The idea of cigarettes, is intoxicating to me. They provide such buzz, it's probably because it is something I do and be a person who is different from the real time me. Real time me, who may not necessarily be the real me, but there isn't much need to spell such things out.
When the smoke hits the throat, it burns with a weak tinge. Maybe its a newbie thing, but I have gotten used to the aftertaste. the smoke as it escape my lips, form a cloud and I walk through that living a dream, a short alternate reality, so ephemeral, such an evanescent sense of high it gives me, that bleak little puff.
The nights, I remember sitting on top of a roof or another, puffing in, dragging on and not worry about the threats of the future, the clashes of the titan downstairs in which I am a meager Pawn. I pawn who had dreamt of one to checkmate the white king, but stands here, insignificant and to be sacrificed without a blink of the eye.
The roof is a wonderful place, it lets you be. It is undisturbed and it welcomes me in spite of me being lost, having nothing to show for myself, it doesn't care. It hugs me anyway. I cradle into its lap and smoke away thinking about the days when my glory was my addiction and my mistake. I floated half of my life and I continue to float away most of my sober days, my guarding angle has stopped tsking her tongue and she has moved over to the next more probable for success candidate. And I, I sit here in the lap of this roof or the other, being intoxicated by the idea of life and the transcendence it my success.
