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Sometimes you sigh for no specific reason. A breath dances on the chilled air and your eyes follow it until the sigh slowly evaporates. It lingers for a moment to materialize, and then disappears. For no specific reason, it disappears. Then, your lips meet the cigarette and you inhale your suicide, not because you wish to die, but because you can. It doesn’t make sense to you, does it?

“Est-ce que vous étes heureux?”

“Je ne sais pas.”

And you don’t know. Happiness is a mystery to you. It’s all relative, all man made, all pointless. So you say. And you respond: “So it goes” because, once, you read it in a book by an author whom others said spoke to your soul and was good for humanity. He was, of course, very human. He died too.

“Que voulez-vous?”

“Je ne sais pas.”

You say that wishing is just a hopeless fantasy. Why wish for something when life is so pointless and humanity so cruel? You don’t understand. You’ve come to the conclusion that others don’t care, or are too self-centered to ponder.

“Voulez-vous exister?”

“Non, mais je ne.”

And you’ll continue because you can. Your cigarette drops to the cement, a taxi goes by and you sigh, for no specific reason, you sigh. You watch as your breath dances around the chilled air.