A profoundly sensual addiction.

People who smoke always seem a bit more beautiful to me.

Be it the Nepalese security guard with his hand rolled fags or Marion Cottilard sucking on a Gauloises, the mindless smoke becomes a featureless mask that erases crows feet and smile lines.

There's the smoke that chases you from the burning tip laying in an ashtray. Reminding you that it's there. Waiting for you to embrace it with your lips.

There are the smokers whose scent feels like old mahogany, secrets and warmth.

There are the lovers; raising rubbery tired arms to lipstick smeared mouths to keep the post coital high going till they get going again.

There are the night-owls burning up their years of life for the moment when the dull, hazy high of nicotine weaves itself into the thumping rush of caffeine.

We're all dying anyway. Might as well look cool and feel good while we dance dance dance till absolute entropy.

Alice

There are a dozen half written stories sitting on my hard drive. I started the night with the goal of finishing at least one. Needless to say I failed, but I did notice something.

All my stories, every single one, starts with an Alice falling down her rabbit hole.

It is a basic archetype of storytelling, the hero's journey, which starts with an average Joe/Joanna being offered the opportunity to embark on an amazing adventure. The Alice in Wonderland variation is one where the hero isn't given a choice and is swept up into the adventure by accident.

My Alice's never have a choice.

I don't think I could ever finish these stories. At least not to my own satisfaction. All attempts at ending these tales always leaves a bad taste in my mouth. The taste of hurried mediocrity or a literary stop gap measure. When rereading them, I feel like I was walking down a nice sunny path that unexplainably stops at a ledge that drops into the ocean.

Could it be because I myself have never fallen down the rabbit hole or stepped into the looking glass?

Maybe..

Hmm. Time for something drastic.

An evening with a foul mood

1.It's all in your head Prav, so get out of your fucking head.

2.Maybe materialism has its up-sides. For one, this hollow feeling could have been filled with useless thing years ago.

3.Booze, kill my cowardly mind and let my thoughtless heart reign.

4.I've only had 2 teachers worth thanking.And both of them were awesomer than any one greeting card holiday's worth.To the rest I say meh.

5.It sucks to have a non-local support system.

6.With all the ambient depression in the world a strong, consistent substance abuse habit makes sense. And fuck you, coffee, fat and cigarettes are substances too, mate.

7. Everything is a game within a game within a collective delusion. The economy is the funniest game of all, cos we're losing, and we invented that mother fucker. Ever played a game where losing meant war and famine? Neither have I.

8. To everyone who's ever secretly thought I was a knowitall, fuck you. Cos I am and I do.

A sudden recollection

It was one of those nights. The ones I spend in dark loud places with with my eyes rolled back inside my skull. Those nights I remember more as linear moments of pure sensation than images of memory.

I stepped out for some air and a smoke. And there he was.

Snot ran out of his nose joining the stream his tears made. He begged the bouncer for someone's phone number. I assume it was someone who could have saved him because I have never seen a grown man beg that hard.

We came downstairs after the music was turned off and the drugs wore off. They were already beating on him. 30 on 1. We stood the appropriate distance away.

The mamak owners packed all the tables and chairs up in under 5 minutes. I guess they've been through this a lot.

A piece of the helmet they were using to beat him slid on the asphalt and came to rest 5 feet from me. It staggered me when I realized how much force it would take to break a motorcycle helmet.

I remember thinking as the ambulance drove away that he must be dead because they didn't turn the sirens on.