Where smoke twirls...

He sits there beneath the cold mist that surrounds him in the balcony, vaporizing his sins with that sweet burning smell of cigarette. He fears the resting footsteps, those of dull reality. But then again, He awaits it while the smoke twirls round her fingers. He is amused that those fingers had previously grasped the women he knew too well. He didn't need her anymore. She was like the cigarette butts that He had previously disposed off with. Just like that. But unlike the many, she had been the first. The very first cigarette and the very first smoke. And now he sat staring outside his balcony. Without resolve. With the sweet burning smell of smoke caressing him with the false sense of nothingness.

Lost In transit..

I just write to write today. Emotionless. Dreamless. Thoughtless. Writing on a plain blank canvas. I think I have lost myself somewhere. I have ideas. I have a lot of them. Dreams, them too. A few more than them ideas. But I think the drive has vanished. Evaporated. Once upon a time, it didn't seem mechanical. It was warm and fuzzy and just the right bit Me. I realize that I have somewhere lost what that dream meant to me. I forget that it isn't merely a task well done. It means a lot more. It means being me. Loving me as I am. Knowing this world a little bit more. And falling in love with it too. Sometime I parody my existence. What should I do. When days become somber so soon?
I think I realize now.
So I write just to write. To free myself of my thoughts, ideas and dreams.