Journeys and Star Gazing

Coffee Cup conquistadors, I have problems of vision in this midnight age. I see the eye of a hurricane within each loss and gain. I lose treasures all day and night through these paper walls. To top it all—gurus don’t come around here no more.

Brothers and sisters, we stand at the edge of civilization, a unified force. As we sipped our coffee, we observed each other’s movements, recognizing the cosmic significance of every gesture. Some of us ascended the mount of Golgotha with reverence, each touch a sacred act. The sober one, Sophie, refers to it as the Skull. Others of us, with spider-leg vision, delicately traversed the coffee grounds, seeing beyond the visible, like the delicate threads of fate. In this shared experience, we are all part of a larger narrative, connected by our observations and interpretations.

We gazed upon a scattered army, initially hazy, but with the valour of conquistadors, we honed in sharply. The porcelain edge of the cup transformed into a precipice. As we peered over, an alien script unfolded, twisting like crystal algae on white china. The white China, akin to the sterile laboratories of Science. The depth of this cup, viewed from the edge, was dizzying, shrouded in mystery. This cup, a vessel of unknown depths, invites us to wonder and contemplate its secrets.

The saucers flew while my cup’s base remained anchored to the tabletop. At the culmination of our exploration, at the far reaches of spider-web logic, a talking salt shaker appeared. “Hey! It’s not as dire as you believe!” it proclaimed, igniting a sense of adventure and discovery.

I thought I saw Lot’s wife, her form engraved upon my forehead, a silent spectre watching from the salt shaker’s voice.

Shapes, shapes danced upon the surface of my cup—who’s the best survivor of them all? The ones who reach for the North Pole? The ones who head for the South? The ones who climb to the roof of the world? Or the ones who dive for the floor? Is it we, the coffee brigade, stirring life’s bitter brew? With the world’s calibrated spoon, we stir the dissolved sugar cube. The cube is a reminder of the shape we’re locked in. The cube is a symbol of the microchips stirring in the scientific soup of existence.

I see the eye of the hurricane within each loss and gain. I lose treasures all day and night through these fragile paper walls. And to top it all—gurus don’t come around here anymore.