The Bitterest Coffee

The depths of a precipice, named depression

You say, ‘Have you ever had a coffee with the loneliness?’

I am just listening. You need to talk. I am here — like a part of the interior.

You continue, ‘It is so bitter and so intense. Can you imagine? Like you taste coffee for the first time…’

Your eyes are gloomy and darker than ever.

‘But she doesn’t like coffee. No. Would she like a glass of wine? This is what I am asking her. My loneliness. But she hardly gives me answers. So I stand up and fill a glass of wine. I look at the ruby liquid and sigh.’

It is silent now. Do you count the seconds? Do you talk to her inside you? Your skin is pale. Your hands tremble. Slightly. I haven’t noticed that before. I am here to listen. Please, say something!

You raise your head and utter, ‘She may smash me if she decides. The end of this shitty play! The shitty play of my life! But, you know, my friend, it is not so easy. Things do not happen this way. The suffering is important. We must suffer! She is the heaviest burden I’ve ever carried. If I ask her when will be the end of this ugly life, she grins. And grins. Then takes a sip from the glass, and the liquid flickers. A drop slides on her chin. It is red. Scarlet.’

You are away. Your thoughts float somewhere. I won’t interrupt you. You need this silence. My presence is not essential. I am a listener. You are the one who talks.

‘Sometimes I call my death. I know this is a sin. Not because of the religion. But because life is a gift. We must not throw this gift like it is trash. But she is there, and I cannot breathe. She suffocates me. She is an intruder. But I cannot kick her out! She will leave when she decides. And we keep on drinking. She drinks wine. I drink this bitter coffee. Bitter as life. My life. Do you think if I disappear, someone will remember me?’

I try to say something, but you stop me.

‘I don’t care. I don’t need flowers on my grave. They will be dead when someone puts them on the ground. As dead as my body. Do you think there is relief after death? Is it like the bottom of this cup of coffee? I see a drawing there. A broken heart. This is my heart. My exhausted heart. Maybe soon, it will stop beating. No use of it.’

You take the cup and look inside. What is so important there?

You say, ‘There is nothing more in the cup. Just loneliness. She is still here. Her glass is still full to the brim. She drinks, and drinks, and drinks. Is it wine that she drinks?’

You look straight ahead.

‘There are clots inside. She drinks my blood.’

Maybe you’ve never felt the endless darkness of depression. The lines above are just a slightly ajar door, showing the emptiness that one may feel when the invisible nails take and hold the soul. Tight. All seems meaningless. Like an opened precipice before your face. Before your mind. You feel all alone. As if there is nobody else on this Earth. It is not important how many people are here around you. You’re stuck in your desperation.

These lines are not my thoughts. They are a monologue of a friend. Months after that, he explained to me that revealing these thoughts helped him to step over the bounds of darkness and find his way out of the depths of depression. Sometimes, even talking is too difficult. But if you try to release from what is suffocating you, it helps.

Thank you for reading this story.

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