Brightly Coloured Coffee Cup

I have never been the victim of a wonderful plot. My story would never be a best seller or someone’s favourite read. Should my life be a book, boredom would strike you down on page one. When I speak of my thoughts to another, their eyes simply droop with the weight of inescapable monotony. They’d think the churnings of my dull mind were nothing but petty words in the most boring order, lacking any real substance.

I first began to ponder on the subject of anecdotal writing as I ordered my ritualistic cup of coffee, from a woman no more than two years my senior. The look of irritation scored her face as I shyly handed over a large fist full of mucky coins as I had done the day before, and the day before that, always with two pence left over for the charity tin. It’s depression served with a false smile. As usual, it's the deepest shade of brown, with a thick film forming even before its polystyrene prison is in my freezing mits. I crave a bright, plastic cup. One of those with the cardboard around its midsection, to protect my fingers as they ache for the comfort of gloves. Something with a pleasant picture on the front would be nice. I suppose the coffee does match the place here, at least. Beige, undecorated walls with stained tiling, and an unquestionable aroma of cigarette smoke, stale perfume and black coffee that assaults your nostrils as you walk in. I could go to the coffee shop down the street, granted. However, they have one of those doors that leaves it ambiguous as to whether it’s push or pull. In all honesty, it’s not worth the heart pounding in my throat and the many scenarios playing out on loop. Fragments of possible humiliation over pushing a pull door. No, it’s not worth it, even if the only thing with a breath of life here is the relentless ticking of the clock in the corner of the room. I think the rest of us died some time ago, or were never really alive in the first place. It’s like living in a haunted town, except the only ghosts are those of happy times that once existed some time ago.

It feels like there’s a vice around my chest, squeezing just enough every day to feel in constant pain, killing me a little more every waking moment. What was once light has been replaced with a terrifying darkness, a shadow that is permanently staining every memory. Every time I look up at the sky, it just brings the promise of more storms. Life is lonely. Loneliness sounds like such an easy thing to fix: find a friend, reach out to someone who cares. But what do you do when your loved ones are like paper chains in the rain? As human beings, we’re designed to crave comfort, like we do brightly coloured coffee cups. When the world is cold and empty, our flesh throbs with the need to be touched, for the warmth of an embrace. We are born to be loved and nurtured, to have social bonds with one another. Sometimes I wish I could melt away in the rain like those paper people, fade away into nothing.

That’s what you want though, isn’t it? You used to say that nothing is free, and you’re right aren’t you, my love? Everything you gave me was a debt to cash in whenever you needed it. Our conversations were cruel competitions, and you always came out of it victorious. You set out to win, you always did, even if that meant portraying yourself as the victim. In truth, you were the bully you complained terrorised your youth, you installed constant guilt and obligation within my very soul, you clouded my thinking, you poisoned me. Still, I strove to help you. I accepted the bashings to my ego and personality like a ship does the waves, to come to your aid. You told me you loved and needed me, that you couldn’t possibly live without me. It’s now though that I know you aren’t capable of real love, you never were. I had to choose between staying in misery or finding a way out of this life that was killing my soul. You made me the bitter, inexpensive coffee, and you my polystyrene prison.

Even while I’m writing this, my emotions are jagged and insides tight. I feel like crying out. Crying to anyone in reach, “come sit with me, talk about the weather, eat chips with me, connect. I’m falling with no parachute.” I need a hug, even if it’s a verbal one, any form of kindness or recognition that I’m still alive because there are times where I don’t feel like I am anymore.

That’s the problem with anecdotal writing; what to write when there's a silence inside. There’s so little left of me that hasn’t been crushed in some way or another. It’s hard to pick myself up and dust myself off when the memories of your shackles around my hands and ankles still bind me to the ground. They still burn my skin. I’ll be free of them one day, I know that. But for the time being, I’ll rely on my crappy coffee to get me through the day until I’m brave enough to attempt the push or pull door. As for the writing task? Oh, I don’t know. I might write about love, seems like a safe bet.