And thus, I write.
At this very moment, I am spread out on my stomach on my bed, toes hanging off the edge. I am thinking very intently about the first cigarette of the morning, coincidentally my last cigarette, my only cigarette, sitting tauntingly in front of me. It’s waiting for me to bring it playfully to my lips, letting it rest between my teeth as I strike the match, with that oh-too-satisfying cracking and burning sound, that will bring every chemical to joyous freedom as it begins the journey backwards through the cigarette, as I drag smoke slowly into my lungs.
It’s at beautifully quiet-loud moments like this, where the sound of the freeway outside my window and the lull of the fan at the foot of my bed intertwine in harmony to hush the random noise infiltrating this strange peace from outside my door. It’s at moments like this that the rest of the world fades from view and out of the dim abyss does my head open up and out of it explodes every last thought I’ve been thinking for the past week, month, year, lifetime. It all swims around together and explores every last possibility and reason until every minuscule event is analyzed to satisfaction.
And thus, I write.
