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My New Proclamation

June 30,2017

10:55 pm

People come and people go and here I sit begging for an end to it all. Delicate flower I am not. Precious feminine female I have never been. Hardcore dancer of Satan's court I have always been; perhaps since my conception. I always wanted to be the noble woman everyone strives to be like, that everyone holds up as a light in the darkness for humanity to mirror, to marry, to grow old with. I am not this person. I am hard. My edges are sharp and will cut anyone down to their core. I am more male than female. Or, maybe I am so much of a female I cannot fully function in a world so riddled with hate. I carry the weight of the world on my shoulders. Why can the world not see the beauty of love, of life, of simply being alive? Whatever the case of my personal predicament, the world thrives on hate, oppression, on dominating the narrative-the same narrative that provides power to the select few that steal the sword and swing it's blade across the ears, throats, and souls of all those who dare to stand.

I first took a drag of the cigarette in protest of a world I found hypocritical, screwed up, and quite frankly full of so much bullshit I was drowning. I wanted people to see the cigarette in my hand. I wanted the world to see that I did dance with the devil and owned that dance. I wanted the world to see that I saw it's bullshit so clearly that I deliberately chose death over living in a world mired in such hypocritical nonsense. I wanted my culture to know that I rejected it's screwed sense of norms and standards. Each flick of the cigarette to the ground was my f*uck you proclamation to a culture mired in death and oppression hidden behind the veneer of a well painted holier than thou image. That is the reason most people start smoking. It isn't to look cool like most self-righteous non-smokers believe. The vast majority of smokers use the cigarette as a symbol of belonging to the subculture of people who see right through society's veneer.

I'm still the same harden bitch I have always been, but now I understand that I need to stick around in order to hold up the mirror. I'm here to look my culture in its collective face and show it how it is destroying children, women, families-life itself. I can't be the bitch I was meant to be if I am dead. Now, each time I say no to the cigarette I am throwing down my new f*ck you proclamation to my culture: “I ain't going out like that. You ain't getting rid of me that easily. I'm going to be that tick in your ass you feel, but can't get rid of. I will hold you to account.”

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She had a long and exhausting day that she just want to crawl in her bed and sleep forever turns out the kind of tired she felt is not something a sleep can fix. Starring out of nowhere she let her tears stream down her face. She tried to reach out but no one seem to understand her. She feel trap in her own emotion and just want to be free; she want to stop to feel everything at all she thought she’d mastered being numb but who she was fooling? Wiping her tears away she had made her final decision. She get the shiny keen material, strip down her clothes and hop in the bathtub. She start to cut deep as the blood flow from her left and right wrist she didn’t want to stop… not until she feel numb and by that moment, she see the ray of darkness and embrace it. She’s finally free. She stop feeling everything at all. She stop breathing as her heart stops beating. She totally lost her life. You could have save her but it’s too late. You’re too late.

into the dark (via obfuscxte)

Always see the soul of the person standing in front of you

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Pissed and Pessimistic

June 30, 2017

12:30-1:30 p.m.

The familiar flame burst like magic from the tiny device that so many use to ignite habits that will leave them dead. My eyes delighted in the dancing flame as my hand glided the red glow towards the slave master dangling victoriously from my down turned lips. Deeply I inhale the wonderfully intoxicating relief that my body had been so tenaciously demanding for days. Tears fall from my eyes as the waves of precious relief quickly spread throughout my body. Quietly, I sit and stare at the passing clouds of night thinking the same thought over and over again: “I have failed.”

I hate smoking as much as I love it. And there it is. The very heart of the matter, really-one can love and hate an object, habit, person at precisely the same time. Society states you cannot love and hate something at once. Society's elitist thinkers radically and arrogantly reduce the complexities of human nature to an either/or reality. Authors of philosophical meanderings often delight in pithy little sayings of love conquering all: even hate.  These writings, sayings, and self-help programs tickle the ears and hearts of people suffering with a variety of issues and serve to fatten the egos and bank accounts of their authors and supporters. But, for the addict, none of that bullshit matters. An addict knows so completely the siren call to feast on the filth of the drug that nothing else matters. An addict understands the hell of the drug and the hell of leaving it's grip. An addict experiences a physical, emotional, and spiritual hell so consuming that the very core of the addict's humanity threatens to first implode then explode into so many thousands of fragments that a return to normalcy becomes a figment of the imagination.

I am an addict. I had never seen myself as one of “those” kind of “looser” before. I used to view myself as one who merely had a bad habit, but the rose colored glasses are off and I see myself for what I am-an addict. All cigarette smokers are addicts. Trouble is, for the most part, society has an almost schizophrenic view of cigarette smokers. Half of our culture treats smokers as criminals and moral degenerates; not addicts in spiritual trouble in need of the same help as cocaine and heroine addicts. Our culture's other half kinda sorta feels sorry for smokers and are somewhat  sympathetic, but really don't understand why the smoker can't just quite. Scattered among both halves are few who see the smoker for who they really are: the victim of corporation and government profiteering; resistance fighter of a culture gone mad with assembly line image consumerism; victim of self-hate.  This in-cohesive perception of cigarette addiction has resulted in a limited, one size fits all, better get it done or you don't deserve healthcare type nicotine relief programs. For God sake, even the few programs available to those seeking to break the addiction rake in millions of dollars every year. Does the patch and the gum work? Sure, to keep the addict addicted to nicotine while some CEO vacations in Hawaii. Is it any wonder that most smokers stay in the closet drowning in their own personal hell seeking only other smokers who truly understand the hell of addiction?

I endured night sweats, the shakes, intense depression for five days in the vain hope that I had broken the cycle. The only thing I broke were my rose colored glasses. I'm still a smoker. I'm forever an addict. I will never know the peace of non-addiction. I will forever know the torment of having to chose for, or against my own life. Last night, I chose against my life and for the physical peace of nicotine. I crave a cigarette this very moment. The cigarette calls to me daily, nightly, and permanently. Today, I have very little hope for breaking the addiction. I have cried all morning and will continue to cry the afternoon. Alone with the kids and a busted foot leave me so vulnerable I can actually see myself grabbing the pack on the counter and smoking the whole damn thing. I won't, but I see myself doing it. Maybe not today, but whose to say it won't be tomorrow? Me? Right, I forgot all I have to do is believe in myself and all will be well. I just have to choose to quite. Face palming now. Why don't I just chose to be positive and please the society that hates, type casts, and profits off of my addiction? Oh, I know. Maybe cause I think society can go screw it's hypocritical sanctimonious self.

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