Stream -- The smoke curled up...

Note: This is a stream of consciousness piece written in one session and printed with minimal revisions.

The smoke curled up out of his pipe. He looked at the pipe and admired it. He noticed, and loved, how the lucite stem blended seamlessly with the natural cherrywood bowl. He appreciated the beauty of the contrasting smoke. The bright whiteness morphing itself around solid, deep red was a sight to behold. "Thank you," Thomas quietly said. He closed his eyes and deeply inhaled through his nose. Thomas enjoyed the sweet, cozy smell of the tobacco he smoked. It reminded him of something good, something old. He felt as if he could remember experiences he may not have even had himself. Thomas calmly exhaled out through his mouth. Perhaps there was a connection to the old tree that gave birth to this pipe. Perhaps he could commune with the old souls that took up this practice throughout history. Whatever it was, he felt something mystical. And it was good. This was his practice after each long, hard day. He needed this. He could depend on this.

Thomas had struggled against this kind of thinking for a long time. He was always the individualist. Self-reliance was his credo. "Each man should be responsible for himself," he would say. Now, he didn't necessarily disagree with that idea. It was good, right, and just in practice. In Thomas's mind, it was the only path to freedom. Things changed, however. Conflict and struggle of another, more pressing kind, arrived. And in the metaphorical blink-of-an-eye he changed. Maybe it wasn't his ideas that changed per se, moreso the way he applied them. Just as he soon needed other people, he also needed a different kind of independence, a different kind of individualism. He needed self-reliance of the inner variety.

He still found personal accountability to be good, right, and just in practice. It was the rest that changed. Different ways to freedom became apparent. Thomas realized that his path to freedom was literally in his mind. Despite the difficulties of his life, he knew where he was most free.

And so he sat in the steaming hot tub and meditated on the curls of smoke. He relied on that presence and he liked knowing that sweet, cozy feeling. It made him happy. For once, Thomas thought he could admit to himself he deserved that. Beyond that, he depended on the beauty of the pipe. He rightly believed it would always be there in some way, shape, or form. Thomas stared deeply into the wood grain. The pipe itself had a beautiful depth that transcended physical manifestations. Certainly, he was attracted to its smoothness, a product of expert craftsmanship. He loved the healthy curve of the soft, subtle transition from stem to bowl. Thomas's eyes were drawn to the pipe. Of course, the thing of beauty was accentuated by the intangibles it inspired in him.

"Nay, those feelings and qualities it possesses make it beautiful," he said. He held the pipe in a way that was both secure and tactile. Thomas took a long draw of the tobacco smoke and let it waft lazily from his mouth up to his nose. He enjoyed the smell as the smoke rose to the level of his eyes. Thomas appreciated again the sight of the vibrant, ever-energized spirit in the smoke, and yet that same spirit was mellow and comforting. That is what he loved. A total sensory experience, something he could depend on. And it was good.