Episode X: Smoking
I began smoking a week after she left.
And it seems I smoke whenever I need to, which has been quite frequent as of late. Probably, I began because she already did, long before me, though I’ve good reason to believe that I’ve taken it to practice more often than her now.
I was never one to coerce myself into believing that smoking solved anything. Or even made me feel better. And in the first few weeks of my new vice, I found myself feeling much worse than I had started out. But probably that’s the very reason why I continued. When she left, it seemed, feeling anything else seemed much better than feeling this.
And on the evenings when I missed her the most, I found myself smoking more than I should - probably a few sticks into nausea - and maybe, two, three more after that. Sometimes I believed that maybe the nicotine could cause enough internal damage to knock me out for an hour or two, maybe forever, if I was lucky.
Earlier on, friends had advised me to quit while I was ahead. It’s only unfortunate then, I confess, that it’s been too long since I’ve ever really been - ahead. And so now they simply shrug, and we all share a cigarette together. Though half-a-year ago, one would readily think that I’d be the kind who’d never touch a cigarette, much less smoke it. But people change, and principles die.
“I don’t understand,” I told her once when she still loved me. “Smoking, I mean.”
“Neither do I,” she said, and that pretty much summed up how much we understood each other.
Smoking Kills, the government warning on the left side of my pack reads - and as far as suicidal tendencies go - I really wouldn’t mind if it did. My life before nicotine addiction seemed simpler, but looking back on things, it seems that I’ve been addicted to something - or rather, someone else - for much longer. Smoking Kills, they say, but so does love. And ironically, both are leading causes of heart disease.
But like the days that I have spent without her, I find myself painfully withdrawing from what we used to be. And like some addict I hold on to the memory of her, hoping to squeeze what little I have left. But she is the drug I can no longer afford. And cannot, quite frankly, so easily clean from my system. Smoking has become my substitute it seems - an addiction I am not so eagerly proud of nor so rightly ashamed.
It seems that we are all addicts in some form or another, some of us satiated, while others less-than-so. And try as we might to maybe free ourselves from this addiction, we only succeed in substituting that which we really need.
I thought of putting aside my cigarettes for about a month, under the premise that it didn’t seem fair to finally want to fall in love with someone who didn’t smoke, and yet personally be smoking to my heart’s content. But after a few weeks of abstinence, the depressing reality finally crushed me underneath its merciless toes.
I was not smoking because I wanted to love. And with every wasted day and unsmoked cigarette, I realized that I’ve been fooling myself into thinking that it was possible - oh, so idiotically possible - to move on.
I smoke because I cannot love. I cannot love. I cannot love.
edited from 'the otter side'
And it seems I smoke whenever I need to, which has been quite frequent as of late. Probably, I began because she already did, long before me, though I’ve good reason to believe that I’ve taken it to practice more often than her now.
I was never one to coerce myself into believing that smoking solved anything. Or even made me feel better. And in the first few weeks of my new vice, I found myself feeling much worse than I had started out. But probably that’s the very reason why I continued. When she left, it seemed, feeling anything else seemed much better than feeling this.
And on the evenings when I missed her the most, I found myself smoking more than I should - probably a few sticks into nausea - and maybe, two, three more after that. Sometimes I believed that maybe the nicotine could cause enough internal damage to knock me out for an hour or two, maybe forever, if I was lucky.
Earlier on, friends had advised me to quit while I was ahead. It’s only unfortunate then, I confess, that it’s been too long since I’ve ever really been - ahead. And so now they simply shrug, and we all share a cigarette together. Though half-a-year ago, one would readily think that I’d be the kind who’d never touch a cigarette, much less smoke it. But people change, and principles die.
“I don’t understand,” I told her once when she still loved me. “Smoking, I mean.”
“Neither do I,” she said, and that pretty much summed up how much we understood each other.
Smoking Kills, the government warning on the left side of my pack reads - and as far as suicidal tendencies go - I really wouldn’t mind if it did. My life before nicotine addiction seemed simpler, but looking back on things, it seems that I’ve been addicted to something - or rather, someone else - for much longer. Smoking Kills, they say, but so does love. And ironically, both are leading causes of heart disease.
But like the days that I have spent without her, I find myself painfully withdrawing from what we used to be. And like some addict I hold on to the memory of her, hoping to squeeze what little I have left. But she is the drug I can no longer afford. And cannot, quite frankly, so easily clean from my system. Smoking has become my substitute it seems - an addiction I am not so eagerly proud of nor so rightly ashamed.
It seems that we are all addicts in some form or another, some of us satiated, while others less-than-so. And try as we might to maybe free ourselves from this addiction, we only succeed in substituting that which we really need.
I thought of putting aside my cigarettes for about a month, under the premise that it didn’t seem fair to finally want to fall in love with someone who didn’t smoke, and yet personally be smoking to my heart’s content. But after a few weeks of abstinence, the depressing reality finally crushed me underneath its merciless toes.
I was not smoking because I wanted to love. And with every wasted day and unsmoked cigarette, I realized that I’ve been fooling myself into thinking that it was possible - oh, so idiotically possible - to move on.
I smoke because I cannot love. I cannot love. I cannot love.
edited from 'the otter side'