Tag: smoking

It’s the end of my pack. Mixed feelings about it. San Francisco doesn’t sell menthol cigarettes anymore and the kid in me will probably not buy the regular ones. So it’s my last cigarette tonight. It’s a pity cigarettes are so small, and short. It’s a pity their magic (??) is so ephemeral. I want to make sure I enjoy it, so I make sure to take all my things downstairs. My mask, in case I want to take a walk after. I step out, make sure there’s not a bunch of cars around before I light it up. 

I take slow drags, it’s my last cigarette. 

Before I know it, I’m down to the last few drags. As I contemplate the last couple drags that are generally smoky and carry a rougher taste, I think of you. The last time I saw your face. Before it turned ashy.

I decide not to take those last couple drags. I stomp it out. Nip it before it leaves a foul taste in my mouth. Wish I could have done the same with you. 

I don’t want to step back inside. There’s pleasure in being outside under the cloudless, starless sky. Bach plays from my earphones, an attempt to feel and to set my creative juices flowing. I want to write tonight, I want to publish a post. Work’s been busy so I’ve been a prisoner to my desk, tasks, and deadlines. I didn’t meet my annual targets so there’s a desperation to not let that discourage me. To not let that happen again. 

I look at my phone, check my Instagram, dabbing on addictive behavior on the ruins of another. I close it before I can find myself sucked into it. I contemplate a walk. I hate my block, it’s all uphill and downhill, it takes away from the peace and pleasure of the walk sometimes. My heavy breaths like horns in the middle of the night. I decide to do it anyway. Won’t go far, but will get to delay going back inside. Sometimes it’s better to do something simply to get away from the contemplation of it. I’m writing slower tonight, more thoughtfully, don’t want this to be a plain thought dump. Five hundred words don’t come that easily these days but the solution is not always as simple as writing mindlessly.

There’s white flowers on the large shrub that breaks through the wrought-iron gate of the neighboring building. I wish I knew what they’re called. There’s also a ton of trash right around. Stray white plastic forks, knives and unopened hot sauce packets. Who throws these out? Did they fall out by mistake or was it perhaps a homeless person eating takeout food? Who knows, this city is weird with its people.

I reach the intersection, I contemplate going around the block. I turn back. The other side is a steeper climb. A light comes on as I pass one of the apartments, as if to remind me where I am. As if to say it knows I don’t want to be disturbed but it can’t help its routine. Maybe someone who wanted to park in its garage would have appreciated it, but not me. I can’t.

I come back to my apartment building, I climb up slowly. I don’t want to go home. I want to sit outside and write. It’s easier to write when I can feel the outside air on my skin. There’s a potential that doesn’t exist inside the walls of my house. I’m tired from the climb. My small heavy breaths and my reluctant footsteps are all I have for two whole flights. It feels harder to breathe with my mask on. I take it off, surely I’m not going to bump into anyone now.

I’m back in my room, I’m on auto-pilot. I knew I was going to write tonight from the moment I’d wrapped up my work for the day. From the moment I’d managed to wind up the dishes alongside of the last few tasks I had. I knew I was going to write from the moment I’d promised myself the smoke. If I could manage to finish all my work.

I see a text from my friend. I’d texted her when I was out earlier. I wanted to tell her about my last cigarette. She says I should call her if I’m still free. I call her. We only speak for six minutes, since I don’t feel like talking anymore. I turn off the music, I open the windows to let some air come in. Maybe it can be nice from inside too.

I’ve been reading a book which has beautiful descriptions of a small town in 1980s Italy. They’re not the words of someone who’s imagined it all. The author was probably there. He probably must have spent many nights exploring the town on his own bicycle. They’re very descriptive descriptions. I’d forgotten how good that can sometimes feel to read. Building those images in the imagination. It’s only thoughts, but it almost feels like a sensory pleasure sometimes. It’s been quite inspiring, to say the least.

This is turning reflective now since I’m not doing anything anymore. I’ll stomp it out. Nip it before it leaves a foul taste in my mouth.