What it means to quit smoking cigarettes.

Eventually everything shifted from my momentary state of being. I do not wish to be trapped here in the gloom of boredom and not knowing what to do with myself. Every lit cigarette was like a nod to a misunderstanding of why I breathe oxygen. I'm not sure this cessation makes any sense, but I might as well just write something down, anything at all, even if it means never becoming famous for having meager thoughts in big worlds without conviction of why its people get lost in the first place. I've been called a ranter, and I've been called methodic in my inability to make straight lines, wandering without purpose- and maybe I'm ok with all of that. Making sense of things that only make sense to me, only ever leading up to self references that I can digest, perhaps I feel good when sharing with a few poets and souls who I'm honored to know. I need this system. This everlasting peace of mind, this denial of self, and the propulsion of an encore....

I need all of these songs to lead up to something special, even if they are just for the lost tears of my mundane brain to fathom. I need an atlas to the projection of this interior dialogue from which I splash from, to be released in a platform worth taking note of- but I often leave myself for other obligations.