The little deaths

I took a long drawn out drag of a cigarette and with it, I thought of every fiber in my lungs gasping for oxygen. Why do we do this to ourselves? Rip away oxygen for a quick feel good feeling? Literally omitting life with each breath?

Why the hell not? What a fucking circus. 

We are victims in the beginning. A literal crap shoot of whether or not we are born in a Country with famine and war. Why did there even have to be Country's in the first place? A toss up between a beloved mother or an asshole father and vise versa. Or, parents at all, let us not forger the babes we throw to the side. I find I personally love those ones the most. 

If you're one of the lucky ones to skip past oppression and all the ugly things we choose not to see. Then God bless. 

Oh but wait your turn. We all bend over once or twice, and pay for our time here generously. Perhaps you've tasted the love we all chase after? You drank it's sweet nectar to only realize it was just one more rape from life? It wasn't love was it? 

You're goddam right it was. But we manage to throw it all to shit because we are all out for ourselves. Every single person is born to think instinctively about their own well being. 

Until, love.

We soar so high in the first baths of that sweet euphoria. We say things to each other that we choke on in looking back. Get tainted enough in love's muck and we can't even recognize the person we once were. Why does this have to happen? Because things fade and we give it up so easily because what once was an easy labor is now a quicksand of unsaid thoughts and meddling idle minds. We are our own downfall. When the beginning excitement is gone, we ask why, instead of dying to our selves and seeing the person in all their good ways. We end up getting so far gone, it almost feels best to let it go completely rather than put forth the labor and ache it would take to restore. Oh the heartbreak to witness it, where once unity, now worlds and empty spaces filled with imagination of greener pastures that only exist in quiet imagination.

So we have been reduced to the little vices like a wonderful drag of a deadly cigarette to seem a lot like something familiar, and we keep puffing in hopes it fixes the pain. 

Or ends it altogether.  

Perhaps only to just pass the time until we figure out anything that seems to make any sense at all.

a.b.Carleton