‘This world is not for me’
I said to myself when I took a drag of my cigarette

I will never understand
human nature and its dependence
so I pretend I do

To quote Bukowski:
“and when nobody wakes you up in the morning, and when nobody waits for you at night, and when you can do whatever you want. what do you call it, freedom or loneliness?”
  
misunderstood by many that it poses a question.
it’s rhetorical;
to be free, is to be lonely
and to be lonely, is to be free

Midway through my cigarette now
‘Why am I even smoking?’
I do not derive pleasure from this, nor drinking

I chuckle at the epiphany
‘The trouble with a mask, is that it never changes’
said alcoholic Bukowski again

My old utter indifference to molds and shapes
and eternal disdain that I am still in one
no matter how the disconnect, no matter the growth

I guess this world not being for me, is paradoxically;
still for me

I am both all, and none

The anomaly of anomalies
The outlier of outliers
The misfit of misfits

I let the ember of my cigarette
burn through the filter, then to my fingers

I felt alive
then nothing