On smoky thoughts

I’m afraid I’ve passed the point where I can sound convincing. I think I lost my audience somewhere between my internal struggle and my emotional back and forth. I know which people around me will tell me what; I know who will make me see reason and scold me for still being so immature, and who will sympathize and quite possibly relate. So, the game, you can say, is somewhat rigged. That’s OK. It usually is, regardless of what we wish to tell ourselves. 

I read an article a few days ago in The New Yorker which I loved and wished I had written myself. The author talked about smoking, last cigarettes, memorable moments, unhealthy habits, bad choices and relapses; in essence, he verbalized life, present and past, through a smoky filter. I’ve often wondered why I smoke; I’ve tried quitting twice and have now made a pact with myself to give up for good when I decide to have children. On the other hand I like the smoking version of myself; but then again, doesn’t everyone?

But it isn’t about smoking, is it? Nothing in life is about one thing in particular. Nothing is about what it’s supposed to be. We attach each moment, and each fading memory, an emotion and a significance we feel comfortable with. We magnify the good and down-play the bad, sugar-coat the pain and beautify the inconsistencies. We will squeeze and cram the puzzle piece where we think it belongs, where we’d like it to belong, even though we damn well know it doesn’t, and every time it pops out we will silently push it in place with our forefinger and avert our eyes for fear that our realization might become an acknowledgment. God forbid.

Addictions of any kind are peculiar. They become hardwired in a part of our brain that will simply refuse to let go and see reason…and there you have it, another cheap excuse. 

I think I need another cigarette…  

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