There’s a rum silence on the street tonight. The wind is constant. It doesn’t brace your skin with a cold thump considering it’s late April already. 

I have the usual suspects with me. A box of cigarettes, and a peculiar yellow lighter. I sat down on a ledge, after looking for a clean spot for a few seconds. 

As I write this, I notice that I don’t often write in the present. 

The off-white light and the calm waves hitting the shore soothe me down. I take one out, light it, the smoke fills my lungs up and I drift into a long thought.

It’s uncanny, really. I watch the waves glitter under the white moonlight. The moon hides behind a few clouds for a long time, even though the skies are mostly clear.

Every time I try to appreciate being present in the moment, there’s always a shove in my soul. I imagine it as if the parts of my soul fight with each other for purpose. 

Mind you, there is no final choice, or even a choice maker present. But I’m aware that the skirmish happens. Always.

Tonight, it’s about this cigarette. One voice tells me this cigarette is all there is— that this is peace, if I define my peace to this limitation.

The other voice immediately shoves, why would there be such a small limitation?

I overlook both voices and wonder, should this peace everyone is after be measured against every achievable checkpoint and the heavens attached to it— or the choir of the moments such as the glitter on these waves and the light of these lamps?

All in all, there’s only one way to find out. You have to get yourself to the beach at night. Have the courage to draw the cigarette out and smoke it while you think of everything else.

That’s the only way. To find out— whether it’s the long drawn journey or the fleeting joys of everyday life. 

I’ll take both. Or neither.

—Bunny