Coffee & Cigarettes

It’s difficult to think straight on enough caffeine. Sitting alone in a private corner of the cafe, I think little of the world. When your problems are quietly resting in front of you, there is little you can do but smile graciously and tip your hat to them. Oh lovely caffeine, oh beauteous nicotine! I shan’t squander your grace, I shall embrace your power in open arms! Do not scorn me my love, I will place your delicate form upon my lips soon! But for now, let us sit awhile, so I can tell myself that it’s okay to want you. Otherwise, I shall be filled with a strong sense of loathing. No, not loathing towards you, goodness no! Just a general sense of self-loathing, as I sip my coffee and divulge in unimportant musings that will rake me further into my own lovely, warm and inviting hell.

It’s always bothered me, there’s so much more in the light of day then the silly voices that scatter across the air. There is so much more, ever so much more, yet I just can’t see it. Where can I find what I’m looking for? I have searched for what seems like a millennia, but only glimpses of its existence have appeared before me, eluding my grasp every time. I know I am looking for excitement. But no, not excitement really. I am most definitely looking for entertainment. But not just entertaining people, or entertaining things—more than just a good laugh or a good fuck. Maybe I’m looking for a good thought. They seem to be ever so hard to come by, especially when my mind is filled with enough caffeine and nicotine to kill a small animal.
I wish I had the ability to see further into myself. I know that the ability exists somewhere beneath all the shit, I just haven’t unearthed it yet. To tell you the truth I’m in no real rush. Fuck it, I’m young, in the prime of my life, flying through days like a drunk behind the wheel of a car. And, to tell you the truth, I have no real intentions of slowing down. Unless I slide off the rode or kill someone, I see no reason for alarm.

Maybe I’ll move to Paris and shoot some heroin and then get lost in the smoke of a tawdry cafe. Or I’ll make some music and make some money, then buy myself some elegant cars. Or maybe I’ll settle down with a job in an office, wake up every morning for a commute that makes me long for a pencil to drive into my skull. I’ll go out every night with the zombies, my close friends and colleagues, snort some coke and find a body to get lost in for awhile. Then wake up alone in a room that’s never felt like home, drive to work and drown myself in a hazy mess of papers and binders and people with no souls or remarkable thoughts. Yeah, I think I’d rather be lost in a dark alley in hell then stuck in a cubicle in Satan’s asshole. I feel more comfortable with drug addicts and losers than with men in suits so clean and crisp the wind gets shocked and horrified at the sheer anal retention of it all. If I get old and have kids in a world where people's eyes are lost and dead, walking the streets and sitting in subways, never looking at one another or speaking of much more than the banalities of insanity, I would rather I had lost myself in a bar, drinking myself into a puddle of my own piss.