- Joined
- Jan 5, 2012
- Messages
- 1,253
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- 93
Cigarette butt hanging between lips, flakes of tobacco glinting in a transparisteel filter, take another pull. Dangle there, fill on the hedonistic pleasure staining lungs and inflating chests black with devil's claws. Desire of the sweetest sort; habit. Irrevocable, incapable of change. Stuck in a rut and sucking air in through corrupted lungs. Each cough belies a year bitten off, chewed and mulled about the tongue with sickening ease. No wisdom hangs here, only surrogate. The chafed remains of avarice at its finest peak.
Stay awhile, overlong. It takes a cavalier sort to turn away, run amok of the serendipity offered hence. Some still write in ink. Let their thoughts meander, their wrists moving with abject ease. Nipping at heels and liquid gold. Rambling around the block, chalking it up to sound. Sensation begets attitude, begets fixation, demonstrates direction. In all prose, the strongest laid premise is garbled by intention.
I used to write fiction. Dabbled in it. Broke my back over words scratched off my tongue, ripped from my fingertips. Made it easy to be arrogant, to pretend. That I was better than everyone else. More creative. Intelligent. Capable. I wrote fiction, once. In the back of a speeder playing taxi, ferrying off immigrants to the thirty seventh Corellian ward just after the outbreak.
I pretended, once, until I lost the joys of living. Experiencing with eyes and ears, hearing, seeing, tasting excited as it rolled between the half-parted lips of a kiss. Sitting beneath a neon sign, head in hands, breathing in the night's last cigarette, learning to cry after years of resignation. The lessons there were overdue. Trembling wrists held a pen, scritched out prose on paper in print so fine it was illegible. Old fashioned ways, old fashioned men. Irony hits at the realization that those who enjoyed what I wrote were pretending too.
In the open air, I stopped writing. Hands laid on bare flesh, smoke caught on the cusp of my tongue. Embrace tight, knees cupped to chest, I stopped pretending. Made it easier to forget the bottle at my feet. How empty, how full; the taste of death as it hit my throat. How crude, how null. With open arms I met the vanity I sought so hard to forget. Put that bottle to my head and pull the trigger. I'm afraid of commitment, but maybe you'll get me to stick.
The name's Ambrose. You haven't heard of me, but now? you won't forget.
Stay awhile, overlong. It takes a cavalier sort to turn away, run amok of the serendipity offered hence. Some still write in ink. Let their thoughts meander, their wrists moving with abject ease. Nipping at heels and liquid gold. Rambling around the block, chalking it up to sound. Sensation begets attitude, begets fixation, demonstrates direction. In all prose, the strongest laid premise is garbled by intention.
I used to write fiction. Dabbled in it. Broke my back over words scratched off my tongue, ripped from my fingertips. Made it easy to be arrogant, to pretend. That I was better than everyone else. More creative. Intelligent. Capable. I wrote fiction, once. In the back of a speeder playing taxi, ferrying off immigrants to the thirty seventh Corellian ward just after the outbreak.
I pretended, once, until I lost the joys of living. Experiencing with eyes and ears, hearing, seeing, tasting excited as it rolled between the half-parted lips of a kiss. Sitting beneath a neon sign, head in hands, breathing in the night's last cigarette, learning to cry after years of resignation. The lessons there were overdue. Trembling wrists held a pen, scritched out prose on paper in print so fine it was illegible. Old fashioned ways, old fashioned men. Irony hits at the realization that those who enjoyed what I wrote were pretending too.
In the open air, I stopped writing. Hands laid on bare flesh, smoke caught on the cusp of my tongue. Embrace tight, knees cupped to chest, I stopped pretending. Made it easier to forget the bottle at my feet. How empty, how full; the taste of death as it hit my throat. How crude, how null. With open arms I met the vanity I sought so hard to forget. Put that bottle to my head and pull the trigger. I'm afraid of commitment, but maybe you'll get me to stick.
The name's Ambrose. You haven't heard of me, but now? you won't forget.