Analogy

by avrillorenzo

There is something wrong with me.

I sit here; idle as people pass me by. Some take notice, others ignore. Some are oblivious, others are aware. I sit here; idle as people pass me by.

I rummage through my bag for a pack without even looking, acknowledging the fact that I wouldn’t take this long if I were to look. But I am in no hurry. I find the pack, I grab one stick and I fiddle with it before I light it. I hate the first inhale: it is premature smoking. The second is bearable. The third is fine. The fourth I like. The fifth I adore. I throw away the stick, the end still glowing. The smoke calls for me but I refuse to pick it up. It is soiled, now useless. There is no point in picking it up for it to die a few puffs later. It is better to be left with that fifth puff, the fifth inhale. All I can remember is how I loved it. Every step: from the filter on my lips to the smoke in my lungs. I remember everything about it.

I grab another stick and fiddle with it before I light it.  And it’s the same thing all over again.

I want to stop smoking. But I always stop with the fifth puff, the fifth inhale. I never learned how to hate it.

I sit here; smoking as people pass me by. Some take notice, others ignore. Some are oblivious, others are aware. I sit here; smoking as people pass me by.

There is something wrong with me.

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