Surrealism

A self-philosophy only because of being related to myself, not because it's actual philosophy.

Because I think that the sophistication of human minds deserves to be given the chance to philosophize on its own. 

Through the history of human beings, literature has always reflected people's thoughts of their beloved ones, but has anybody ever been in love with a thought? 

Speaking of my abstract universe, I can say that I'm preoccupied with a thought. A thought that dominates my mind, while it's preoccupied with smoke and other heavenly things. Such a surrealistic paradox between smoke and heavenly things, but that's why I can't let go of that thought. It's how its tenderness occupy its oppression and how I cling to it, every time I decide to completely move on.

For the love of that thought, I never regret turning into an abuser. Because no matter how devastating the withdrawal symptoms are, one could never give up crawling back to it over and over again. Surrendering to it starts to be a part of one's attitude, if that one reached for its heavenly core before.

Such an exquisite type of speciality lies in being one of those few ones who has ever been allowed to see the cosmic core unmasked. Because everybody saw the smoke predominant in its soul and occupying its eyes, but I took pride in seeing its genuine bewitching side.

Genuine? Is it, actually, that real or that's just how I sustain its survival?

And why would I keep it alive, if it was hypothetical? 

Supposedly, I might be so selfish that I keep it lingering in my soul so that it makes me feel better about myself. Or maybe I'm just so selfless that I let it suck the life out of me without defending my existence so that I'd preserve it.

And what if thoughts are just the doppelgängers of people in our minds?
Maybe I'm just a repudiated thought longing for survival, while it's not a right of mine, or even a dominating one in another story.

I'm Smoking Myself To Death

From the thoughts of a desperate young man..

It's one of those nights of solitude. Cold and soulless, just like everything between us. But this time, I decided to smoke the night away thinking that it could be the remedy while it just brought aching nostalgia.

I'm standing in the black shades of despair searching for a relieving insight into her mind, but my trials are totally unattainable. Maybe I've always been disabled since she decided that sorrow should dwell in my soul.

I've always been trying to be a warrior, but agony is all what remained after her departure. Nobody was ever able to conquer the cold lingering in her. I followed her gaze more than once, but never did I reach the destination on which her eyes are fixed.

Like a stereotype of a depressed man, I take a sip of my coffee between taking the absolute last drag of a cigarette and lighting another one.

Owing to my bad luck, even coffee reminds me of her. It's the brownish black color resembling the color of her graceful eyes that brings back those thoughts of her.

I glanced at them once, but she never looked at me into the eye. I think I just needed a chance to reach the depths of her soul. Maybe she knew that I could solve the mystery and that's why she quit.

And though I never got the chance to stare at her eyes, how striking and full of life they're makes me feel as if her heart occupied her eyes instead of her chest. It's like I can see a whole life within them, even though it's just a quick look.

Such an unexplicable paradox in how soulless she's, despite the sparkles in her eyes. Maybe that's why I never managed to give up being preoccupied by her.

Overwhelmed by grief, I'm not able to stop thinking about how cold she has always been despite the tenderness and passion she used to look at me with.

Everything, even, started on a summer-like rainy day. Even nature wanted to engage her to contradiction just like how she is capable of loving fondly, even though she's heartless. 

I wish I was able to get rid of all these illusions, but everything takes me back to the only place that still feels like home. Everything takes me back to her eyes.

The thoughts of her are spreading under my skin just like a drug, having its own path through my vessels trying to overrule me.

I hope she never wants to take a last look at me, because that's when I'll crumble. 

I'm just fine with hallucinating all night with the company of those sighs that nothing break but the smoke I expel. 

Pardon my frankness, young lady. You'll have to lose a part of you with my withdrawal just like I lost my soul to you. Forgive me for not being courageous enough to get you back, but I'm not gonna throw any rocks in our stagnant lake.

Because tonight, I'm smoking myself to death.