It's cathartic, inhaling something so utterly foul and toxic. But more so, watching the plumes of grey exit my mouth and come into my sight. It's like exhaling all the bullshit that's bottled up inside of me. Getting rid of some of the the things I've taken in and don't have the words or power to expel from my being.
In a way, it's shortening my painful existence on this earth, in this damn forsaken body, one breath at a time. We all fade with each breath we take since the day we're born but the nicotine and tar and carcinogens take a little bit extra from the ticking time bomb that is me. With each exhale, it brings me closer to no longer existing.
Wishing the ground could split wide open and suck me beneath the surface is wholly unrealistic. Where I live, at least. The earth wouldn't be my saviour this time. Taking things into my own hands though. That's something that's possible.
It sounds morbid. It's terrifying and disturbing and inconceivable. Don't think I don't know the gravity of this. I do. Believe me, I do. It's just more considerate than taking myself out in one fell swoop. Slowly poisoning my lungs and bloodstream with little molecules of death. Slowly deteriorating is less of a shock than ceasing my existence abruptly.
Every puff of smoke, every glowing end, every flick of ash, every spark of a lighter. It has me closer to peaceful nothingness. It gives me a sense of twisted hope. That I'll eventually implode with my self-destructive habits.
