Bouh !


As for today, word’s been dropped, so may “hints” be.

We’ll walk along our own path
The one which will lead us to our own bless
But we need hints before we get tired
We need speed before we lose pace
We need a hint to know we’re on the right track
(José Gonzáles, Hints)

The perpetual wait for those signs, to confirm. Reassure. Wash away the stress that linger deep inside. Those that we invent, imagine and fantasize. That we may have spotted in the noise around. Or maybe not. Hints are a path to get lost somewhere in doubts. Or loosing them.

Maybe. Maybe they just are bipolar.

I do remember now. Those things. That once I was paying attention to. That betrays. Somewhere, somehow. Like unkept promises. And then you stop. Observing, guessing. You stop on those hints that you just can see and won’t see anymore ’til the whole reveal and explode in front of you.

Tonight, let it flow like if your soul was consuming.

I’ve had that thing lying on the hard drive, since some times, a so called writing program. No fuss about it, dark barkground, clear character, nothing but simpleness. The album “Romantic Works” by Ren Ford in the background. To be honnest, i’ve gone through my music library to find something that would fit. As when i was about to choose some classical music, in my case the Requiem from Mozart, i’ve decided to choose another one. “Let’s try this one !”. Somehow. Was picked some days ago, can’t remember exactly when, still, this isn’t what mater here.

I’ve asked for a word. Simple, clean, without the accompanying sentence. Like a start. Indeed it is. The spark. Bottle in the sea, i should have though earlier about the time shift between here and there, i felt a bit bad once it’s been sent, selfishly. I’m not sure i should, i’m not sure i could. The answer followed a few minutes later. Ciguret. Eyebrow raised, cigarette popped in the mind.

I’ve never been smoker. Parents were, alive one still is, more rarely though. Cigarette, rolled one. The sound of the crackling paper, the scent of the tobacco slipping in the hands, the smell of the hands then. That feeling in the fingers, once, it roll and roll, trying to get the right size, smiling at how bad you could be with a single paper sheet. So light. So fragile in the same time. Rolling again, using another paper, trying to not loose any of it. Memories popping up, like faded old films, bittersweet. Those tastes in mouth, while as a kid, you try, to feel adult once, to be like them and understand all that’s about, thinking that maybe then you’ll get girl and such. No worries on health, and such. Smell of smoke. Dancing.

Smoke, like a sound, waving, curling, dancing through thin air. Fascinating, so alive in the same time. Inhaling. Coughing when you’re not used, like if it was your last breath, trying to breathe again. Fascinated by this power inherent to the magical stick and it’s yellow-red tip, like a pulsing light. Those face, suddenly hidden behind a drape, as the smeke is rising. As the light get through. As vapor when nervous, as a dancing river when it’s calm, as a dragon when playful.

Look at it.

Elevating. Like a soul consuming. Elevating, lighter than air, lighter than attraction. Slowly, rising. Insanely complex, and dead simple in the same time. Like an expression of fire, unchained.

The gesture, the movement itself. To rise it, present it, light it, bringing it to the lips, appealing. The marks on the filter if any, the way the hand hold it. The way it show the hand, the grace, the details. The sadness of a cigarette left behind to burn, with that smell that embalm the room. Almost itching.

It’s a paradox. I’m not fan of the smell of cigarette, but i have fond memories of the smell of smoking pipe. Some Amsterdam tobacco, so specific. I can’t help but turn back in street if i pick the odor. Childhood. Blurry images. Some family member seen only a few time. As i kind like the smell of smoke weed. Guess that studying in an art school didn’t helped.

If i had to let go, guide by music and closed eyes, on this theme.

– Elevator song – (from the album picked earlier)
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Images popping up. Smode from a cigarette. Someone sit, woman’s hand, dark place, only a few light cone. The red following a path, like suspended in the air, as the flow fly from it. Focus on it. A myriad of particles together, flowing like a river in a forest, deep within, fast, wild, waving, like a soud waveform. Trembling with the hand, with the unseen and unfelt vibration of air, breath, life. All around. Having its own soul, as its own lifespan, so short. Back. Rolling back. Farther, again. Like a reverse fast-paced time machine. rebuilding, smoke getting in, back into the box, back into the protection layer, back into the shop, back into the truck, the harbor, the boat, the truck, the factory, automated machine, blind and deaf, all those, together, assembling, reassembling, separated. Split. Paper back in its acid bath, treated, back into fiber, back into woods. As for the tobacco, back into their original state. All back to birth, to the reverse time. Go further, again, again.

It always fascinates me, science, in its purest form, that tell that nothing is created, nothing disappear, all change. Consider this : everything on earth, that was, that is, that will be, is from a same origin, from its very beginning. Cosmic one. We’re fragment of what was a star, as that cigarette is. As we’re both in an ever changing star. Our bodies will follow, as the ashes from the cigarette. Flowing into the winds, getting back into the flows. Getting back into the life stream, absorbed, transformed, to something else. Alive, or inert.

Smoke stream. Alive and dead, inert and alive, from a solid to a gaz, a changing state, a flow. As an existence.

That’ll end in a last breath.

Are we ?

That’s surprising, sometimes. The question about the individual. The self-proclaimed unicity.
It’s always been a challenge for me. Not the sociable kind, more like sticked on the walls, and a bit uneasy in common activities. The question of difference have probably been taken the other way,min the sense that at a time you seek for acceptance. You wish to be more alike those that compose the groups. To feel, in a way, to be part of something. Eventually I could have ended up quite easily in religion, sects, or such fancy The mighty and all those followers loves you. Be with us, like us.. Thus, I can more or less understand those falling into those hands. Being part of a community and it’s sweet comfort. Where you don’t have to search for an answer inside yourself. If a way.
But, in the same time do seeking for a kind of existence, I couldn’t help but feel a contradiction. Being accepted for who you are but subscribing to a common thought ? Bullshit !
Tricky part is that, in a way, subconsciously it’s hard being yourself. I mean, fully yourself. As there’s always a fear of rejection. It could seem vain, like “you don’t like me ? Go fuck yourself”, but, theory is what it is. You end up idealizing the way people think of you and you try to stick to it. In a way, you become what you think they fancy about you. In other word, you become and illusion. It’s not a mater of trust in the others, it’s just a self-preservation reaction. Like a chameleon who adapt.
In the end of the day you loose yourself. You end up hating the one you became. You end up forgetting who you really are, in a way, with that shadow whispering to your ear that you’re a fake.

You get lost. Wandering. You loose grip on yourself, on what’s left of it. You feels like vanishing. With a big pandora box, filled. And you keep searching for the key.

Showers and their Deep Thoughts effect.
Onanism ain’t bad too.