Hi, my name is Sarah.
"Hi Sarah," they all chimed.
"Hello Sarah, how are you?"
Fine, thanks for asking.
"Have you quit smoking yet?"
Let me check. No.
"Do you want to quit?"
We both know I do.
I just don't think I can.
-------------------------------
I lit the left lamppost. It turned on, flickered for a second, then went out in a flash. I pulled the cord on the right lamppost. It turned on, flickered for a minute, at most, then went out in a slow ebbing wake of disappearing light; like a cool sunset, only smaller, and less majestic.
Hello, my name is Sarah, and I am a smoker; but, I want to cut that habit. (At least I think I do) I want to let go of my dependence of an artificial substance. I want to let go of myself. I want to rediscover who I am. I want to envelop paris, to yield myself to free flowing thought and juxtaposition to life.
Quit, was the one word they used when they shut the door on me. Hard, and in the nose. Brick walls mortar themselves around me.
Quit, it's the only way to make it to where you belong; the only way to make it back to being a 'normal member' of 'normal society.'
Quit, their relentless echoes cried as they betrayed me, flung the lifeless lump that I am to the curb and stomped; my skull execrating blood onto the sidewalk, red liquid trailing into the drain -- my thoughts floated to the sky -- my soul returning to where it belonged, in the muck of the sewers. Maybe I reunited with God. Maybe I reunited with Satan. Maybe all existence stopped. I don't know, I haven't gotten that far yet.
What I do know is that when I reached the other side I was exiting a large train station, walls plastered in a deep crimson brick, people bustling around me with baggage and ulterior motives, and a sign hanging above me which read:
"Welcome to Paris"
Candied apples were passed out at the funeral. I really hate candied apples. (Thanks mom, she forgot I hated candied apples.) Everyone else seemed to like them, and that was all that mattered to me: the fact that they were happy.
John Schmidt played at the funeral. I really hate John Schmidt. (Thanks dad, he forgot I hated John Schmidt.) Everyone else seemed to like him, and that really mattered to me: they should enjoy themselves.
My friends didn't come, they were all in jail (Hell's if I know why.)
Love,
Sarah
