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Matt Glavin

 

Its been 3 hours and I still haven’t lit my cigarette. 3 hours at my desk and no smoking. 3 hours at my desk of uninterrupted, unadulterated, uncensored and unsweetened stream of consciousness. How pleasant.

I cant imagine how pleasant it’d be if you were here, I’d probably be smoking. Or enjoying myself. I am not to say in these days. These days, I have no say. Speech requires desire.

I realize I have a voice, but it has been strained. I have a will, but it lacks strength. I still have my wits about me. Still. And there, that, is the only problem.

You knocked me over on your way out. I fell from the table by the door I always used to fuck you on back when potentials and possibilities were a short bridge to cross between now and a future gift-wrapped like a present. Like one where it could have been anything we’d dreamed it to be until we opened it. Now that stream floods me like an ocean. I didn’t quite shatter when you knocked me over, but the water inside poured out and I’m soaked. The possibilities and potential are drowning in them now.

I will not pull myself off the cold-soaked floor, however.

I will sit at my desk. She will not light it nor shall I wait for her to. I will light my cigarette. I will take 19 drags. I will ash my cigarette and stamp life out from it.

Her favourite part of Cloud Atlas was always when Robert Frobisher killed himself, he says how suicide is given a bad name by the people who rush it. Suicide isn’t selfish. Suicide isn’t cowardice. A true suicide is a paced, disciplined certainty, he says.

I took my 19th drag, my 38th pull, ashed my cigarette, and for one moment between this and the next, I took my weakened will, lifted my heavy hand to my head, and made it courage.

 

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