(no subject)
Television on and distracted he asks himself regretted questions. Answers waiting around somewhere he thinks he could reach with enough curiosity, inspiring messages in laundromats or out in the usual cold on his porch while he smokes a cigarette he never wanted.
He steps out the door and reaching into his pea-coat he produces the glittering plastic covered pack of cigarettes, removes one with pinched, practiced move and raises it to his mouth without realizing the uncertainty of his movements.
A sharp light flickers for a few seconds from his hands. A darker flicker replaces it.
His wonderment is lit around that cigarette. He doesn't like the taste anymore. The warmth and breadth of the smoke had become stale years ago, what once he could feel along his gums and cheeks only flow through to his lungs, no longer an experience but an exhaustive exercise in patience for the eventual completion.
He lights them for the few minutes of solitude in thought, letting it linger until irritated, trying to escape. It used to take his attention away so he could think - imagine! - but the preoccupations with questioning why he was smoking, why he wasn't working on music, why he sat there in front of the television... smoking become a solitary act. No longer an accessory to his spare time, it became activity.
The activity itself is peculiar; it starts with the aggression of hope. His imagination sparks and divides the world into lusts and fears, categorically shaping them into optimisms as his pulse quickens, the next day - next week - next month - next wakeful episode where the sunrise stuns him after waking instead of his dreary nights with blue mornings creeping from the east - all become the future of accomplishment. His life will change!
He paces. His tense hands wildly cut through the air. The clouds, the animals, the wood beneath his feet all become listeners to his next grand scheme!
Then he worries - what if I don't? What if it's the same? He has said it many times and he realizes it, these foolish nightmares and aspirations that always find him when he is at his lowest. Those same clouds, same animals, the very same wood he has stepped too lightly on become the tellers of his failed accomplishments. He sees it now, cigarette still burning, still curious about his destination, burning brighter than the stars above, the cigarette's wafting smoke dancing amongst the space between himself and everything he holds dear.
The hope returns, however, with new found life as the cigarette starts to die, warming his heart. This time will be different! A new journey into a meaningful life of pride, of love, of created parts in the great human creation to give to other's minds and bodies and hearts and help set their own lusts aflame! Perhaps he will finally create, indefinitely, unreservedly, blinded from his fears, some new beauty of which he can call his own to hold and be happy for! Something astonishing and personally brilliant, something he himself would finally adore, something...
He reaches into his coat pocket. One hand's solitary fingers mesh to produce another cigarette and bring it to his lips as a few words pass in his mind about how disgusting they've really become.
When he lights this second small token and breathes its vacant fumes, he remembers that this is just one of many examples of his failures. The failures that continue every day, with every slight flicker. His thoughts numb.
The sunrise brings blue to his eyes. Nothing has changed.
He steps out the door and reaching into his pea-coat he produces the glittering plastic covered pack of cigarettes, removes one with pinched, practiced move and raises it to his mouth without realizing the uncertainty of his movements.
A sharp light flickers for a few seconds from his hands. A darker flicker replaces it.
His wonderment is lit around that cigarette. He doesn't like the taste anymore. The warmth and breadth of the smoke had become stale years ago, what once he could feel along his gums and cheeks only flow through to his lungs, no longer an experience but an exhaustive exercise in patience for the eventual completion.
He lights them for the few minutes of solitude in thought, letting it linger until irritated, trying to escape. It used to take his attention away so he could think - imagine! - but the preoccupations with questioning why he was smoking, why he wasn't working on music, why he sat there in front of the television... smoking become a solitary act. No longer an accessory to his spare time, it became activity.
The activity itself is peculiar; it starts with the aggression of hope. His imagination sparks and divides the world into lusts and fears, categorically shaping them into optimisms as his pulse quickens, the next day - next week - next month - next wakeful episode where the sunrise stuns him after waking instead of his dreary nights with blue mornings creeping from the east - all become the future of accomplishment. His life will change!
He paces. His tense hands wildly cut through the air. The clouds, the animals, the wood beneath his feet all become listeners to his next grand scheme!
Then he worries - what if I don't? What if it's the same? He has said it many times and he realizes it, these foolish nightmares and aspirations that always find him when he is at his lowest. Those same clouds, same animals, the very same wood he has stepped too lightly on become the tellers of his failed accomplishments. He sees it now, cigarette still burning, still curious about his destination, burning brighter than the stars above, the cigarette's wafting smoke dancing amongst the space between himself and everything he holds dear.
The hope returns, however, with new found life as the cigarette starts to die, warming his heart. This time will be different! A new journey into a meaningful life of pride, of love, of created parts in the great human creation to give to other's minds and bodies and hearts and help set their own lusts aflame! Perhaps he will finally create, indefinitely, unreservedly, blinded from his fears, some new beauty of which he can call his own to hold and be happy for! Something astonishing and personally brilliant, something he himself would finally adore, something...
He reaches into his coat pocket. One hand's solitary fingers mesh to produce another cigarette and bring it to his lips as a few words pass in his mind about how disgusting they've really become.
When he lights this second small token and breathes its vacant fumes, he remembers that this is just one of many examples of his failures. The failures that continue every day, with every slight flicker. His thoughts numb.
The sunrise brings blue to his eyes. Nothing has changed.