Posted: October 5, 2013 in Quickie

Half-smoked cigarettes in make-shift ashtrays in a horribly lit apartment, with nothing in their right place.
Scraps of paper lying around, we’re surrounded by piles of ashes-the room filled with smoke.
We’re lying around killing time, at the same time; we’re killing ourselves.
Smothering our lungs with smoke and taking shots to the liver-but we love it..
We love all our vices…
We talk about the shit we should do. And the shit we’ve not done. But never about the shit we have done.
Maybe it because all that we do is nothing.
Nothing but make memories.
Individual memories.
Different memories.
We are connected by our memories, so we spend all day making memories about making plans to make future memories.
Its all jibber jibber really.
Its all trivial.
But we tell ourselves that its worth our effort, just so we don’t get too pessimistic and stop trying, because we have hope that in the midst of all the non-challance we might make significant memories.
We blow smoke out of our lungs with the confidence of someone who has it all figured out.
But we don’t.
We’re all friends and we know each other.
But none of us really know ourselves.
But we’re figuring out.
“I had a dream i could buy my way into heaven” a voice called out.
“When i woke i spent that on a necklace” another voiced cried out.
And we start talking about death, and how we’re making memories to try to counter the finality of mortality.
But we’re over the depression.
To be depressed is to throw in the towel. To give in to the terrorist..
So we avoid the subject and talk about shit…

…sometimes to stay alive, you’ve got to kill your mind.- Twenty One Pilots.


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