Cold Smoke

It’s cold outside, but this doesn't seem to shake her. The blistering wind and slight drizzle is not enough to stop her emotional whim. She’s not a smoker, never has been, but on days like these when her thoughts run away from her, she turns to the poisonous cloud of clarity. It’s a love hate relationship that she has fostered for many years.  She finds an unhealthy solace in drawing on the tip of the yellow stub from time to time. But why in the cold she asks herself, why not wait until a place of secret warmth is nearby. She starts to ponder the answer and arguably denies her dependency. It is not a physical desire but rather emotional. She feels that when she stands in the natural elements, whether belting hot or icy cool, her innate bodily reaction to acknowledge the external forces summon her to a place of introspection. At first she feels the cold; her vulnerable skin greets the consequences until she can no longer respond to them. Her teeth start to shake and her thoughts start to freeze. It is in this place now that she can merely be, nowhere else. The only questions that raise their hands are the ones that ask why? Why are you here, why are you doing this? Is something wrong? Usually she could ignore such questions, but today, in the cold, she must face them. Behaviour that has deviated from status quo must be seen too she diligently, yet apathetically thinks. But she realises it is such behaviour that, in utter contradiction, reinstates the status quo, thereby defeating the interrogation, because it is in this state that she is at peace. There is no anxiety, only that which will follow. She puts out the cigarette, shakes hands with imminent remorse and reaches for the bottle of perfume that is designed to cover up the lie she has just told herself.