Nurse... I need the size 15 Exculpation [Paragraphs]
Do you know the greatest thing about quitting smoking? I do. If you were a smoker or are a smoker, ask yourself this very question. Could it be the smug sense of self satisfaction that we can parade because we beat the most addictive drug in the known world? No. Is it the fact that we stop reeking so horribly, and all of the other unattractive characteristics that follow eventually dissipate? No. Could it be that we can eventually master the stairs again without breathing so heavily? No. Then what is it you may ask. Well, Ill tell you. The greatest thing about quitting smoking is those forbidden cigarettes one inhales ever so depravedly often in shame and secrecy.
Oh the repercussions of those forbidden fruits are awful indeed, often tearing away the very foundation of reconstruction one has been steadily been rebuilding since the beginning of the torment satiated quitting process. But oh how that first breath of the toxicant seems to fill every pocket of the lung, burning and pleasuring all the way down the trachea, alleviating the stress and the pressure from the rest of the body as it passes through the bronchi and bronchioles until it fills and settles easily into all the millions of tiny, little alveoli, where the smoke flows in as if wanting to tickle our very souls. The very feeling of the nicotine heavenly high, something that we may have not felt since we were teenagers, is worth that very deconstruction. Toss in, perhaps, a little of that same teenage angst from not wanting to be caught into the mix and you can find a perfectly seductive reason for wanting to start all over again. And the memories of those first days you ever picked up those cigarettes begin to flood in as quicker than the second hit from your prostration to the very miasma you previously pledged to discard like a spent butt out a car window. Those memories of how smoking and a little rectangle shape bulge in the jeans pocket used to be part of your very identity all come creeping back. Whether it was just the identification of being "cool" as some of the pathetic anti-smoking commercials would advertise or just the fact that it was simply a large part of your life (admit it a pack a day, on average five to seven minutes per smoke thats an hour and a half to two hours a day spent smoking a cigarette). They all flood back in, even if it has been years since that last cigarette, they come back as all memories and their triggers do.
As I sat on my deck, deconstructing myself, I couldnt help to wonder what was stronger. Was it the nicotine, the mental habit of smoking, or was it the appeal of my former youth that drew me up to the deck tonight? Was it in fact the sneaking around and smoking, though I knew there would be no real trouble if anyone saw me, only disapproval and disappointment by my folks, the threat of that disappointment kicked in my rebellious nature, thus instigating my lapse in judgment? I would hate to think so. But the idea is as deliciously tempting as buying that pack of cigarettes tonight. And if indeed so, then I am worse of then I feared previously. For that is not one habit I can pick up on again, on and off, up and down like some cheap ride at a fair. I cannot steal away and regain my youth. For the years will still rain down unstoppable and no matter how much I try and recapture those misspent days, my veracious hunger for them can never be expired until the day I die.
If that is not depressing enough, I thought then that if I was forever to live in torment from my addiction to my juvenile life, then why expand my ever suffering any longer than it would be? Quitting smoking would only prolong that suffering wouldnt it? Indeed it would. Or I could be a nihilistic defeatist that only wants to find justification for my omission because I am weak. You can decide or not. Your judgments based on preconceived notions and morals regarding the value of life and etcetera are all valueless when it comes to me caring what you or a man in Kansas, named Ike, believe. The only one who matters at all is the one I am trying to convince, and so far this writing exercise has done nothing but make me want to deconstruct myself some more outside as I contemplate the issue awhile longer.
Oh the repercussions of those forbidden fruits are awful indeed, often tearing away the very foundation of reconstruction one has been steadily been rebuilding since the beginning of the torment satiated quitting process. But oh how that first breath of the toxicant seems to fill every pocket of the lung, burning and pleasuring all the way down the trachea, alleviating the stress and the pressure from the rest of the body as it passes through the bronchi and bronchioles until it fills and settles easily into all the millions of tiny, little alveoli, where the smoke flows in as if wanting to tickle our very souls. The very feeling of the nicotine heavenly high, something that we may have not felt since we were teenagers, is worth that very deconstruction. Toss in, perhaps, a little of that same teenage angst from not wanting to be caught into the mix and you can find a perfectly seductive reason for wanting to start all over again. And the memories of those first days you ever picked up those cigarettes begin to flood in as quicker than the second hit from your prostration to the very miasma you previously pledged to discard like a spent butt out a car window. Those memories of how smoking and a little rectangle shape bulge in the jeans pocket used to be part of your very identity all come creeping back. Whether it was just the identification of being "cool" as some of the pathetic anti-smoking commercials would advertise or just the fact that it was simply a large part of your life (admit it a pack a day, on average five to seven minutes per smoke thats an hour and a half to two hours a day spent smoking a cigarette). They all flood back in, even if it has been years since that last cigarette, they come back as all memories and their triggers do.
As I sat on my deck, deconstructing myself, I couldnt help to wonder what was stronger. Was it the nicotine, the mental habit of smoking, or was it the appeal of my former youth that drew me up to the deck tonight? Was it in fact the sneaking around and smoking, though I knew there would be no real trouble if anyone saw me, only disapproval and disappointment by my folks, the threat of that disappointment kicked in my rebellious nature, thus instigating my lapse in judgment? I would hate to think so. But the idea is as deliciously tempting as buying that pack of cigarettes tonight. And if indeed so, then I am worse of then I feared previously. For that is not one habit I can pick up on again, on and off, up and down like some cheap ride at a fair. I cannot steal away and regain my youth. For the years will still rain down unstoppable and no matter how much I try and recapture those misspent days, my veracious hunger for them can never be expired until the day I die.
If that is not depressing enough, I thought then that if I was forever to live in torment from my addiction to my juvenile life, then why expand my ever suffering any longer than it would be? Quitting smoking would only prolong that suffering wouldnt it? Indeed it would. Or I could be a nihilistic defeatist that only wants to find justification for my omission because I am weak. You can decide or not. Your judgments based on preconceived notions and morals regarding the value of life and etcetera are all valueless when it comes to me caring what you or a man in Kansas, named Ike, believe. The only one who matters at all is the one I am trying to convince, and so far this writing exercise has done nothing but make me want to deconstruct myself some more outside as I contemplate the issue awhile longer.
the Omnipotent... Everybody loves SuperInsignificantBoy wrote this at 12:12 AM
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