When you quit smoking nothing else matters, not even your passions.
I wish I could write, I wish I could pen, but I can’t you see. So stuck am I thinking, just one thought, and my ideas are not to be. So many dreams, so many visions, in then out, coughed up but nothing to follow. My article is due, overtime in fact, yet still I sit here and only one thought is there. I want that smoke, just one more. It’s just one thought, why does it hold so much power, so much so it brings me to my knees. Why, why, why? It’s just one thought, I can banish this thought, see there it’s gone for the moment, but it comes back.
Sometimes it’s strong, like the deepest hunger, I must have one; I need one now, have me, hold me, smoke me. Yet the strong thoughts are easy to banish, I can tell what they are, my brain’s desperate attempt to muscle me to the store. Some thoughts are sneaky; I can have one, just one, and stop again. I’ve already been 24 hours, I can do it again. My brain’s last attempt at negotiation and these thoughts are hard to banish for they make sense to me. Some thoughts are annoying, like a two year old child. Can we smoke yet, can we smoke yet, can we smoke yet? Over and over again, my brain’s last attempt to wear me down and these thoughts do wear me down.
I wanted to write that relationships are for now, a piece on how we should enjoy the friends and companions we have as they are. I have friends you see, who discount people who are good, people who are kind, because they smoke, because they are fat, and my friends worry that these people will not be there in the future. It’s their health you see, and they are afraid of the loss. I’ve known loss; I’ve lost friends when I was young. When you have a relationship it should be enjoyed in the now, you never know when a friendship or a relationship will end; probability is not certainty, and all things end, even you. Alas that article is not to be. The thought coughed up, so good in theory, just couldn’t outclass the thoughts of cigarettes in the front of my mind. Cigarettes should be for now, you never know when the pack will end and I’ve lost packs in the rain before.
I wanted to write about seeing a man’s love; a story on how men aren’t from Mars and women aren’t from Venus, that all we miss that sometimes incredible gulf, is just a matter of perspective. I had researched the languages of love, I had ideas on how men and women see each, I had experiences from my own relationships on how men and women can be two ships passing in the fog both seeking the same port. It was a good story, one worthwhile, one that causes so much sadness between men and women, yet the lighthouse has always been there to unlock the path. Alas that article was not to be either. That lighthouse is a smoke and have you seen a man’s love for his cigarette? Just a simple change in perspective, smoking isn’t so bad.
I wanted to write about how we have forgotten that learning is fun, an article about astronomy, dancing and adventure. One about how learning about the things that hold our interest can make us interesting, that learning how to accomplish something can make us accomplished, that simply going on an adventure can open our minds and blow us away. I’ve never had such fun as I have now, studying astronomy, learning dancing and scuba diving; they changed my life for the better because learning them has been fun. Alas that article is not to be. There’s only one thing now that holds my interest, there is something I want to accomplish, something an adventure to the shop would achieve.
I’m sorry my friends, some of these articles were for you. I’m sorry my readers, I can’t bring you something deeper, something more meaningful. This is where I am, thinking of smoking, denying those urges, and my poor brain has room for one thought only. So I bid you adieu knowing I have dumped my insanity on paper for all to see, but this is quitting smoking in all its bitter glory. I really don’t care what you think, I only have one thought — can I have that one more smoke, will anyone notice?
I know the answer to that, yes I will, but still I wonder if I could hide that from me.
*A minstrel was a medieval European bard who performed songs whose lyrics told stories of distant places or of existing or imaginary historical events. Although minstrels created their own tales, often they would memorize and embellish the works of others. The Modern Minstrel observes the world around him and shares it with us as lyrical story. This series was inspired by Luke Davis, whose eye for story and ear for lyrical prose are featured here.
Also by Luke Davis
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