Cigarette Burns

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust

Like a flick of the wrist thrusts away the ashes which lingers, I also need to flick my life and discard the trash. It’s been years now of lighting flames and getting burnt. Of waiting for hopes and dreams and aspirations to give me something other than singing my soul.

It is like inhaling poison – the vapors that fume from the mix of desperation, hopelessness, fantasy and delusion. And I kept breathing them in, repeatedly. Convinced myself it was worth it, that it’d made me feel better to look forward.

It left me with burns on my skin and an aching heart. 

There is only so much that one can take before it overwhelms you. Before it incapacitates you to reason and you’re left feeling like there are bees swarming in your head and ants crawling up your skin. When you begin to itch in your own skin and want to dawn everything new; a new head, new heart, new life.

There is smoke where there is fire

Even the most reflective bury. Even the most brave get daunted. Even the ones who are willing to live shrink away. And I buried my head in expectations. I lived to fulfill expectations.

I failed. And now I’m only miserable.

There is nothing left but the stench of what was.

And getting rid of that smell, that potent scent of mistakes, disappointments and failures, doesn’t go away easily. It haunts you, much like smoke clings to a cotton shirt. It seeps right in and lingers… to remind you.

Inhale, exhale

So now, it all boils down to me. This. The current and what is. Without the burden of what is to come and trying to bury the baggage of what was, it now is only about living. About doing what I like. Inhaling what I want at that point in time and exhaling what doesn’t matter anymore.

Live like a cigarette.


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