The smoke wrapped around my fingers.
I don’t think I ever seen anything like that and I smoke kind of alot lately. I still refuse to say that I’m a smoker, tho. I’m not sure why. I refuse to accept that it’s a part of me. I don’t like to put labels on myself. Not anymore, at least.
I used to love it. Labeling myself. It was all I did. Searching for more and more labels. I now find myself refusing to do that.
I find myself refusing to do a lot of stuff. I refuse to accept my feelings, I refuse to work upon them. I refuse to get attached and I refuse to get detached.
The smoke just got in my eye.
I feel like I’m on the verge of tears.
I want to be alone and I dread to be alone. I used to be terrified of no one wanting me but once someone wants me all I can think of is how much I love being alone.
I do love being alone. But I do feel so fucking lonely. The days seem to pass and the hole in my chest seems to grow. And there’s nothing I can do about it. I don’t know what to do about it. Home doesn’t feel like home and I don’t feel like myself. Something is missing. I used to know exactly what I’m searching for and I simply don’t anymore. I just live a day at a time. Isn’t that how it’s supposed to be? I’m not so sure anymore.
The cigarette is about to end. Three more inhales I believe. I’m already thinking of rolling another. Should I? Wouldn’t that define me a smoker? A heavy one, even? I don’t like labels.
I think I’ll roll another.