FRESHtoDEATH

I’m on day two of quitting smoking. NicoDerm doesn’t work well. Every time I urge to smoke, well, ALMOST every time I get an urge to smoke I retreat to an extremely peaceful place near by. I wrote this today while I was present, there, far away from any nicotine or thoughts there of. The typical smoke in my mouth was replaced with a pen also filled with poison.

Walking down a quiet path I find myself. A path to a pier that I pretend to believe is secret although it isn’t. Every person you walk into is usually, well, always walking a dog of some sort. I’ve probably seen every breed that is. The rain retreated about an hour ago. Two and half minutes of the walk to the pier also disappearing, a spot bald of bushes that guides the entire path seizes my attention. Approaching then emerging and stumbling upon the rocky floor until two lonely areas find my feet and sink in. I found a few minutes to watch this group of geese watch me. All dinner calls must have been postponed. I’m joined, or more accurately, I join and accompany two geese ashore only distracted by eachother rather than the gang of their own and I. That’s when the chanting began. I’m assuming it was the alpha or beta male who sliced the silence into a thousand pieces. Gone in seconds only guessing what it was trying to communicate. The five minute walk magically transformed into ten. However, time is no matter because it is always worth more, more than life itself. The brittle cold air greeted me with open arms when I reached the pier. Fresh air absorbed me as did the view. Soaked again in tranquility. The metal bench suppresses my cheeks into an ass. Four eye lids spread wide apart set on, stuck on everything that sat infront of him; with him. An empty strip of sky mirroring an empty strip of water. On one side a city of stretched concrete, and on the other, a city and mountains consumed by bark, roots, and branches. Clouds hovering over each just like umbrellas. It’s as if they were asked to do so. As if the groups of clouds were possibly mad at eachother. The pumpkin orange sky receding but only into another’s view. A mind too busy for craving and a cycle, if you’d even call it that, recures.