Smoking in the fog

So I’m currently located in a small rural town in NSW. This is where I was born. I have managed to have some fun since arriving, but I’m going to chalk that up to freak events. …but it isn’t so bad hear, out in the sticks. It’s a quiet night. The stars are bright and clouds are whispering by under a full moon. It’s some fine, relaxing shit, really. Earlier I caved and bought a pouch of tobacco, the first in well over a year, though I did buy a packet of cigs while eating and drinking my way around Sydney, a couple of weeks ago. Small vices make it all a little easier.

That first puff, and I could feel tightly wound structures deep in my brain unclenching. What now? I’m staying with family until I work out what I want to give a crap about and what I want to do about it. Most of me is dropping not so subtle hints we shouldn’t give fucks about anything. Disappear. Fade away. Admit we are nothing. Clip my wings to keep myself tame. Admit that such a position is not something we can abide. Or admit it is something we can abide?

This is the image of reality when lost deep in the foggy lands. Beyond the fog lies an all-encompassing maze of razors and shit. I’ve heard there are better ways to get from A to B. Damned if I know what they look like, or where they lie. I’ve been in that maze. I don’t want to go back. Looking at myself now, I’m looking at the same person I was at 16. To think I would be back here in the fog, where everything outside the fog looks like the lesser alternative to nothing. If that I had the strength to eat razors and kick down walls…

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