Blowing Smoke

May 13, 2017

I enjoy breathing smoke, and feeling where it flows.

Some number of people have never smoked a cigarette. It’s a thing that you only need to try once, but likely should not. They will not die from their last cigarette, and neither will I.

I see time differently to most people. I see time as the here, the now, and nothing beyond tomorrow. Nothing beyond tomorrow, because tomorrow never comes for me. I panic about tomorrow, panic that it will come back. It’s already back.

My brain is not rational, because rationality is seeing what everyone else sees. I’ve seen too many things that I cannot forget, that I would singe away if I could. People sleep to forget, sleep to filter out the things that don’t matter. I can’t sleep because there is no filter; just the here, and the now, and the fire.

Where there’s fire, there’s smoke; and I watch where it goes.

I feel frustrated, because my world is on fire. I move quickly, purposefully, and I am always looking at what’s not there. I am distracted, because I see what people have left behind. I stop, quickly, and I don’t understand how people have time to leave things behind.

I move to relax, move the junk I find to a different fireplace. If I move something, and there is a tomorrow, maybe someone will find it. I find the things that people left yesterday, and I wonder where they will be tomorrow.

I blow smoke, to see where it is. Smoking is a conversation with myself, with my breath, with the other people on the smoker’s cough. There are so many cigarette butts on the streets, and I wonder about the people who didn’t have time to find a bin.

That yellow stain on the tips, the acknowledgment of fireplace.

This is not my land, not my home, not my ground to ignite. I am trying to find a place that doesn’t exist - one free of my smoke.

I am the fire, and I burn.