I love smoking. It’s part of who I am. A signal of my badassery. When I smoke in front of a crowd, I yell at them, “I don’t give a shit about your opinion”, without uttering a word. And they hear me. And it feels good.
I have a deep connection with it. It feels like home. Like love. Like true friendship.
But it’s killing me.
Not that I am afraid of death or sth. Screw rationality. I’m human. I don’t care.
But then again, I don’t know why smoking doesn’t feel right. Burying the risk in the future doesn’t feel right. Leaving my future self to have to deal with the consequences. That would be cowardice. It’s unsettling to have my actions conflict with my values, my life-loving values.
I miss smoking. It's been more than two years. Every time I see someone fire a cigarette, every time I see its burning end, see an addict inhale his nemesis, it's almost unbearable.
But I won’t smoke. I am not the coward who enjoys his moments while piling up risks on the plate of his poor 60yr old self.