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A tale of Life, Cigarettes, and Coffee.


New member
Mar 9, 2006
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As I finnish the last cigarette of the morning, I realized I just killed a pack in a mere four hours. Its 8:31 AM, eastern time, and the clock ticks by. I've been awake for over fourty-eight hours and havent a yawn to show for it. All I have is a few highs and a few lows and a few moments of euphoria as I watch the sun rise thinking to myself I am probably the only person on the planet enjoying this luxary while others go about their busy lives.

The sun rises one could say, you probably picture some hawaiin sunrise, but not where I live. Where I live the horizon simply turns from a dark grey to a mongrel grey. Everything is covered in slush and grey mud. Nothing worth staying up for. I spend more time looking at the backside of this lighter as I twirl it on my fingertips like the nervous'tick of a sociopath.

I'm in an interesting situation right now, it is unique. I've some money saved up, am out of work, and can simply enjoy life for a while. An early glimpse of what retirement would be like. The only diference is, I will never retire and will never hold a steady job. I am a scum of the earth human being living since the age of ten on a loner's high-to-high basis, taking what I can.

I live life eternally in a fog, laid back, relaxed, moment to moment.

Time for another cigarette.

I forget what I am doing and lean back a moment. Watching the smoke twist and turn into streams of eternity as it diffuses into the air above me and then eventually balances out until a slight mist dims the lights.

I've a pot of coffee on, but, I'm not getting up for it just yet. It can wait. "French Vanilla" so it should be good.

Right now, I'd consider a rough day to be writing this forum post.

Am I lazy? Hardly. Am I stupid? Definately not. Am I ignorant? No, just have life more figured out than you do.

This last cigarette is reduced to a sizzling filter and now sits at the bottom of a beer bottle turned ashtray. I hear a slight beeping in the back, and realize the "Deepdish UNO Pizza" is ready. It now sits next to my computer moniter on a platter with a knife. The coffee remains in the back of my thoughts, I'll drink it later.

So I suppose we are ready for the story now? We've had a page worth of the moment to set the tone.

The clock ticks nine. The lighter twirls. The stereo continues to play a brand of foreign songs from the nineteen-thirties.

The music, well, I am somewhat of a history nut. Always reading books or studying memoirs and what if's of people within the third reich. The music I guess puts my mind in the mood for such study, or maybe it just sets the theme. "Panzerlied" blurs through the speakers. A recording of voices of people long since fallen, of a movement that imploded, a movement of an empire that long ago met its demise. However, the voices and the music of this particular moment in time are immortal and have now found their way to the internet speaking to me like the ghost of Christmas Past. As I close my eyes I project myself to be sitting in a wooden chair next to a window looking out at a military parade with grand displays of Deutschlands Panzer Armees parading through the streets of Austria during the Anschluss march. The music grasps and immortalizes the spirit and minds of people who are now forever gone. I come back to reality, the immortal voices grow softer and are no longer the focus of my thoughts. I look around my dimly lit morning surroundings, and begin to tell you my story.

I guess I am "relaxed" you could say. I'm calm, always calm, never in a state of chaos or anger. Self taught, since, well, lets just say self taught. School just wasn't my thing. I've grown into one of the most obsessive self learners of all time. Secretly keeping my mind occupied with personal missions to learn new understandings of things unknown to me. Self taught, and alone, for most of the time. Sort of like now. This same lonewolf scenario.

After a severe head injury within the past year, I developed a "shake and shiver". Sometimes my entire body jolts uncontrollably for a second or two. In public I try to play it off as if I was just fidgeting but often times the jolts are serious enough to make me look half retarded no matter what type of body language I follow them up with. Sometimes full blown seizures that cause me to lose conciousness only to wake up on the ground with a bruised head and limbs hurting from the pain of shacking so violently into what ever is around me.

The last job I had that was legal was years ago and was certainly nothing to be proud about. It was for show anyways.

I do not have a family structure to fall back on. My family was less than helpful when growing up and I learned the way of life on your own at the age of 13. Lets just say they were hostile.

The word friend to me would be defined as a being of temporarily good relations that is of potential benefit to my survival. I do not really care who these people are, what their stories are, so long as some self serving benefit can become of them I will get on peoples good sides.

I've a mental condition that renders me to act this way. That is all it is anyways, "acting". Acting to gain friendship and planning to break it.

Friends, girlfriends, people, they come and go. The only thing that is consistent is my condition and mission. The mission is simply to survive.

So why am I writing this? We'll get to that.

Life is rather bleak. No, I do not need to get laid. With all the sex in the world, life is dull. With heroine in my blood, life is grim. With money in my pocket, life is bleak.

I was put on this earth to survive what ever the cost and to try to enjoy things as much as possible. I cannot really enjoy much. I've been bored since the day I carried everything I owned to the back door of a friends house to sleep in his basement on the first snowy night of that year. That was over a decade ago. I've been surviving on my own for what seems like an eternity. As soon as I get into a good "spot" I usually revert to secret study and learning of this world. I've lived a life from one high to the next. One day after another. Meal to meal.

The joy most tend to get out of life has been sucked out of it for me. The joy of a comfortable bed is now indifference to me when I have slept on park benches and subway pavement at times. The taste of food has been dried out when I've gone days without eating many times and food to me is nothing but a fuel supply and a luxary when I have access to it. The pain of any physical injury has been completely nullified by the correct mentality to handle it that I developed as a kid. Any emotion you could name, does not exist behind my eyes and under my skin. Part of my mental condition has permanently prevented my psyche from developing the ability to experience emotions; No sadness, no love, no attachment, no guilt. I am a robot with a mission to survive and a life that is lacking in all things that this world has to be enjoyed.

So what joy is there then? Stimulation? I suppose. Sexual stimulation, mental stimulation, drugs, "mind games" with people, toying with peoples lives, making a game of risky behavior such as robbing convenient stores, keeping my mind occupied with indepth study of politics and world events.

The above all lose their flavor after a while. You get bored. You get tired. You begin to ask why you are doing this when it doesnt make you "happy" it just gives you something to do for a while.

I stop twirling the lighter and put it on the desk. The coffee is still hot, standing tall in a sealed off pitcher.

I do not sleep well. If you remember some of the details from the earlier portion of this post, you would know I've been up for over two days, this is day three. This "Uno" was the first thing I've eaten in this time.

Can you guess where this post is going? Maybe you do not see it yet. I have thought of this before, out of boredom, because I cannot think things out of sadness.

People with my condition do not make mistakes. We do not make "weak" mistakes I suppose you could say. Most normal people are "weak".

I suppose in your eyes it would be a call for help if someone did this out of sadness. As if it could have been stopped and their lives could have been saved if only one person reached out to them. It would be sad that such a loss of life occured and humanity did not respond in time to prevent it and they died a sad death, lonely, and crying.

I will shed no tear. I will not feel regret. I will not be crying. No hand of "friendship" interests me. Those that once muttered the phrase "You will die alone" are strangely correct in their cliche remarks after I wronged them at some point in their life. Such is not sad. It is a shame that when I go, I will only have just started this pack of cigarettes I am currently working on. And what will become of the money I've aquired? Not sure.
The biggest shame of all is that perhaps the only person I enjoyed talking to will no longer be among the living, myself. The person I have been living so long to keep alive is going to be sad to see me go. I think of myself as two seperate entities. I call myself by my name, refering to my subconcious and physical existence, and I refer to my conciousness as me.

I am sorry but, this game is too long and there is not enough in it for me. I get nothing out of day to day life. Simply moving forward in time to see world politics slowly unfold and slowly change face, sorry self, but that is not worth living for.

When I said I did not really enjoy the taste of food I simply eat it, well, I was truthful. Coffee on the otherhand, I enjoy. It has never not brought a smile to my face. I can close my eyes and think of a cold winter night when I was younger and someone refused to give me "money" in fear of me spending it on more junk, but instead he took me into a breakfast diner and said I could order what ever I wanted. All I ordered was a coffee, refusing to accept this mans generosity. I then sat down with him to discuss "the world". It was "French Vanilla" and I was near frost-bitten.

I now sit down after being up for a moment. I have three creams, a styling coffee cup, and a small jar of sugar. The pitcher of coffee now stands in the center of the tray that previously held the Uno.

I will not be able to finnish this post. This post ends when the first drop of this eternal brew touches my tongue. It is not becuase I do not want to share this moment with you, it is becuase I owe that moment to say good bye to my life-long friend who has been by my side since I first stumbled out the door and up onto my two feet to begin walking. This moment will be a flashback to that memory of the coffee shop, of the conversation, and of the life my friend has lived with me at the controls, protecting him every step of the way. Sorry but, those moments are his.

I can see my own breath, I'vent any heat. Frost covers the window. Twisting the cap off, my face is met with a gust of warm steam. An instant reminder of the welcoming nature of this liquid nirvana. The smell in the air is no longer that of overpriced Marlboro cigarettes. No, it is the smell of a significant day in my great friends life, the smell of a historical echo in time. This great friend of mine was in a bad situation at one time and this smell lifted his spirits. This great friend is now older. Worn out. Tired. Bored. The thrill of thrillseeking has been darkened and muffled. This great friend returns to this smell to remind him of that day of hope that was forever referenced in his thoughts as I went on to build a life for him.

The pitcher has long since been spiked with a certain tasteless element. The cup is now filled. Sugar and cream poured in. Stirred. The cap twisted on and lid left open. Steam still drifts from the pitcher at an ever slower pace.

Old friend, here we are again. Just a kid sitting at a table enjoying a french vanilla coffee wearing everything he owned. Old friend, we've been together for a while, I've never let you down, and for this, I'm sorry. Perhaps this will be the first time in our life that we sleep comfortably and at ease with the world. Old friend, this ones for you, cheers.
Aryan Imperium, is that you?

If not, what is with inference to Nazi Germany, and a fond one at that. I think maybe that is all I need to know about you, hate has eaten you alive obviously. I don't know if you are just possibly testing your writing skills here, but it was indeed a sad story, and you had my interest, I'll say that.
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