I like to forget the very moment when I fall asleep. The sublime sense of satisfaction from a scheduled oblivion. When you can avoid the unpleasant descent in favor of a subtle plummet into slumber, you'll wake up refreshed, remembering how you forgot.
Because whenever I remember, I remember that my mind becomes a monster and I am nervous to face the wayward anxieties, passive-aggressive but vicious fait accomplis. It's always around to make a person so desperate to find sleep, they lose all their hours at dawn.
So I prefer to be too tired or fucked up to remember the moments when I fall asleep.
I always get that look. I'm forcefully aware of its silence translated into undoubtedly harsh judgement. I'm not doing anything wrong. I'm smoking. Just smoking. But I know that look. Like I kicked a sick kid into a wood chipper.
The well-dressed women and the clean-cut men walking in tandem to the organic cults of the tattooed parents. In hardly a second. Slight and polite. Busy enough that they can't be bothered to serve me a lecture. Fortune favors me with silence. The forlorn pity and disgust crafted while the smoke disappears into the city is lost. They wouldn't dare say a word to me. I squint in the sun. They pass me by.
I don't need to see it. I feel it. But there's no reason to quit. If only to find pleasure at the expense of their discomfort. The ash swirling in each breath is worth the perceived assault.
Grant me the freedom to die in an American street. I have all my papers together. This country was founded on fucking cigarettes.