To break the habit is much more than what is really seems to be. The slender stick of death caught in between my fingers seemingly harmless but releasing much more toxic complications than a person could comprehend, and I begin to wonder......
To devise a time machine is what I'd love to do, just so that I could travel back into the memories which lie behind me and to that fateful day when I first signed my warrant for death. I'd love to practise the perfect slap so that I could go and deliver the best one yet to my younger self when I picked my first cigarette. Ah, that would be the ideal thought but, the impossibility of the thought is what makes me sad and then I "light up yet another cigarette".
With trembling fingers, I pick the phone up and slide my fingers across the screen to the number which claims miracles happen, the number which says there is still time left to save myself. I dial the quitline and to be greeted with an automated voice.... I quickly realize my mind losing its credibility of the miracles these can perform. Yet I stand by making the choices given and after a dreadful wait of a gazillion minutes, I am greeted by the apparent "miracle performer". She has this voice which made me yawn and this tone which made me somnolent. I totally gave up on the whole idea of giving up and while she was ranting about the evils associated with the nicotine and smoking it, I hung up. I actually told myself what a bad idea this was and then "light up yet another cigarette".
Walking through the rain, walking alone I am enthralled by the beauty of nature yet again. The drops trickle from my hair and fall down, washing away along with them the day's screw ups. Its as though the drops caress me and say "Its allright, you are just fine". I feel rejuvenated and and robotically enough, my fingers slide into my pocket to get the celebration out and there I "light up yet another cigarette".
Crawling out of the comfortable coziness of my bed, I drag my dreary self to the kitchen. My mind still in deep slumber but only awake enough to make my cup of coffee. I plonk onto the couch when my mind is forced to wake up and start making those automatic schedules piled up for the day. The speed at which I lose my sleep is exactly the same at which I gather the disseminated enthusiasm for the rest of the day. After I am fully awake for my battle with the world, I "light up yet another cigarette".
At the stroke of midnight, I feel a strange momentum pass through me. Even after the day which successfully managed to drain the last drop of energy, I feel disturbed to see myself charged as a bull ready for its fight. I start fidgeting with my fingers and suddenly my whole room seems oddly unclean. Thirty minutes later, when everything is in place and every particle of dust is eliminated, I feel vaguely empty and I "light up yet another cigarette".
With the mind being so overused just like the computer running for generations together, with the nerves on the brink of overload and the existance so badly threatened, I feel discomforted at all times and while spending yet another five mintues of life thinking of random promises to keep going, I "light up yet another cigarette".
Reflecting upon what I did achieve through all these years I could recollect nothing apart from a few hundreds of cigarettes being smoked time to time to time, rotting my inner self. There I feel a sickening feeling in my stomach and mull over the possibilities of all the good times missed, all the oppurtunities lost and all the relationships torn. There again I sulk silently to the remote corner of my room which I reserve for the special sad occasion and "light up yet another cigarette".
