When I find a penny on the street, I consider it good luck; but I refuse to pick it up, since I believe just the act of finding it makes it a good luck charm. See, I don’t think I have to pick it up. I rather leave it there, so other people can find it too and consider themselves lucky as well.
– Allá no llueve.
– Llevas cuatro años viviendo acá…
– Si, pero siempre vuelvo, y allá no llueve.
Sometimes I think I was not destined to listen to music, but rather create it.
(Tell Me) Tell me you don’t look over the plane’s window and think about life. Tell me you don’t think about infinity and mortality. Tell me you don’t watch the clouds and wonder what they are made of, even if you already know what they really consist of. Tell me you don’t let your imagination fly. Tell me you don’t dream. Don’t tell me you’ve succumbed to the agonies of adulthood and you don’t daydream anymore. - Mr Zatarra
(Annie) I’m sorry I wrote you a love song I’m sorry I wrote a book about you I’m sorry I fell in love with you and I’m sorry it didn’t work out But I’m not sorry that I met you Because you made me start to write - Mr Zatarra
(50 Word Story #1)
“And those days I used to wear my hair long and when my favourite song was next I would untie my ponytail and let it move with the rhythm of my arms and legs as I played the shit out of those drums… And after it I’d sniff some lines.”
(Memoirs Of A Smoker)
We smokers have both a favourite place to smoke and a favourite moment to smoke. Each other time we lit up a cigarette, we just do it out of habit. “You all smoke to enjoy it. I smoke to die.” In reality, we just enjoy that little roll of cancer in those two moments I mentioned before. My favourite place to smoke is New York. Wintry New York, actually. I had just begun to really smoke And by ‘really smoke’ I mean I started to buy my own packs, instead of asking my friends or whoever was at sight for one or two or more.
I went for the second time of my life to New York—the first time I was twelve and we (my family and I) went on summer vacation, so it was pretty much hell up there.
The second time, however, I went there on a school trip with my friends, on December. And instead of being in liquid state due to the heat and moist from the first time, now parts of my body were frozen. I mean, I’ve sensed cold hands, cold feet, cold nose and ears, but never until that trip had I felt cold thighs. The area that surrounded my balls ached but it was somehow numb as well. At least my balls were safe.
Sorry, and back to it.
I think New York is my favourite place to smoke for three main reasons:
- The cold weather makes you exhale more vapor when you blow the smoke out. Or at least it seems like it, because the smoke mixes up with the vapor. It’s stupid, but I like it and manage to do more smoke tricks in a cold weather. Plus, we all think smoking in a cold environment will somehow warm you.
- In the US there are like a bazillion types of cigarettes. For me ,Marlboro Blend 27. They were so good. They made the New York smoking thing a unique experience. Every time I see them in the US or if I get to randomly see them elsewhere, they remind me of New York.
- The simple act of being rebellious: The teacher in charge of us was actually cool and liberal, but at first she tried to act all hard and mean. So, we smoked behind her back. he was obviously aware of it but we believed we were ‘so badass’ We were young and naive. Also, our parents weren’t there. We were free.
Now, my favourite moment to smoke is a whole other thing. My favourite moment to smoke is at home, at night, on the kitchen’s table with my mom while my dad is sleeping unaware of the idea that I’ve been smoking for more than five years now. And I know many people would see this as wrong. Many mothers would never allow it. I mean, which mother in her sane mind would be ok with her son killing himself slowly? None.
But us smoking together is more than that. It is a tradition and a way to show that we are close. That we do not judge, and that there are more important things in life than getting mad because your son smokes.
Everybody smokes. If not, everybody has tried. If not, congratulations you big show-off…
My mother is like my grandfather, whom I never met.
She once told me her father used to invite her and her siblings to sit down and smoke a cigarette with him, while having a good conversation. It was not a rule, obviously, not everybody had to smoke. But I see it as a link. Some weird and dying link.
Where is your favourite place to smoke?
When is your favourite moment to smoke?
(Bengala) Light and darkness come together Where we stand and await And the emotions that surround us They may only last one day I saw and now forgot What I heard and what I learnt Trying to be the man I’ll never get to perfect I found myself waiting once again For your face to show And your body to walk through that door Only to realize We are but the same - Mr Zatarra
From the moment the security assistant robotically says ‘have a safe flight’ I can’t stop but wonder, what would happen if I don’t? I mean, first of all, having a safe flight does not quite depend on me. It is not my responsibility to fly this machine over the skies; however, it is my responsibility and duty as a sane, logical human to not open the emergency exit mid-air.
But still, I wonder…
If the engine caughts fire or a lunatic opens the emergency exit in the middle of the ocean and we are forced to land on an island, who would I be? Which character would I play among the other 20 passengers aboard this wanna-be plane? That if everybody survives the crash.
My gut (and my 3rd grade teacher) tells me I’d be a leader. But my gut also tells me there will be more than three selfish, egocentric persons aboard, waiting for weeks to pass in this upcoming lawless island in order to unleash their inner savage.
How could I fight them? How could I protect the powerless if I have no power myself? Would someone be like me, a good-doer? Would someone follow me if I set a sand-path to follow? Or would they make the sea wash it away and kill me instead? Would anybody help find Missing Flight #230 before the passengers forget who they were before the crash?