Moths

I am sheep without shepherd. Strange it is to realize how unconscious I've been, and to know that the fog is still not lifted. As a child your bucolics are your parents, school, law, through to your adolescence and teen years, only for you to emerge into the world as adult moths. Without direction we steer ourselves to flame, willing to burn for its beauty because our lives are short and the chaos ceaseless.

Smoke until your lungs are black, until your eyes mist over. Drink away the urge to think. When I smoke, I do it slowly, a meditation; every exhale releases clouds of memories, ponderous vapors. Each breath costs a day, the smoke is a vehicle to hasten myself to a graceful oblivion.

The bile in my throat quivers, and beneath my every rasping word is a hidden wish: "Be not."