My slim, sly hand, which dwelled on that thin border between “warm” and “freezing” and swayed gently to frost, seized the cup and the liquid it contained in a magical stealthy movement. I took a single look at the fluid substance that seemed to swim and bask under what little sunshine crept to stare at it through the imperfect round opening just above it, and I fell in love with it for a quiet moment.

It was an exclusive experience. The cardboard cup was made cautiously as if the fingers of a modern Picasso lavished upon its every detail hours of meditative labor and great portions of ingenious mind-vision. The fragile lower edges were tenderly wrapped to the guts of my cup; they were so fluently tucked inward that – now- it appeared as if the fingers of my imaginary artist never touched them, as if no human hands have. The stature of the object wasn’t impressive, save for the grace it shed on it and, indeed, received in return. It wasn’t wholly short, but it wasn’t tall either. It was at a medium stop between both. It had a waist, but no limbs. The thickness it possessed was also luxurious; it relaxed my hand and never strained it. In a way it was an athletic cardboard cup, it was at rest when I held it though. I must confess that I shortly surrendered to the weakness of its walls and the immediate spun it conjured in my hand, thus it drooled a sip of melted chocolate syrup on my thigh.

My cup’s rims were white; they were of a clean, fresh white. But its body was of a delicious light-brown coat, which somehow resembled another hue of beige or yellow in an optimistic day. The inhabitant of the cup was an African-American colored liquid, an absolute eye joy. It swam there, in its own designated loving pool. Every so often it lost its dazzling vivacity and gave birth to a darker tone of brunette, and that tone once ate the sun. I saw the sun inside my cup, and I saw my face, too. I marveled non-stop at this extraordinary feat of cardboard engineering and astronomy. The fluid danced as well, it had all sorts of dances arranged for my eyes, as if it had been waiting for its liberation from the huger container and longed for the embrace of the cup. It rippled and jumped as I hastily walked. It was happy with me.

When I first glanced down at my cup, I saw a peculiar swirl-shaped cluster of foam. Newborn appealing bubbles that fulfilled their destiny in less than two or three minutes. They either hopped on to my lips and juggled down my throat, or flew away like fairies to where I couldn’t follow them. They were lovable, disposable tricks, conceived by the union of the racing chocolate fluid and the angry, dull machine.
My now brown- now black drink emitted a haunting perfume. Some genre of an exotic aroma glided up an unseen ladder to my nostrils, tickled them and proceeded to my most intimate brain cells. It was tastefully venomous, my eyes were lulled by a sudden desire to sleep and I instantly demanded rain.

The cup twitched, and I sympathized with its plea. I gave it a tender kiss and swallowed the dark ooze it gratefully smothered me with. I took pleasure in draining it gradually, and a flood of rapture enveloped me as I sucked away the last drop of brunt-brown juices.

I took my cup in both my hands, and realized that the hands of roughly every other person standing close by was holding one of its identical twins carelessly. Strictly applying wintry lips to the edges of the cups’ bodies. I knew my cherished cup had identical twins, it doubtlessly had at least a thousand.

It was an unaided victim of the art of mass production. Although in my eyes it was a masterpiece, “un capolavoro”, a fine companion on a trashed January morning. Sheepishly I regretted that my favorite item of that morning was made by a machine, or a family of machines for that matter. I had attached to it a lovely construction of my trance, a blooming supplication of a personal tint. For a faint moment, I was engrossed in melancholy. I puffed composed air and the newborn bubbles of dismay were shelved. Then I left my dear cardboard study cup with a bundle of its twins in the trash can.

P.S. This was written in January,9th,2005 on a previous blog. Mood: Guilty.