That thing where you drink too much tea so you write about tea and it goes down a rabbithole
Tea is older than coffee, older than wine, older than beer, older than agriculture, older than language.
Drinking tea is drinking from a stream while kneeling on its muddy bank, our cupped hands filling with water that is clean but not pure.
Because there is no pure water. Pure water is just a notion, a word game. There is no pure water because water doesn’t exist to be pure. Water exists to be tea.
Rain water is tea, flavoured by atmospheric particles. Spring water is tea, flavoured by subterranean minerals and salts. Soft drink is tea. Coffee is tea. The ocean is tea.
Tea is primary. Tea is perfect, because tea is simple. Because tea is perfect it is enduring, eternal. Tea was waiting for us to be born. When we are gone there will still be tea. When the Earth is gone there will still be tea, in the darkness of space, in the tails of comets skirting the stars.
Drinking tea is drinking from the eternal stream, adding its moments to our own, allowing them to remind us what it is like to be outside of time, if only briefly.
Who wrote this?
If you are a writer of any kind read about the shortcuts I set up for friction-free writing.