Damp Cigarette

It’s one of those days you know as a weekday. You’re riding to work, and processing a thousand thoughts at the same time. There are mails to be replied to, post-its to be rubbished and a whole world waiting to be influenced. A random thought makes its way to the front of your brain. It wants to know how your Klout score is going to give you everything you want from life. You dismiss the thought with a snide smile, and order your brain not to bullshit you so early in the morning.

Three minutes and one kilometer later, you’ve veered off course. Where are you headed? You don’t know. Your brain is now at civil war, and you have no idea which side to root for. So you just ride on and watch the war play out. Maybe stop and catch a smoke to make both sides groggy. You’re approaching city limits. Light drops of rain bounce off the tank. Just one more reason to turn back, says a pleading voice in your head. Another thought stabs it in the heart.

The city is now behind you. It’s raining hard. Visibility is poor. The war in your head is over. Through your fogged glasses and the thick rain, you see green. A hill covered in moss. The road angles upward and your engine roars louder. There’s water flowing downhill. It was waiting for you. It flies in pristine white sprays as you make your way through. There’s nothing going through your head. You still have no idea where you are headed. There’s not a single dry bone left on you, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing does.

You can hear your phone ring through folds of plastic in your jeans. Whoever it is probably wants to know where you are. You don’t know the answer to that. So you let the phone ring… one, two, three… four, six, eight… eleven missed calls. It’s still raining. How long have you been riding? Four, maybe five hours? There’s a bend in the road up ahead. Is that salt you smell in the air? The answer’s right around the bend. You speed up. Raindrops pummel your face with resounding smacks.

You’re past the bend. You’re riding on the edge of a cliff. You can see the sea surging below, large waves being swallowed by even larger ones. The rain seems to have slowed down to a drizzle again. You should , too. The engine goes silent as you cut off its drink. It’s a silent ride down the hill now. A lone hut is visible in the distance – its red tile roof barely managing to hold off the wind. A pit stop sounds nice.

Hot tea, dry clothes and a damp cigarette.