the taste of cigarette as it mixes subtly with the slithering saliva is a bitter elixer. It's a wondrous stupor of disillusionment, a daze where no one can come as close to you as that feeling. It keeps you frantically away from every single entity you've ever had acquaintance with. The perfume of the stench-filled smoke is exhilarating weakness of an endowment, stupidly categorised as junkie.Sometimes listening to Collective soul and Runaway train, is a distant call to the unknown. A blatant repository of a calling unfamiliar with your very own realm. An embrace of a tear, unattached, disdainful. Immature understanding, uncollective idea, a smack on the overachieving idiots that flounder the place, a varied itch that places itself in the corner which you rather forget than scratch. A bug that flutters without regret, an embarrassment waiting to happen. A melancholy of untoward incidences. A guilt that you fathom over the abysmal change in persona. A brainstorm, that never stops, even in nightmares. A continuous squealing against the most soft voice of a caressing tune in the far off Himalayas. A solitude you rather fight and crave to live in. The life of a self confessed loner, a quiet rockstar, a satirical and shameful wrath. A never ending soliloquy.
Doesn't seem to get enough. Until death do us part.
