There’s something oddly honest about black coffee. No sugar, no milk—no pretenses. Just the raw, unapologetic truth swirling in a cup. Sometimes I feel life is exactly like this brew. People keep trying to sweeten it with labels, possessions, and social validations, but at the core, it’s always a little bitter, a little bold, and strangely addictive.
As I take a sip, I wonder—maybe the bitterness isn’t a flaw but the very soul of the drink. Isn’t that true for us too? We keep running from the bitter parts of our journey—failures, heartbreaks, disappointments—but those are the moments that shape our flavor. Without them, we’d be as bland as lukewarm water.
The steam rising from my cup reminds me of fleeting thoughts. They come, they blur my vision for a while, and then they disappear. Some are worth inhaling deeply; others deserve to be exhaled without ceremony. And then there are the stubborn ones—those old memories and regrets that refuse to evaporate. I smile wryly at them, like one does at an old friend who still owes you money.
Funny thing is, black coffee doesn’t promise happiness—it promises awakening. Life, too, doesn’t owe us joy every morning. But it does nudge us awake, shaking us out of our illusions, reminding us to keep sipping, keep living, keep discovering our own aftertaste.
And as I take the last sip, I realize—life, like this coffee, is an acquired taste. Some never grow into it, some dilute it endlessly, and a few, a mad few, fall in love with its raw essence. I suppose I am learning to be one of them.
