If smoking wasn't atrociously bad, I would definitely smoke a cigarette in a long filter every morning while I typed away on my pretentious vintage typewriter. I would then tip toe across the bare room and begin splashing paint on the brick wall in a fit of something, whether it be rage or pure, unadulterated joy. I would be alone. Oh how I would be alone. I would have the blank space and the open day to continue my long filtered ramblings and my paint splattered thoughts. My life would look too messy in a frame.
But this isn't my life. And smoking is bad. And there are constant interruptions and brushes with reality. I fight so hard to create and keep this bubble for myself. It always pops. It always proves to be too fragile to last. The space outside of my space gets me down and so I keep looking down. I know I speak highly of looking up, but I often dismiss my own advice. If I stop fighting, maybe the ground wouldn't be my only option. If I stop fighting, maybe I can start noticing the shadows on the sidewalk. Connecting the pieces, I attribute the shadows to the sun. And then I can't help but look up and give thanks.
Less fighting, fewer filters, more non-bubbles. I will pop that bubble with the cigarette I'll never smoke and inhale what's beyond the brick wall. I assume it's oxygen. I assume it's better over there.
I hope I'm right.