A Cup of Coffee, A Million Stories
Sometimes I find myself wanting a cup of coffee — whether it be with friends, alone during the heavy rain, or whatever the appropriate situation may arise. It is but the same taste, exactly the same product and the same aftertaste. But it felt different every time, at least for me.
Sometimes, I do not want the coffee itself, but the accompanying friend. Yes, coffee is just like that. If I want to hang out with friends, does coffee play a role in deciding that? No. But it does help to find a spot to chill. Are the heavy rain going to stop if I brew a cup of coffee? It will still pouring down for hours ahead. But at least, I could be a little warmer waiting for the storm to pass. It is a little friend who will not disappoint me — my pair of ears who listens and give a helping hand.
At one office, I am constantly coffee-ing with my fellow workers — ordering the multitude of coffee options every afternoon break. From the drizzled caramel to the bitter lemon, every different coffee flavor is a different story, everyday. Sometimes sweet, sometimes bitter, sometimes a little bit of both, but always coffee. It is not that the coffee itself matters most, but it is the start and the ending for something I never knew existed; stories.
Some say that things that are associated with the memories are the ones that will kindly flashes them back, deep in your brain, rekindling the flame of emotion that was once lit — and hold them dearly. Tastes of coffee and it’s scent may sent me back to those dear memories, and hoping for a second coming, and although it may or may not will happen sometime in the future, I am more than glad to know that I’ve experienced it — and to relive it is a blessing that goes unnoticed sometimes.
Coffee wasn’t always my friend, especially during the childhood and teenage years. The ban from my parents, deeming coffee is “not for kids”, and the lack of coffeeshop as far as the eyes could see meant the option for drinking was limited. It isn’t the go-to choice and some vendors couldn’t make it to-go ( Life in the rural places wasn’t always easy, you know ). Until high school. Until college. Until work.
Which sparks the question whilst I was writing this article — am I over-romanticizing a thing? Is it carrying a sentimental value for me, or is it just me that was clinging unto something empty? Alas, the answer lies somewhere in the middle. It may be a completely different thing for whomever reading this. But the first thing that pops up in your mind; it’s probably right.
A coffee cup carries a million memories with me, not that it’s so overused that it lost it’s meaning, but also something worth noting every time something happens. It’s just so happens to be at my side, all the time; isn’t that something that I hold dear? It does bring a meaning, and also at the same time, meaningless. A paradox that I like being around; it carries no answer and I like it like that.
I hope my cup of coffee stays like that — for all the time it brings and the time it will. And knowing well that it doesn’t talk back…yeah, it probably will. Sometimes the best of friends are the silent ones, and this one fits all the description just right. And I don’t even need the longing for moments like these. They will come eventually, through one way or the other, and the paper cup come and go again,
And I love it like that.
