Coffee Shop.

My place.

This place, it's nice.
I wonder if it could be "my place"
Past experiences of finding a place to just be alone usually didn't go too swell, usually involving me getting attacked by almost microscopic nats or long exhausting walks up hills that seemed too big to conquer at times. It was supposed to be a place I can relax, not flop to my knees at. But as I laid back against the wooden bench bringing my drawing book closer, pulling my knees up to my chest, I couldn't help but think this may just be the place for me. The small hidden coffee shop was just a mile away from my home.
Not too far.
Not too close.
They didn't complain if I wrote and drew inside the place without buying a drink or sandwich, they understood. We all need time.
The smell was balanced.
Nothing too strong.
Nothing too sweet.
I felt at home as I placed down my bag with multiple pins and a single keychain. Drawing utensils laid next to my bag, waiting to be put to paper. It was all too good to be true as soft music played from the speakers that occupied each corner of the room. This made me slid my headphones to the side for once. As the multiple fans above my head twirled in sync it made the place feel as if a constant breeze was passing through. I couldn't help but feel inspired. As I scratched the last word of a story that I had been stuck on for weeks on end, I took in a small breath.
Released and thought...
Have I finally found "my place"?