Misfits #3: spoonfuls of spells

I have been trying to decide whether we would drink coffee, tea or something stronger. Caffeine addict that I am, the temptation would be to serve extra strong coffee and then gabble away nineteen to the dozen until deep into the night, only retreating to our beds at dawn once we had revealed far too much, shed too many tears, reached a point of acute embarrassment and put the entire world to rights.

What are you like when you’re wired? Tell me.

So at the moment, having thought about this far too much considering I’m not sure when or indeed if it will ever happen, I’m favouring huge mugs filled to the rim with hot, sweet tea. There’s no rush, or there shouldn’t be. We will try and take a moment to reflect, to tread delicately through each other’s psyche, not straying from the path until we’re tentatively given the first permission to do so. Let’s relax, clasp our fingers round the warming vessels and thaw out in company.

What are you like when you’re calm? Tell me.

There’s the temptation to talk and to never stop, now that we’re finally all here. But no, go to sleep early. Please. We need to rest and recharge and recuperate within our own heads. Because tomorrow the smell of fresh coffee will be percolating our senses all day. By the evening, we’ll be sitting surrounded by screwed-up paper, our cheeks aflame with edgy laughter. We will have resorted to writing on the walls, uncaring about the surface scrawls because the next day’s coat of paint will be another step in this process of enthusiastically unravelling ourselves.

Creating rather than thinking. Because. Because this is what we do: we create, in each and every sense of the word. That’s the secret we always knew about each other, but which we could never dare to phrase so blatantly or so boldly until this moment. Until we were sat huddled over this scratched and rickety table, immersed in our gleeful conspiracy of whispers and smiles and widening eyes, sharing knowing glances and in-jokes like we’re the oldest of old friends. Sharing them as if they had been points of reference for years, rather than ideas that had only spilled out of our minds and into our mouths mere minutes before.

When shall we three meet again? In thunder, lightning or in rain? In sunlight, moonlight or artificial light?