. The maturity of a human is defined by the ability to process emotions of the events in silence. If these inanimate objects have taught me anything, it is that the answer to everything comes from within and only within. The hike of uncertainty to the summit of decision doesn’t need to be lonely; these voices have accompanied me through every step. Over time, the cacophony of life has masked these voices, making them blurry and dreamy.

As I get older, the voices become faint as I drift away from these interests and hobbies. There are times when I look back at some rare moments and smile, remembering our connection and the way we colluded to create a perfect symphony of life decisions. 

Through the years, though, I have slowly replaced the voices from inanimate things with voices of experience and reason. The results have been more reliable, yet a feeling of void always haunts those decisions. Maybe it is the void of reasons.

I wonder what happens to these voices when I am not there to listen to them.

One last time, I want to revisit those objects, to feel and hear what they have to say about the life they helped me navigate.

Will they be proud? 

Will they be perplexed?

I wonder what the last thing they will say to me will be.

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