Out of the Cigarette Smoke

As I lay on the carpet after the cigarette touched my lips, I felt an energy surge through me. This energy surge reminded me that it was another day and that everything would continue moving, but that I would be okay. How can something that can kill me provide so much comfort? 

Out of all the scars that life has left inside me, one of my biggest handicaps is my inability to let go. This handicap stops the giggle from escaping my lips. Even words stay trapped inside my brain. Sometimes I wish I had a machine that would read my thoughts and say them for me. 

I bite the water bottle cap because it has a rough texture. I listen to the Pride and Prejudice soundtrack because it has the mellowest sounds. 

I’m not sure about what I want. Some days are better than others. There are always days when I wake up and I know that I won’t be doing anything except crying. 

I work at the concession stand of the movie theater. The popcorn must always keep popping unless it starts to fall from overflow. 

Life seems to hold me down but I really want to fly. Every piece of writing is supposed to have some purpose but this one is just to capture how it feels to smoke a cigarette. Where is the cigarette scene? There is only puff and huff. I become this wolf who tries to blow down her lungs. 

I am also this round object with pretty features. I suppose the feminists would say that I shouldn’t call myself an object. But I will like to declare that the body is only a tool that we use to remain alive until the end of our lives.

I believe in God but I have a doubt in people. I’m unsure of how to build my relationship with God while still remaining within myself. I am my biggest comfort. 

To be honest, as people say to emphasize an obvious statement, the number of people that I trust has dwindled down immensely. If I could graph the phenomenon I would begin with a stable two which grew and then sunk; an exponential phenomenon which resembles the human’s population growth.  

I would love to close this free-thought with the image of a flower but flowers can only contain my interest for a brief second and then they are just colors in a world that is full of images. 

 

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