The sound of the lighter and the flame rises. Apple green, the lighter. Green frog.
a bright color, good mood, in the summer. It 's summer, almost. But the mood there, drowned in the rain. No. Did you strangled in the grip of your hands bruised violent disappointment and anger. It always ends like this. What you mad at yourself. What remains silent, because if I tried to speak would come out strangled cries, disjointed. And it is embarrassing. Continue to have 15 years, I mean.
many cigarettes have you smoked in your life. Many did not make sense, I found all six burning between his fingers without noticing. When you quit
is different. Each cigarette has a precise meaning, a special purpose. There is that expectation, that in the end you decide to turn because you do not know where to lay eyes, absently fiddling with that thought, and you've already teased to death the skin of each finger, which leaves you almost blood.
There's the alcoholic, by the way my favorite. Alcohol Tobacco called in a report of sublime complementarity, the two holding hands close to a delightful waltz of destruction - yours. Among the crazy laughter and sharp clarity that only the alcohol clouding, disengaging the spring of inhibitory processes, give you know. A wonderful feeling. But no.
cigarette which you set alight yesterday afternoon happy with the lighter green was different, was a third type. A close encounter with the knowledge, you say. This is a simple linearissima chain of cause and effect: you do not rise to the occasion, you can not control yourself, you deeply disappoint you angry with yourself to death, you can not find understanding or forgiveness to spend with you, so , to pass the time, for survival, you punish. And do not think ... is exactly as it sounds: you sing it and you play it, all alone ... perpetrator, victim and judge gathered noisily and schizophrenia in the same body. Judge ruthless with yourself, as much as understanding and patient with anyone else. A sad, heartbreaking plight. You know, but you do look, worn out from potted emotions, hoping to improve some day. To find spare parts for that specific strand of the mechanism that keeps crashing, for some reason not yet clear to the end. Meanwhile
skip lunch, and you turn this cigarette, devote to your small again - huge for you - fall. The smoke from sheer self-harm, and sporting a bit 'presumptuous, thinking that at least you know it you smoke for masochism, to accommodate the very natural human tendency toward self-destruction. Others think they know why, but do not know, or maybe even come to ask. Many act without knowing, without even trying, to time to time, in front of each fork to understand. You do not. At least that. Everything you do makes sense. Yes, even when they have it.
In these moments make me tenderly with tears in his eyes. Really.
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