The moment I take a sip off this heavy mug, am I to believe that the liquid I am about to imbibe is real? A genuine article that exists independently to my sensations and on its own exists as to how I am, as I thought to be? And what of my sensations that I make of the taste, the touch or the smell of it?
What exactly then, make my beliefs so justifiable – and so readily and ever so available, that we often take for granted without even a thought to spare for such a miraculous phenomenon?
And if I were to doubt the existence of the drink or the mug alone, what then am I left with? My thoughts alone? Then my life is so bleak, of mere creativity and such a life would be impossible to surmount upon nor can be worthy of boastfulness.
Then again, I am a fool. Conjuring such drama off coffee.