Little is more of a mark of normalcy than being one of Robert Downey Jr’s cigarettes. Sure, some burn out faster than others, others fade on exact pace, but a majority of them are largely forgettable. The black tar becomes the black hole.
A Marlboro left a small burn on your formally favorite sweater, an American Spirit went undetected because its smell was masked by winter winds. An artist of a cigarette is committed to memory as perhaps as a failure or perhaps as a triumph. Memories that avoid the black hole of nothingness.
I don’t smoke cigarettes, that’s just what I imagine them to be like. I don’t live wholly in the realm of the normal, but my humor reflects what I imagine it to be like. I’ve heard it said that you become an artist to show people that you’re weird, but I’ve been spending a lot of time thinking about it. Who are the weird to be the ones expected to provide snapshots of the normal? Maybe the greatest masterpiece will be made by someone in the droves of it.