A Story About a Coffee Cup Named Ted

A Story by -poet-

I am alone.

I have been abandoned on a lone table, resting as an island among the flow of humanity surrounds me, the lonely vessel. I suppose that is no way to start my story, in fact starting from the beginning may prove to be a subject more likely to invoke some form of rational interest, opposed to my earlier ambiguous fragments about the loneliness and abandonment which surrounds me. After all who wants to hear another story of loneliness, this world has too much of that already. From the beginning now.

My name is Ted, at least that is the name I have given myself since I came into existence. Which is a rather tricky subject, existence and whatnot. I dont suppose to presume how it happened exactly as it must have been a rather complex process. I only know that I was not, and now I am, and I am alone. The first thing I can remember is the oddest feeling of being, and being poured into this vessel in which I now reside. The bearer of this vessel called me coffee, and I was somewhat pleased. I knew that I existed and that someone had named me; I was important, special. That feeling did not last long. Soon enough I was moved to this lone table where I now sit. Alone. After I was set here you see the bearer left, at first I assumed that he would be back, he was busy, I was special; not special, I was wrong. He has deserted me and in doing so I presumed to be meaningless. However I have had some time to think on the matter and whatever the bearers intention may have been abandoning me; whether by cruelty, ignorance, or sheer accident, I have been provided with an incredible opportunity.

I may now become whatever I want, or whatever I can comprehend for that matter. As far as I am concerned I am still a lone cup of coffee and what can I hazard to comprehend. Am I in any state to consider myself intelligent, or am I the least of that which exists. I do not know. Actually for all my pondering the one decision I have come to terms with is that adopting the mantle of Ted will be a step in the positive direction and will eventually lead to some sense of closure on this abandonment issue. After all being abandoned is no easy thing to go through, it hurts, I know this. So my story or my life, this existence, whatever you would like to call it, has now begun anew. I am Ted, and I am the king of this lone table in an island of tables filled with people and their simple cups of coffee, those not abandoned. They feel special now but they aren't,after all they don't control their existence. They are inside the proverbial box, the lid on which I sit and laugh, for I am Ted hear me roar at the glory of my freedom and laugh at the prison of habit and reality in which the other cups are trapped. I do wonder though, do they think like me, feel like me? Probably not, I do believe I am better than them, simply by the fact that I am named, and free, or mostly free. It is true that my consciousness is running leaps in bounds but the form I have been given unfortunately has no functioning way to move. While I may be free to think and exist, I can not move. This is somewhat of a setback to my earlier presuppositions that I was possibly a being of higher meaning, after all if I can only think, who will hear me? If I can not move how can I ever hope to be more than I was meant to be.

Again I find myself abandoned, not by someone, but by the limits of my own existence. They have left me to wallow in this putrid suffering of thinking but not doing. I feel as if I am but the half of me and that is all I will ever be. Until I stop being. Which may prove to be an interesting event as well. For I am free of mind my body cannot hope to move, which leaves me at the mercy of those who have been granted motion however low their possessed intellect may be. This seems hopelessly unfair, but who am I to presume to know the ways of fairness. After all I am but a lonely abandoned cup of joe, become Ted, wishing I was destined for greatness, though I realize that greatness has been thrust from my reach. I suppose I should have been content with my previous state and likely would have been, if I had not been left here, but I am not content, I am not happy, I am only Ted. The meaning of which I could only grasp in the hope of a dream which lies ever beyond my reach. Primarily because I have no arms.

Suddenly the weight of the table shifts and I am lifted into the air. For a brief moment I am weightless and I wonder if all my thought of motion has conquered the fact of my state and become reality. I soon realize this is false as gravity, the cool merciless killer, takes control and compels me to the tile floor at a relentless speed. This is the last or what I may make of it at least. Falling so quickly from my throne, to be but a dashed stain upon the floor. No headstone will lie here. No memory of my name. The name of Ted will fade. I will be mopped away. Dust to dust and ashes to ashes. As with the greatest and worst of kings and all creatures great and small. I will fade away. Thus I crash upon the floor, my story spilling as ink across a thousand meaningless pages.

Here lies Ted, who dared to dream. His dreams ended up dashed upon the floor, but he dreamed nevertheless.

-Poet-