Smoking. It loos like the delicate fog that escapes the lips of passersby on a crisp, winter day. It's the shapeless words muttered under the breath, always drifting, moving, sailing away. Never stopping it softly floats into cumulus clouds like a balloon that's been freed from our grasp. Uninhibited, it gently clings to the wings of the wind and quietly falls like autumn leaves.
The sound of smoking is the sound of breath, a constant reminder of the gift of life. It's the sound of insanity-- doing the same thing over and over again expecting different results. Like the sound of a soft kiss with a heavy sigh, like the dull echo of an empty bank account, it captures the petite sounds that encompass our days.
A torrent of sweet nostalgia floods my veins as a haze of smoke breezes past. In a life marked by relentless change and transition, it feels like the one constant. The feeling of a cigarette between the lips and the warmth that wraps itself around my fingertips tells me I'm finally home. The captured sensation is that of a new beginning or a fresh perspective. It's the 5 minutes of tranquil reflection in a world erupting in chaos and pandemonium.
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