It's funny shit, the way a cigarette can find its way into your hand, eager to feed its master whom I willingly invited with my first --inhale, cough, cough, cough...--my body already instinctually resisting my destructive resolve in the summoning of this cunning demon. A part of me now, the demon speaks to me with my voice, whispering "the windows are open and the driver doesn't care. What are your hands doing empty?" And I'll actually laugh to myself as I reach for one, mocking my own silly absent-mindedness. Now you don't need to be a professional to see that that's fucked up.
Every person is flawed. By definition, a perfect being could not be considered a person, because every single living, breathing, eating, fucking, sleeping, thinking person has something wrong with them. And these are the flaws we, as individuals, are forced to endure, to bear, and to learn to live with. Some are better at it than others, but it's the same game everyone's playing. But if all your good traits directly represent your personality, then your "bad" traits are forced to take shelter with only one who understands them; your id. For some people, stuffing the id into the subconscious prison of forgetfulness works, and they can live lives unhaunted. For most people though, they keep feeding their id more scraps of themselves, choosing to turn a blind eye as they are consumed from within. For me, it's satisfying to turn my conscious mind to focus on the dark shadows in the back of my head, and say hey buddy, want a cigarette?
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment