Before my head disappears in the clouds I will blow some smoke for the illusion of disappearing.
I am waiting in my carton, amongst equals but somehow special. Lust has brought us here, desire will deliver us to our final destination. I am a product of nature, yet unhealthy. At some point, I will disappear completely (luckily?).
Yet here I am, in your hands. It is up to you to pursue this habit.
It makes no sense but oh the sensation is pleasant. There’s no reason, it’s pure nonsense. Yet somehow we meet again and again.
For whatever reason you have brought me here, in this very moment it does not matter. Perhaps it’s what’s supposed to happen. Perhaps it is the culture. Maybe desire? Sadness? Peer pressure?
We will not find out, you and me.
I might just be a cigarette, but is our encounter not emblematic for something larger? Am I just delusional, making myself feel special among the thousands beside me?
Will you go through with it?