Photo by Rafał Opalski on Unsplash

Smoking away in the stairwell I put the still-warm weapon into my mouth again.

Pull, catch and release like an angler, the smoke trail a tangled lure.

Dissipating into the intersection of moonlight and wind, the breeze rolling in like a policeman waiting to catch us.

For what? We haven’t done anything wrong.

We’re just participating in a socially-accepted form of suicide, as with everyone else in this city.

The night is still young, just as how this century is young in the grander scheme of things.

Put another way, to be young is to be utterly irrelevant.

I’m suddenly thinking of Greta, and how straws aren’t the biggest sources of ocean pollution, but rather expended cigarette butts.

Interesting – to first corrupt the lungs of men, and then to poison their waters. To find their ways up a turtle’s nose. To be fulfilled in the stomachs of whales like a signed contract, done and dusted.

You are there too, but only for a while.

We’re not supposed to be here, we’re not meant to be anywhere at all. God’s plan is left unwritten – he left for a holiday in the Bahamas and never came back.

He left the backdoor open swinging in the night like a cradle and a baby left to its own devices.

Plenty of things swing that way – remember that horror movie we watched where the child opens the door to the attic to find their mother high above the ground.

Swinging like a clock’s pendulum, the night flashing in and out like a lighthouse’s cold uncaring beam

Cast out into the endless sea, hoping to glance onto something.

If death is so unacceptable, then why isn’t it outlawed yet?

Sometimes I think law is the cure to everything, to control the hearts and minds of men, to change their ways.

Sometimes I know better.

Freewriting Explanation: Every day, Valen shall use 5 minutes to write completely unprompted and uninterrupted, letting the words lead the way. There is no end purpose to each piece, but rather, the pieces are allowed to develop naturally in their own way.

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