Through my window on this crisp cold autumn morning, I hear the acorns plummet into the bed of dry oak leaves below. Carla Bruni’s vocal tones find their way out of my music dock speakers and entangle themselves into the steam escaping my honey sweetened rooibos tea. It feels like what I have always imagined self contentment to be a fraction of. If I were to describe the taste of life this morning, I would probably look onto the ground as if my answer would germinate from there and say, “It tastes like milk-less rooibos with drips of honey and wisps french music”. But again, that could just be me still drunk from the aftertaste of a noncommittal lover’s deep kisses from last night’s visit.
-frank malaba- (the morning minute collection series)