On Smoking.

I've smoked on and off for years, but it's not for me.

     November 21, 2013
     9: 55 P.M.

     I’ve never learned how to properly master the beauty of smoking. Most of my education on puffing a cigarette lies on unpacking the roll and lighting it without burning myself. The process of actually propping it between my fingers and veering a path towards my lips is still uncharted. When I breathe in, it’s not just the smoke - it’s the taste, the nicotine, the roughness I inhale. It would hurt. It would do more then hurt - it would sting. It would sting my mouth, my lips, my mucous membranes, my insides. The tears would start forming in my eyes and trying to hold back that humiliating emotion of naivete would require every nerve of my body. Casually blowing off the fumes while trying to maintain an unaffected appearance, it’s tiring. I think it tastes awful, horrible and it left a bitter aftertaste on my tongue. But human as I am, imperfect as I can be, I would go back for more. The gratification weighs more than the vulgarity of the act. What makes it different this time is that I’d know it would burn… but I’d still choose to burn brighter than before.