Every time I decide to make a blog entry, I just stare long enough to the title/text section and say : What the hell am I doing ? Why would some people want to read some incoherent/irrelevant/ridiculous out-loud-thinking of some girl living in North Africa ?
And, as I used to answer my own questions, am going to write down below the reason behind all of this.
Am not writing, shouting, screaming my heart-out (quite silently though), in these pages for no particular reason (except for my casual moaning about life and all the shit that comes with it, on a regular basis, and with a huge amount).
I just believe that my echoes are somewhere and somehow quite heard.They are not rejected by a sound-proof wall...they are spread, and read. And I hope that what you read (even though I don't really consider my blog entries as something worth reading), and while you're doing, coincidence would brought some similarities, like people seeing their reflections in my own mirror. Souls are meant to be joint together, eventually. You're born alone, dead all by yourself, but living in a very complicated web, where each nod is the fusion point that gathers you, and someone else.
Feeling odd makes me want to write about complete different subjects than the ones that are actually bugging me.Brief review of my sick life : am meant to live every bad moment, over and over again, but with quite different people (that you think they are different, and they 're gonna make you feel alive again, but on the contrary, they bury you alive).
Anyway, moving on to the main entry now, that was a prologue.
Late- Losing you
Cigarettes, night light, cold breeze...The perfect intangible bite.
Why does people smoke ? I tend to ask this question to all of those who smoke around me.
And when I direct the same question to myself, I would say :
It's just a mutual, delicate and intimate battle. The cigarette and I are both undergoing the same fate : death. It is catalyzing mine, and am doing the same for it. It burns so quickly, that you can't even say good bye and bury it properly. You light another one. You want to take its life away, and it's doing the same in a slow transcending agony way. Eventually, we are both killing each other, right ? But I enjoy its smoke, and it's enjoying the touch of my fingertips and the red lipstick I stain it with. Fair play !
It does sometimes go far beyond, and it becomes my imaginary friend, that I sometimes name, and then step on with my shoes. Such a psychotic behavior, I know about that. It really helps you breathe, and feel differently, see differently, talk differently and live differently. But it's the ultimate criminal of the whole world, we roger that.
Time for me to end this entry !
Just take care people !
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