so not meant to make sense

Do you do it because you can't not? Like a string tied around your heart that pulls. Hard. Like reproduction is spelt into your DNA. Like cats chase colourful beams on the wall. Like how we futilely, aimlessly make our lives bigger than they are.

Are you the better for smoking because you put it into such pretty words? Because your words make me smile? Or because of how you set its context? Is there a point when I separate you from your words? They become you, though. Many other things become you, too. I am sure grammar becomes you. If you were real, in a meaningful sense, perhaps you might scorn my comma. Do you feel the same way about a dash as me? Or is it stale to you like retro is passe (again)? Then there are vowels and consonants but Ms White, I would like to purchase a bit of that man's brain instead please. And, and, and - I don't think you're smart enough to fill in the blanks. Who is it that perches on the edge of my existence, an obligate parasite? Announce yourself. I come in peace.

I do it because it makes me happy. Because some days everything burns brighter and I am impervious to the trivial attacks of daily life. I do it not because I can't not do it, but because I don't want to not do it.

These days it feels like happiness descends like rain - unexpectedly and at the strangest times. I do not have rheumatism so I can't predict it and all I can do is run out with my bucket when it rains, trying to collect as much of it as possible. But at least I can dance round a lamp post like in Singing in the Rain, or sing songs like Raindrops Are Falling on My Head, or reenact silly soap operas in my head with teary confessions set against the rain. At least it's raining. That's an improvement from the gloomy grey skies that have been stuck above my head for the past two years, which I had neither the words nor the knowledge of alliteration to describe then.