Cigarettes and Broken Strings?

Is there a reason for this name – “Cigarettes and Broken Strings”? Or is it a couple of words held hostage together just for the sake of giving it a nice ring?

As I lay on my bed staring out the window upsidedown at that perfect angle, the night seemed quite gloomy. There was nothing to be surprised about after the then-recent turn of events. It was a quiet night, I wouldn’t call peaceful but the distractions were down to a minimum.
I love such nights, always carrying immense burden on their distressed shoulders, the tension in the air — you can smell it, but it’s really hard to put to words.

Hence on such a night, you stay quiet, do not praise the beauty, let it drown on its own, let it choke and soon you find yourself in its place.

So there I was lying upside down in a room almost pitch black except for a dying flake of light I seemed to rekindle with every puff.

And that’s when I realized, I am an addict.

These white sticks of fleeting pleasure are to be enjoyed nonetheless, even if they hurt, even if they kill you. It is an addiction after all.

It’s a poetic journey, it’s music to me. People just don’t completely understand it, or really care to. But it never was a thing to be understood, it had to be felt, just like music – every note, every nuance, every beat, every filler, every folly.
That’s why I keep my guitar, whom I manage to resuscitate every time from near demise. I don’t play extraordinary. A musician, I dare not be called one.
I am a painter, everything I feel is a picture I imagine with colors. But sometimes every line breaks apart, the colors, all rush in and mangle beyond return. That is where those still intact half broken strings start painting.

It never mattered who was playing her or how he was playing her, but those rusty string sang each time, every time.

I felt just like that gloomy night, unable to focus on anything but my own anguish, it’s torturous. Nothing can be more painful than when you recognize the problem but just can’t stop. And those cigarettes and broken strings have been there by my side through it all.

But now I need to quit my sorrows, so they say, and they are right. Enough is and enough has been.
But what I fear the most, losing them alongside my unhappiness. What if all of it is linked together, what if all goes away, even the art.
It’s a beautiful melancholic loop you see?
Hence the chaos in my painting.
Hence the chaos in me.
Am I too happy to stay unhappy?

I hope you liked this post.
If you feel a little bit of what I feel, Let’s talk.

The featured photo is one of my new impressionist oil paintings. Follow me @high_on_colors for more.[Marketting is necessary]

Read I can’t sleep on a cloudless night, you’ll love it if you love Vincent van Gogh.

And as always, don’t forget to Like and Share. See you next time.



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