I go about ravaged by the possibilities of what could have been, what should be. I am an old 29. Sometimes it’s hard to imagine living to an old age. The years seem so laborious; so much routine, so much sameness.

At times I turn back, so often to that burning ember at the end of a cigarette. How much that pull represents. In that ephemeral drag friendships pass . . . soon an entire decade. How are you living my friends? Do you ever sit on the porch and smoke that single cigarette? Does your heart ache too? I sometimes joke that I am a Humean-being, each moment of life being a separate self . . . and sometimes it feels that way. Sometimes I feel the cherished pangs of those moments past and recognize that they are as much not me as they are me.

My friends, when we meet again in eternity may we dwell in those moments of possibility; the rapture of those eternal, ephemeral present moments?

They couldn’t last, we couldn’t last, and so life goes on. And yet everything within me longs for those memories to exist, not to remain, but to exist eternally in this present moment.

We long for that which burns but does not consume, yet death overtakes us and that insatiable present moment is satiated.
How is it we go about recovering from the trauma of existence? Is the question always on my mind. The cigarette comes to an end and no one else is there . . .