Another one of those evenings with coffee, cigarettes, old school blues loud on my speakers. Muddy Waters, Buddy Guy, B.B.King. Mustang Sally on repeat. What voices! What voices! And what lyrics! They throw you right away in the sweetest goddamn blues. You can’t help but light another cigarette. And there’s nothing like lighting a cigarette with goddamn matchsticks. Yeah, right off those goddamn matchsticks. I think if a cigarette has to be lit, and if you really really want to light it and I mean really want to light it, it better be done with a matchstick and in one go. Well, that’s some cigarette wisdom right there. A lighter isn’t bad or anything to use, it’s just it’s too organised, too polished, too nice. Now, we have these lighters with plastic red blue yellow bodies. Gas lighters. Transparent. You can see the fuel right through and how much of it remains, so that you get an idea about when to buy a new one. With matchsticks and matchboxes, it’s somewhat similar but not the same. The feeling is not the same. Matchboxes with no labels or names come straight from hell. Matchsticks carry some rawness. I like that rawness, that feeling of living like an animal. Damnit give me as raw as it can be. Things too clean begin to disgust me after some time. Clean bedroom, clean kitchen, clean toilet, clean bedsheet, clean glasses and plates, clean clothes, clean face, meditation and yoga, breakfast on time, dinner on time, sleep on time, just one glass of red wine, just one cigarette, just one glass of rum, just one bottle of beer, combed hair, brushing every day, taking bath each morning. Things dirty make me unstoppable, activate all my neurons at once, fill my veins with stallion blood. Drugs could never really make me high enough. Even if they did, it was all just momentary. Somebody once told me not to chase what’s momentary. I told him to fuck off. I am chasing nothing. I am here in this moment, trying to be as alive as I can be in the ways that I know of.
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