Nonsmokers can never truly appreciate the beauty of a wonderfully crafted cigarette. They’ll never understand that smoking is a form of meditation. The tendrils of smoke curling up in the air. The slightly bitter taste and the burn as the smoke glides past your throat. The feeling of calm and understanding that washes over you. Nothing matters in that moment except the smoke, the drug between your fingers. Nonsmokers will never understand the love a smoker has for their cigarettes. It’s a romance.
Today was overall good. I went to Buck-I-Frenzy. Didn’t get much free stuff, but it’s the experience that counts. I worked my first shift of the new school year at my new job. Actually managed to socialize with the people working around me.
But then we went to see the Avengers. It was a free showing on the oval. The movie was okay. It didn’t blow me away. I can’t imagine paying to see it more than once. But that’s not the point. Sitting on the oval, watching the bats and the lightening bugs and the planes, it brought back so many memories from last year. Memories that make me sad. Though happy at the time, they are now tainted with bitterness and hurt.
I miss my ex.
I’m tempted to use his name here. To humanize him. Because even after all the hurt and pain, I still had some of the happiest memories of my life with him.
Unfortunately I can’t remember them now without feeling sad at the way things have turned out. Things weren’t supposed to be like this. He was supposed to be my soul mate. We were supposed to have been fated.
My sadness is compounded by the fact that I’ll have to see him tomorrow. Classes start tomorrow and I can’t imagine why he would skip. I have to see him tomorrow and pretend like everything’s okay. Pretend it doesn’t hurt anymore. Pretend that I don’t still love him.
I don’t even know what to write right now. It’s pointless to go on about the past. It’s pointless to wish things were different. Because they’re not. And I can’t change that.
But acceptance is the hardest part. The part that I still struggle with. Because even though I sometimes feel I’ve moved on, those feelings are spurred by anger and bitterness. Not acceptance.
It just felt so wrong to sit on the oval, watching the Avengers without him. Even though I know he would never voluntarily watch that movie, even though he would hate it, his absence felt wrong.
And now I’m smoking again. But this isn’t mediation. It’s the only thing that stops the tears. You can’t cry if you have to inhale. The nicotine deadens the pain, the hurt. The calm that washes over you makes you believe everything will be alright, if only for a moment.
What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, but sometimes it breaks you first. Sometimes it rips your soul into pieces, and the pain is so real, so intense, you feel like you’ll never be put back together. Even when you finally feel you are whole, there is a part of you that will always stay broken.
Now the smoke hurts. It doesn’t caress your throat anymore. It scratches. Like tiny pieces of glass cutting into your insides, reminding you of your brokenness, but the nicotine promises to take the pain away. If only for a moment.