Ikigai

Cigarettes

Inspiration has an ironic tinge to it. When one is being chased or when one is panicking, when one's family is fighting and they are trying to get out of the situation, or when a natural disaster happens, the Eye is there and is very noticeable; however, the Eye is impossible to find when looking for it. It sometimes appears during moments of insignificance, like when one is sitting quietly in a meditative mood or exploring a path, on the lookout for a new romance.

Very few people are able to make a living by writing about true love. Romanticism, in a manner of speaking, is the lowest kind of humanity while also being an extremely lofty style of art. For these people, the real world is filthy and ugly, because it is so filled with dirt and meanness. Their full beauty shines through only in death. For them, a mask hides the truth of selfishness and corruption that defines civilization and society.

No, I can't get any further off track or I'll drag you down into the depths of faked reality and true deception. Diesel and cooking oil along with cow manure and dirt comprise the foul mix. A neighboring open sewer pours its waste onto the streets, joining the parade of disgusting odors.

I got rid of my nose's sense of smell by puffing cigarette smoke out of my nostrils. A crow sits on top of an empty pot, perched on it. As a child, my mother would tell me about a thirsty crow, and I always related it to the pain I went through as a thirsty person.The bird rudely cawed. Although nothing compared to the madness of the traffic. I crouched and offered my cigarette to the crow.

'Would you like a drag?' I cracked a joke.

The crow bobbed its head first to the left, then to the right. It advanced toward me, carefully but consistently. He then skillfully took a flying beak grab of the cigarette I was holding and departed in flight.

The beggar chuckled, sounding blind to the world. This was catastrophic for our enterprise. As he realized what he had done, he hurriedly stood up and began to walk away, his metal bowl jingling with pennies as he passed. 

Alms! Donations to the impoverished. "Lord bless those who feed the hungry," yelled an old, poverty-stricken woman, her voice echoing through the halls. He was particularly dismayed by her decay, and her teeth were very disturbing, being black like coal. Her face, her entire appearance, was craggy and leathery. She resembled some mysterious pagan worshiper, not a normal human being. Despite the fact that I had never heard the language she was speaking, I was certain that she wanted money from me. I had none of them. I gave a weak smile to apologize. She simply waved her hand and then, grumbling, headed away.

People sure are odd. I find their faces quite captivating. It was entertaining for me to go about and look at people's faces to deduce who they were based on the way they carried themselves. What I was truly looking for through this activity was another hopeless romantic like myself.

So it caught my eye in a sad and contemplative attitude. Oscar Wilde smiled at me, his chin resting on his arm resting on the chair's back. A twelve-year-old youngster peddling a variety of novels by the roadside had probably never learned to read. Among the collection was the rarest edition of "Selected Works of Oscar Wilde." Here was the face I had been looking for. Oh, how miserable it was to have your heart's desire but no way to get it!

I walked away, vowing to return, my back to Wilde's secretly smiling face. I knew that time would only increase my desire. I walked into the old café I used to visit. But I had to pay its dues every month. I knew the proprietor who let me have a tab here. The café sat on an outdoor terrace which provided it with a kind of European attraction. The sun started to drop and the heat was dead. The beautiful summer breeze carried the rose-flower aroma which flourished in the garden on the terrace.