Microrebellion

Sometimes in the afternoon at work, when I still have a pile of unread emails, deadlines breathing down my neck, and I should really be prepping for an important audit or something like that—sometimes, late in the day, my thoughts slip sideways, and I start thinking, plain and simple, whether I should have another coffee.

The fourth or fifth.

Coffee from that sturdy machine in the little kitchen, where the lights are probably off by now and most of the administrative building already echoing with emptiness.

They say coffee this late isn’t good for you.

Then again—who knows what the Italians would say.

Still, another coffee wouldn’t make much sense, since I’ll be packing up and heading home soon anyway.

I guess I’m just… entertaining the thought. Thinking it wouldn’t be so bad to just—drift off for a moment.

Just imagine it.

The sound of the coffee machine starting up, echoing down the corridor.

That brown trickle of hot liquid starting to flow.

Picture the dark substance in a white porcelain cup.

That dull, unremarkable, perfectly interchangeable coffee mug slowly filling.

And into it, my entire tired mind pours itself.

Well, when I think about it like that, I start to feel like one more coffee before leaving might actually be nice.

A bitter full stop to this sleepy day.

One last shot of caffeine.

A quiet little freak-out.

Then collapse into my own neurosis.

So look—hey—listen—

I’m gonna do it. I’m having that one extra coffee. I just am.

Not that I even really want it, but if I don’t get up from this desk, walk away from this screen, and go make myself that coffee, it’ll feel like a loss.

A big loss in the fight for some goddamn authenticity in my own life.

Sometimes, a bit of rebellion is the best thing you can do.

To remind yourself you’re alive.

That you’re not just an automated instrument.

To remember what it feels like to regain control, even for a moment.

So I get up, leave the office—head straight to the kitchenette.

The coffee machine’s already shut down, so I wake it with my right index finger.

It starts up like some half-asleep monster.

Groaning and gurgling—makes you want to apologize for poking it.

Finally, it coughs to life and stands at my service.

I prescribe myself seventy milliliters of introverted rebellion, medium strength, in one of those ugly little mugs.

No sugar. No milk, of course.

Just lungo, as someone might say casually—if I weren’t here completely alone.

I lean my back against the wall and let the mug warm my fingertips.

I wait for the coffee to cool a little, to breathe.

I take a sip and wonder, in the silence, whether I even know how to tell a good coffee from a bad one.

I definitely know the kind I don’t like, but good? That’s harder to say.

But I can tell when I’ve landed in the middle of a truly great moment—and this, let me tell you, is one of them.

Because it’s actually not such a bad thing to be kind to yourself.

To do something that seems absurd, like inviting yourself for a cup of coffee—

To remind yourself that you still matter,

To give your authentic self a bit of peace.

And once I feel like I’ve managed—just for today—to save my own soul,

I pour the rest of the not-all-that-great coffee down the sink and finally head home.