Grief looks like the bottom of a bottle. Grief smells like the unwashed bed linen you have not moved from in weeks. Grief tastes sour, putrid, sickening. Grief sounds like the music you once adored and now detest. Grief feels like the objects you need to hold onto, to remind yourself that reality is not a concept.
Stale smoke filled my blackened lungs, the nicotine rush causing me to become lightheaded, closing my heavily made up eyes visions of my blurred future flooded my naive mind. Perhaps I will spontaneously move to Paris, learn French, meet a beautiful poetic Frenchman, have mind blowing sex and sip espressos in an arty overpriced cafe. Perhaps I will become an acclaimed novelist, get rich from my carefully sculpted stories, create worlds from my expensive oak desk. Live a life of comfort and freedom. Perhaps I will fall in love, the mutual adoration from my perfect partner leaving me floating through life undeterred by wars, bills and petty drama. Stubbing my cigarette out I wondered if my picturesque hopes and dreams reflected those of other uncertain young individuals. You can not fantasise about working fifty hour weeks in a dead end job, to pay for your disappointing two bedroom house, ungrateful children and small pension. Dissatisfaction and boredom eating your soul, turning you into the person you once claimed you would never become.