Options

Regrets grow like weed in the fields, outrageously, shamelessly rapid.

Could-have-beens and should-have-beens break through the barriers of restrain and flood everything in my brain.

Everything.
Even the small place that decides right and wrong.

I look for the grief I deserve.
The tears which are rightfully mine.
I smile at a short-lived sense of freedom, of choosing my own flavour of torment.

Slender roles of cigarettes, the smoke going in careless circles, blackening lungs bit by bit...
Black poison swirling in the glass, promising me an oblivion for a night...
Shallow distractions that strangers bring...
A pile of excruciatingly prosaic work, to expel my surreal demons raising their heads like a hooded cobra...

So many options to choose from.
I choose a pen.

-- Based on the tweet I happened to read: 'You are free if you have the choice to choose your torment'.