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Marlboro Red’s
A passage from a book I never wrote:
I smoke Marlboro cigarettes by the Chelsea River and no one knows my name. I see a women through a narrow passageway. She has light brown, wispy hair and a half crooked smile. Her intense brown eyes sparkle under the midsummers moonlight. She reminds me of my mother when I stare at her from afar. I bask in the weather's warm embrace as I smoke my third cigarette in under an hour. I don’t know why I keep smoking so much cause I can’t even handle all the nicotine. I then look at the water as it flows in the riverbed as I contemplate how I got here even in the first place. I contemplate why I smoke cigarettes, how the flavor of Marlboro reds hit the back of my throat like a shotgun, loud and difficult to swallow. It seems in my life I’ve always been the best at gulping down the pain. Like when my mother died or that boy I loved broke my heart. I’ve lived so many lives that I can’t differentiate the different types of pain I have felt, they all feel the same. I think to myself that’s the fucked up part, that I’ve been through so much and now I’m smoking a horrible tasting cigarette on top of a bridge while I stare at some random lady who slightly resembles my mother, or at least the memory of her. I then look up at the moon, asking if I have some cosmic purpose to be here right now, in this moment. I get no premonition or clue to the answers I am seeking. I am just a person who overthinks as I watch the water flow down below . A box of slightly warped cigarettes lays in my left chest pocket. I tell myself to stop smoking but I don’t, I think I got to addicted so much that I enjoy when the metaphorical gun smoke goes off in the base of my throat. It’s a cathartic, taste I have come to enjoy. I gulp the nicotine, inducing, smoke down my throat and pray to the moon for better days. I stare at the woman one more time as I question why I’m even staring at her so much. She eventually notices my wide eye stance and stares back at me. I get nervous so I turn my head the opposite way. As I go back to staring at the rushing water I eventually get tired of reminiscing on all the fuck shit that’s happened up to this point. I stare at the moon one more time and I pull out my 4th cigarette of the night. I turn on my heels and walk towards the bar with the green flickering neon signs and loud chattering coming from the outside seating. I light another cigarette as I walk away from the Chelsea River, from my inner turmoil and questions. I tell myself I am free, but I don’t feel free, just lost and alone.
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I smoke Marlboro cigarettes by the Chelsea River and no one knows my name. I see a women through a narrow passageway. She has light brown, wispy hair and a half crooked smile. Her intense brown eyes sparkle under the midsummers moonlight. She reminds me of my mother when I stare at her from afar. I bask in the weather's warm embrace as I smoke my third cigarette in under an hour. I don’t know why I keep smoking so much cause I can’t even handle all the nicotine. I then look at the water as it flows in the riverbed as I contemplate how I got here even in the first place. I contemplate why I smoke cigarettes, how the flavor of Marlboro reds hit the back of my throat like a shotgun, loud and difficult to swallow. It seems in my life I’ve always been the best at gulping down the pain. Like when my mother died or that boy I loved broke my heart. I’ve lived so many lives that I can’t differentiate the different types of pain I have felt, they all feel the same. I think to myself that’s the fucked up part, that I’ve been through so much and now I’m smoking a horrible tasting cigarette on top of a bridge while I stare at some random lady who slightly resembles my mother, or at least the memory of her. I then look up at the moon, asking if I have some cosmic purpose to be here right now, in this moment. I get no premonition or clue to the answers I am seeking. I am just a person who overthinks as I watch the water flow down below . A box of slightly warped cigarettes lays in my left chest pocket. I tell myself to stop smoking but I don’t, I think I got to addicted so much that I enjoy when the metaphorical gun smoke goes off in the base of my throat. It’s a cathartic, taste I have come to enjoy. I gulp the nicotine, inducing, smoke down my throat and pray to the moon for better days. I stare at the woman one more time as I question why I’m even staring at her so much. She eventually notices my wide eye stance and stares back at me. I get nervous so I turn my head the opposite way. As I go back to staring at the rushing water I eventually get tired of reminiscing on all the fuck shit that’s happened up to this point. I stare at the moon one more time and I pull out my 4th cigarette of the night. I turn on my heels and walk towards the bar with the green flickering neon signs and loud chattering coming from the outside seating. I light another cigarette as I walk away from the Chelsea River, from my inner turmoil and questions. I tell myself I am free, but I don’t feel free, just lost and alone.
© All Rights Reserved
