Polluted Air
My hand trembles ever so slightly as it holds a tiny sliver of silver. My right shoulder rubs against a concrete gentleman, whom I rudely use as an anchor without even gaining permission. The only noise filling the air at the moment is the pitter patter of the rain; I take that as a sign that he's okay, or at least isn't concerned, with my resting state. Fixed four-wheels tumble their way past, but their sound grows dull and inaudible to my not-so-sensitive ears. A myriad of neon hues extrapolate onto the thick shards of glass hanging in front of me, filling me with a satiable lust. I look down at the forming puddles and see the colors reflect and disperse into the cool summer night air. Unpalatable odors dance their way out of the shadows of the earth and try to seduce me like an old witch desperately trying to regain her youth. My nostrils have enough of the scent and encourage me to retaliate; and so I do. Reaching into the far reaches of my inner lined pocket, I dig through all the various lint and paper scraps, finally finding my buried treasure: a finely rolled cylinder, brown and white. I sigh a somewhat heavy sigh, and I place the small stick in between my upper and bottom teeth. I take the silver sliver with my right hand and began to rub my thumb against it. After several clicks, a chemical reaction successfully occurs, and the little tool begins to fulfill its purpose. A tiny light within the darkened madness fills a insurmountable void. Wind brushes past and dances with the flame as it travels its way up to my chapped lips. Flakes run off as the flame hugs the stick. Another reaction occurs, and it fills my lungs with a fleeting lust.
Inner Monologue about Memories:
My memory exists like pollution.
Unnecessarily filled, undesirable.
I want to do something about it; I desire for clean, countryside air.
Yet all I do is spur on the infection like a visceral cancer.
I continually create, whether it be for better or for worse.
However, when it's worse, it's worse.
Like being stuck on the edge of a rooftop. My body teeters and totters, and I'm unsure if the wind will blow me one way or the other.
However, just like sticks of death, once the lungs have their fill and exhale, the remnant smoke makes its exit. The farther time gets, the more the smoke begins to diffuse into this corrupted air. And then, once enough time has passed, I can move on, and pretend like I never even spurred the cancer to spread.
Eventually though, no matter how much I try to forget, the virus will still remain. I'll never escape the inevitable damage that's occurred in the end.
But, I will move on, learn from my mistakes, and do my best to slow the spread of this polluted air.