Metaphorical Morose.

The room stenched of cigarette smoke. I couldn't care less about the smell now. Let it be, let it be. For a number of times I've been safe, I've been cautious, I've had enough. I really couldn't care less. The wind danced around the ashes of my cigarette. And I was left, wishing that I was those remains of what's left behind of that tobacco, dancing around the air. Gently afloat, never hitting the ground. I kept hold of my lighter on my bed.

"This is like a jump, a blind jump on the tallest cliff that you could find. Combine it with a feeling of loss and excitement, followed by a punch on the chest. And the songs are what I hold on to, the rhythm of what I ought to feel at the moment."

The birds chirp and chirp, minding their own business. Always doing the same thing in their tiny little life. Aren't they bored with whatever cycle they are to deal with? The plants on our dry kitchen seems dead. Some of them are already dead, and there is that orchid that mom takes very good care at. Now it's blooming with purple orchids, luring the bees to have a visit. Alive and blooming.

The songs that I have tuned in my computer, are the ones who stay loyal to me. There when I needed them. People, why? Why do you even bother to care? To care about me? What is it in me that you see? And you, yes you, sometimes it had crossed my mind that we wouldn't last a lifetime. Could it be true? I always wonder about that on the old window pane of my ancient office.

Defending the fact that we will stay but alas, a fiction that would sing the melody of our separation shall keep on playing in the background of my environment. 

There is this rope that I see in front of me, and the very rope I grab hold on when a tornado has come by. Hoping that I would not plunge into the deep sea and buried along a thousand red roses on my funeral. A powerful death sentence, but then, I could be wrong. 

And thus, I walk upon the city that I have always gone to, still with a cigarette at one hand. Forcing the monsters away.