as i inhale the smoke, i can trace its every movement inside my body, i can taste its trail: from my mouth, to my throat, and then finally, to wherever the trail ends -- perhaps, and i can only surmise, it meets its finality in that desolate place, somewhere between my heart and my head, where all my unpleasant memories lay buried.
as i puff out the smoke, i marvel at how, sometimes, time becomes suspended, and in that moment of clarity, i reach my hands out to hold its fleeting realness, but even before my arms are outstretched, the smoke ascends, dissipates into thin air, and its evasiveness is both beautiful and tragic.
as i puff my cigarette, stare into nothingness, and indulge in the pulsating euphoria of the inexplicable, i am comforted by my knowledge that with each emotional reprieve that i derive from my death sticks, i also silently emancipate myself from the ordeal of perpetually trying to be what others wish me to be.
and as i allow myself to get lost in its hazy glory, i can clearly see the irony embedded in its beauty: for with each puff that brings with it resuscitation, i know that i also wish to be extinguished and be freed from the madness of the world.
