Life's a Cigarette

by Alex Franklin

If you have ever smoked (I hope you don't), you know the best part of the cigarette is the last part. The last forty or so seconds , where those last desperate drags suck up into oblivion and the air becomes winter thin in your throat, and the last embers finally fall out and extinguish themselves in the most secretive of ways. No final blaze, just a slow burn. That's what life is like really.

As we age into our death, none of us really take the time to explode upon our 18th year, naively choosing to fade into the it rather than blaze Anyway, back to the smoking element. If you have ever had the privilege of watching the highway while doing this, you will know what feeling it conjures up. For I, on this winter night, have most certainly had one of the greatest cases of this experience.

I have seen the owls that speak our names so discretely , speak them so that they haunt us for the rest of our lives, part in the air and soar into the silver sky. And as I watched them, I looked unto the highway, and saw the green lights flash in the mist, and the roar of autos headed by golden beams rush onto the street, destination unknown, and path quite unclear.

I watch in wonder of all this, thinking to myself that who ever the great conductor of life is, their timing is impeccable. For their sense of syncopation is perfect in all ways. The highway and sky making the greatest stage of all, and the snow reflecting the neons of the cars the most brilliant of lighting, and making the cars themselves move like ballerinas on an ice covered, ash colored, crystal dish plate. It truly is amazing. A wonder that can't be explained or described accurately at all. It is a phenomena all unto itself, like the northern lights or shooting stars. There is nothing quite identical to it at all.

Well, there are a few exceptions, like seeing the face of an old friend and enemy, but not being able to recall any of the negativity that surrounds them. Just the comfort of a familiar face. It is quite odd really. Odd indeed. Life is such a strange thing.

In the end, I thoughly believe, we are all beings sent down here to descend ourselves for a while, and play the parts that must be played. For as they say, all the world's a stage! The people we encounter and grow to love, and the familiar faces we don't know, all come to us because we all know each other in some way or another. We are all part of the greatest production unit of all time, performing the greatest story of all time. How we act our parts is up to us, for like a cigarette, there are two certain things. There will be fascination with the beginning of the burn, and the end of the burn. How we fill the middle is up to us.