Sometimes I wonder what is it that is worth believing in. And I mean worth it in the sense that I would stick my neck out in the chilling air or shed even a drop of blood for this idea; this concept of believing. What would I choose that would be so detrimentally important to me, that I listened to the essays in English this afternoon, really listened, and dug deep for the root and heart beating of their concept.

But what if there really are no clear and concise beliefs? What if they are just vague, groundless opinion like the foggy haze that the weather man swears on his too-tight, clown resembling necktie will go away in the next few days. Those vague opinions that should fall through always disappoint; such as the weather- which we all know is planning to stick around to rain on our parades (literally) and the weather man is probably sweating through his socks, thinking over how long he has until the town comes after him and tightens that necktie around his neck a noose.

The weather man put his trust; his belief in the science of weather. It let him down. Because the truth is, if you have something you are strong enough to believe in so much that you will bet on its power to change us all in some way, shape or form then you have something that you rely on so desperately to lose. Once it’s lost the magic, the spark of enthusiasm from exploring the cave of something untapped to the mind is gone and it can never be brought back. The truth that I have found, that many have yet to discover is that believing is like the elusive figure of Santa, the Easter bunny, or a hoax of a magic trick preformed by a second-rate, card-chucking magician.

The only thing I know for sure, is that believing in something so much can be deceiving, like poison to the mind. The only cure I have found in my fifteen years here is to just stop believing all together.
My baby finger draws circles with the diluted coffee water staining the dole around the porcelain rim. A voice that is the strained, forced kind of happy startles me up from my core; “Another cup, sweetie?” the waitress asks as if she just dry swallowed a whole box of the Splenda packets they keep under the counter and used a shake-up can of whipped cream as mouth wash- too sweet. She looked about mid fifties, I knew because her apron wrapped snug around the extra “muscle”, as my mother would tell me, near her waist. And she was on the edge of just blowing away into thin air, which was plain for anyone to see.

A slight twitch made the boiling coffee pot shake, coffee black like oil pour over the rim and burn the twisted, tensed blue veins in her wrist. This waitress, who if I had to guess, comes home every night to an ungrateful husband of twenty or so years, watching reality shows about towing trucks and beer stains to wash off of rancid undershirts piled up in the shoebox wash room, gave up on something too- a long, long time ago. Just maybe, she gave up on being happy and that is what the fake smile is for- not an expression of exhaustion from bratty and overbearing costumers, but the conciliation prize of synthetic happiness when she looks in the mirror.

She gave up on something precious to human survival, and just that spec of a realization, an awakening could make burning coffee spout out of my throat. I realized that people don’t just give up their pretentious goals or juvenile aspirations; they have the ability to un-want the simple things that are essential to one’s life. “No, thank you.” The black oil in the first cup burned in my throat as I choked.







I flattened two crumpled bills that, most likely went in the wash several times, on the counter and listened to the almost lively chirp of the door bell as I stepped passed the depressing coffee shop in Limestone (population: 900 nobodies), the waitress I pitied, and a coffee as black and deep as my own thought; into the world.

A snake of hot, humid coffee breath swung in the air and sat on the bridge of my nose taunting me like the way this town always did- subtly, but a powerful irking. Maybe, the next time I’ll try a drink with a scent slightly less forceful and mighty as a black coffee at the Brookside Brewery. With the heat of the mug still floating from my fingers, I thought the next time I’ll try something sweeter; like the chocolate milkshakes from Barney’s Burgers which all of the toddlers seem to pull hair and nab binkies for. Sweet things make it easier for the unknowing, or those unwilling to take a good look, to believe in things that could never be done.