pop

gum is my cigarette. it’s been months and this seemingly incessant chewing became a habit, a sort of addiction that i crave throughout my day.

boxes of gum accompany me as i sat here at my faux leather seat encased in a frame of darkly varnished carved wood. the bar is relatively dark inside. there are no actual windows, just levels and layers of furniture and light fixtures accentuating the seemingly blank but damp walls.

on one corner of this place devoid of natural light, i sat on my table with my ice cream and my box of gum.

the place is called misfits, although you can rarely spot an actual misfit here. people are layered, clothed, and cloaked. most of them move surreptitiously in calculated movements. each may or may not carry a gun but if ever they do i doubt that they will use it for violence.

men here are always in fashion. most of them are experts in wearing plaids and watches of emotions. there are coats of desires. jackets of experiences, vests of questions and numerous blazers of affection and accessories made with jewelry pieces made from an insatiable sea of longing is the fad here.

i sat here at my spot almost every day after i quit work. this is what i chew aside from the gum. i chew this dark, very moody, and pseudo noir scenery. they smoke, i don’t. they laugh, crack jokes, and drink like crazy. but me? i chew.
i chew a lot. i like details. i chew them.

most of the time.

i won’t be surprised if anyone can find gum deposits at my lungs and probably somewhere inside my intestines clinging along its walls.