1 out of 2
Chapter I.
He flips the coin. Heads. He pauses, then he flips the coin once again. Heads. He looks out the window of his car as if trying to figure out which way to go. The night is calm and steady. There`s no wind and barely any light to see the surroundings, just the dim and shimmering lights of his car. He lights a cigarette and inhales the smoke smoothly, as if he had all the time in the world to do it. The motor is still running but he doesn`t make a move, he still doesn`t know where he`s headed. This way or that way? He`s still stopped at the intersection. He glances at each road, left then right, as if trying to read them and analyze them. Makes no difference, still doesn`t know. The cigarette burns while he inhales once again, the smoke covering his face. He watches how the cigarette burns, and it reminds him of tonight, of why he`s leaving and of why his life resembles the life of a cigarette. There are so many stories in a cigarette. The sleepless nights where the cigarette was your only friend; the partying nights where its smoke was amidst your joy; the moments of tears that fell on the cigarette, absorbing the tears like a sponge, and it still lit up; the moments of most personal freedom, doubts and questions, just like this moment right now. There are so many stories in them. You take them out of the box new, unlit, like when we come to this world, then you light them up and start to puff their life away, little by little, centimeter by centimeter, the everyday hustle taking our life away, shortening our life span, until we are nothing but a cigarette butt, just as disposable. He tosses the cigarette butt out the window. He pauses for a second. He then mumbles to himself, "Heads` left, tails` right". He flips the coin. Heads. "Oh well...", he says. "...it might as well mean something". He then takes a left while dissapearing into the night.
7/17/07
He flips the coin. Heads. He pauses, then he flips the coin once again. Heads. He looks out the window of his car as if trying to figure out which way to go. The night is calm and steady. There`s no wind and barely any light to see the surroundings, just the dim and shimmering lights of his car. He lights a cigarette and inhales the smoke smoothly, as if he had all the time in the world to do it. The motor is still running but he doesn`t make a move, he still doesn`t know where he`s headed. This way or that way? He`s still stopped at the intersection. He glances at each road, left then right, as if trying to read them and analyze them. Makes no difference, still doesn`t know. The cigarette burns while he inhales once again, the smoke covering his face. He watches how the cigarette burns, and it reminds him of tonight, of why he`s leaving and of why his life resembles the life of a cigarette. There are so many stories in a cigarette. The sleepless nights where the cigarette was your only friend; the partying nights where its smoke was amidst your joy; the moments of tears that fell on the cigarette, absorbing the tears like a sponge, and it still lit up; the moments of most personal freedom, doubts and questions, just like this moment right now. There are so many stories in them. You take them out of the box new, unlit, like when we come to this world, then you light them up and start to puff their life away, little by little, centimeter by centimeter, the everyday hustle taking our life away, shortening our life span, until we are nothing but a cigarette butt, just as disposable. He tosses the cigarette butt out the window. He pauses for a second. He then mumbles to himself, "Heads` left, tails` right". He flips the coin. Heads. "Oh well...", he says. "...it might as well mean something". He then takes a left while dissapearing into the night.
7/17/07
posted by Rodolfo at 6:16 PM
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