Breathing smoke

I run and I run. From who I run? To where I run?
I don't want this day to end so I'm running into the setting sun.
Spring is a nice time. You can feel the nature living all around you. Take a deep breath and you can have it all. Breathing... For some reason people believe that this is the best time for a fire. Garbage, old grass, manure, old clothes etcetcetc. You run and somebody is making a fire out of old tires and that sort of shit nearby you when you need your precious oxygen the most. Sweet. This heat is making me crazy and every inhale is a struggle and. Please, make it rain. I need to breathe.

I sit in a trench with a gun in my hands and a helmet on my head.
And my truth,liberator, justice and love is 10 grams of antimony hardened lead.
As we eat we hear the shots and duck and keep eating. Every time you fire a gun there is a certain amount of gun powder that leaves behind solid residue. This is why they need so much cleaning. Every time it creates some smoke with a smell of burnt plastic. It's not all that unpleasant. It reminds me summer days. It reminds me days from childhood. At the moment I pray for a stray bullet to blow out my brains. A sniper. A landmine. A frag grenade. A machine gun. Dying shouldn't be so hard. A special forces agent with a knife behind your back - quiet as a feather landing. But seems it is. After these days and nights in the forest my nerves are gone. I don't really care anymore. After a night without sleeping you feel dizzy. After two nights and 20 kilometres and bullets that don't seem to work you can feel yourself falling into little bits starting from your knees after that stop working after one thousanth time when you take a kneeling shooting position. Every muscle hurts. Every nerve is constantly irritated. A tank. Russian T-94 - highly effective in every part of the world. Although I've grown to like the smell of burnt gunpowder I hate the smell of burning cartridge cases. NATO 7.621x51. But this is not a real war as it seems that my life is not a real life and my death won't be a real death. No rest for the wicked...or troubled, wicked seem to be resting fine enough. I sweat and smell the smoke. Water. I need some. When guns fire I can't get this melody out of my head but this doesn't interrupt me from eating.

Junk around me brings back the voices from the times before.
How it was once loved, then used and then loved no more.
Now I'm burning this junk. Old clothes mostly. Maybe some memories, maybe not. Every time I add new clothes to the fire I hold my breath. I can hold it almost a minute. One problem with learning chemistry is that you find out what kind of shit you are carrying and what it becomes when you oxidize it. Cancer. Leukemia. All sorts of chemicals. Dioxins - the same stuff that turned the president of Ukraine into a man that seemed 30 years older than a day before. This is your past and when your getting rid of it be careful because nothing dies without a struggle. Smoke follows me and I feel it on my clothes. I go back to another campfire where there's meat cooking. Lot's of meat. Somebody else who didn't die without a struggle or at least willingly. I sit on the ground and think about the life but the wind turns and blows the smoke into my face and again I can't breathe.

Soon it'll rain. Soon enough.