Standing behind the counter-top bench with a dirty rag in hand, my posture was slump as falling commodity prices. My eyes were devoid with any hint of the exuberance that glistened for weeks on end when I first began. I let out a sigh as I looked towards the highway. Through the looking glass, I watched as the countless rivers of cars sped by. Life as an adult wasn’t as cracked up as people made it out to be. The freedom of choice, that limitless, seemingly never-ending expanse of independence was, as I realised, a misleading appearance. It was nothing more than a mirage, a flicker of hope that soon sunk into disappointment, anger, depression and then a resigned bitterness.
“You can do anything you want to, if you put your mind to it!” said the teachers, the parents, the motivational speeches, sermons, and all those feel-good movies of the summer. But the reality of limitations said otherwise, and all it took was the constant beat-down of rejection and failure for me to understand. It’s hard to see now, why I thought all those years ago, a distant memory on the horizon, that things would be different. But the mysticism, the attraction of adulthood, independence and freedom wasn’t all that worked up in the end. The so-called miracle of dreams, of success and ambition, never came.
The silence was deafening; a vacuum that created an overwhelming sense of emptiness. I didn’t need to open my eyes to see the refractions of dust, the stillness of any and all movement, hung frozen in the cast of shadow. I listened, but not even the nocturnal fat cats were tiptoeing across the bitumen. They were; instead, content to be snug as a bug in a rug. And with those all-too aware eyes, a baiting consciousness sleeping beneath the surface, closed in a whisker of a smile. That delightful smile, of content, was more of a knowing smirk that had me scowl. But I opened my eyes anyway, out of independence’s mind-forged manacles. The stars spread over the night sky, like diamond dust, failed to give way to the warm rays of dawn’s break.
I crawled my way around the house, tracing the well-worn path in the carpet. I braved the early chills in a mad, if not, stilted dash to the garage, and fumbled with the keys. The keys rattling incomprehensively together were as painful as the sound of fingernails scraping against chalkboard. I closed my eyes, and took a deep breath so as to regain my composure, and turned the ignition on. My eyes were glued to the road, my thoughts unfocused, astray in a haze of perpetual fatigue. I turned on the radio and lost myself in the music; once a reprieve now the worn threads on the screw.
The hours went by, dancing to the same, tired old tune. The dark, aromatic depths of the espresso stared at me teasingly, daring me to be lost in its shadow. I frothed the milk, getting that glossy consistency, and not for the first time did I wonder that there had to be more than this constant struggle of routine. But as usual, I let out a sigh, and picked up a dirty rag. There’s no point in struggling once you’re caught in a snare of predictability. The bitter darkness is the only thing lying at the bottom of this coffee mug.
I asked my friend, the next time we caught up in the urban sprawl, about what had to be my mid-life crisis. Even though I was twenty years too young. She was the picture of success, of ambition conquering routine. Her smile was bright, and warmed me like the rays of the sun. I already had begun to feel better in these few moments. And for the first time in a while, I felt as if that hope, the shining star, was within reach. But she answered quickly, a bit too quickly, and with an undertone of resignation. “The point is”, she said, “To try and do something rather than wallow around.” That begged the question how, but she shrugged and looked at me as if I was wearing a straightjacket. I stirred more sugar and milk into my coffee, hiding the bitterness of the harsh truth.
The alarm went off the next morning, with the tell tale, searing effects of a migraine punishing my head. Even though I was motionless, the world spun. But I kept my eyes closed, and let the darkness take me. There was comfort in it, and yet at the same time, an unknown factor to it. We’re afraid of the dark, of what lurks in it, but we’re fascinated and bewitched by it at the same time. Maybe that’s why we drink the darkness that is coffee.
