I curse myself as I cup my hand over the end of a cigarette to light it. I inhale the smoke deeply and slump down on the porch swing exhausted, humiliated, and slightly amused that I can actually taste the flavor of a cigarette again. I'm not sure why I started back up after almost a month of quitting. But I don't know why I decided to quit either.

At least a dozen things fight for attention in my crowded head; none of which bear any semblance of a constructive thought. And I stare at the passing storm clouds as I fall into emptiness amidst the stresses of home, work, the forest, buying a house, helping my family stay on their feet, everyone expecting me to fix their problems, the dizzy spells, controlling my drinking, and figuring out a way to remember how to be creative again.

A new layout is coming within the next month or two.