General

Cafe tables adorn the sun-kissed grey as if placed there at the tip of an artists brush.

By Angela Abraham, @daisydescriptionari, December 21, 2020.
General

The ambiance of the cafe, its homey aroma, draws my soul into its cocoon for a few blessed moments.

By Angela Abraham, @daisydescriptionari, December 21, 2020.
General

The cafe in such honeyed hues brings a sweetness to the day, coaxing an inner smile that warms from within.

By Angela Abraham, @daisydescriptionari, December 21, 2020.
General

The cafe tables in their rich deep browns, the aroma with its dark aromatic perfume, call me in from the wintry day.

By Angela Abraham, @daisydescriptionari, December 21, 2020.
General

In the cafe we sit, my friend and I, helping each other find ways to make our lives and loves better. We are each other's best doctor and medicine combined. The coffee, the music and the smile of someone who cares, it's a fragment of heaven, a chance to enjoy company and to start to want more.

General

The cafe is my refuge, this place I can make believe that I am in a caring society. At the tables are my imaginary friends in a transient community. We are born to need social bonds. We are born to need a sense of others, even if we are alone. It is terrible for the higher brain to know that we are solitary, that our life path has asked us to learn how to be the warrior instead of the cosseted, the protector and not the protected. Yet there is a need to fool the senses that this society is a safe place and we belong to a tribe. So in this cafe, among the noises of people, their scent, their occasional glances and the chatter of the baristas, I give my primitive brain a little of what it craves, just enough to see me though.

General

In the coffee shop we are as awkward lovers, pretending to be there of convenience, afraid of our need to connect to one another. This place filled with people always so close and so far apart... this is the community of our era... as close as we can be without admitting the truth.

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It's early and the machines are yet to warm, so I ponder this chance to rest a moment longer, to drink in the aroma of this place. The barista has tired eyes, yet there is that glimmer, a give away of her good heart. She's one of those surviving sparks, one of the ones who held on to who they really are. I ask for my danish to be warmed, apologizing amid my own tired smile, "Sorry, I'm just feeling like being a bit of a fuss pot today."

I see her spark glow a little brighter, her face more relaxed, a smidge more joy in her eyes, "That's alright, dear, you be a fuss pot."

I laugh unexpectedly, and I know that I'm feeling that tiny bit better too, "Thanks for indulging my fuss-pot-ism. I needed that."

General

By day this cafe is the colour of supermarket oranges, it has that shiny look, and the jazz pours out of the open doors along with the aroma of fresh baked lasagne.

By Angela Abraham, @daisydescriptionari, January 27, 2015*.