Thanks for always filling your water to the brim.

      One of my most prominent childhood memories was one that I shared with my mom. She however could not recall such memories because she was unconscious at the time in which the events happened.

       Every night, I would wake up at around two or three in the morning and head to the bathroom. That was my pee schedule, and it was unfortunate because I really feel I could have hit 6’ by now if it weren’t for the sleep loss as a child. Anyways, after I would finish my business in the bathroom, I would walk all the way up to my parents’ room. We lived in a town house, so there were floors to be conquered in between my room and theirs. Once I arrived at the foot of their mattress, I would make my way silently to my mother’s side of the bed, which would have been on your right if you were facing her.

      As she lay sleeping, I would watch over her for a couple minutes, waiting for her to either wake up or remain in slumber. Once my stealth was assured, I reached to the nightstand beside her head and grabbed what was to me at the time, the most precious thing in the world. In my clenched fist, I held the tall plastic cup she filled with cool water and ice. She would take a few sips before falling asleep, and for a time I believed it was making her immortal, for this water and ice was more than you could ever imagine. It offered the most crisp, primal, arctic water, more pure than God. The Tree of Life itself would become a forest if its roots were able to sip this water. This was the best water in the world.

      And so greedily, I’d cock my head back and drain that pint of water. I’d quietly chew whatever small pieces of ice that happened to fall through my baleen-like teeth. I’d wipe my mouth, set the emptied cup back on her nightstand, used and empty, and go back to bed. I will admit, most nights I was too afraid of the walk down to my bedroom and decided to sleep in the comfort of between two parents.

      I wish I was a braver kid… maybe I would have broken away from the conceptual umbilical cord sooner. But I can't blame myself for not nutting up and taking the descent: If only they knew how scary two flights of stairs in a town house was to a 6 year old — at night.

An Epiphany and an Action

     I’m wrapped tightly in my jacket with the zipper pulled all the way up. A hood shrouds my head and cheeks, blocking the sharp wind from cutting into my face like it has the back of my hands.

    
     It’s cold, but I made a commitment to these cigarettes when I first started smoking. I told them, “I will smoke you, so long as you keep my feeling alright.” They’ve kept their word throughout this time, and so have I. They’re the one thing I haven’t lied to, and with that, I’ve grown a bond with them tighter than anything I’ve forged before.

     And so out here, I am smoking them one by one. Each puff is alleviating one thought at a time. This isn’t done by magic or anything of the profound sort. Simply put, I am focusing on this cigarette, and it is making my mind feel well and calm… with that, how could I have worries?

     On my porch I am now, with my dog Jimi by my side, and music playing; melodies of Tom Waits and Dave Matthews intertwined like the strands of smoke at the end of my fingertips. I switch songs back and forth between my main artists and those who also speak of love, dreams, and struggle. My nightly routine has become a habit, much like the one I sit out here to fulfill.

     In the midst of a song titled So Damn Lucky, I can’t help but transcend my thoughts and start viewing my life as if I were a stranger. I see myself as this chump, wearing a hood, smoking his cigarettes alone on a porch, freezing. There's an emphasis on alone and cigarette. I begin to think about my current life mission, which is to be who I was before the depression and druggy remedies. I can’t help but attach the cigarette I am holding to the phase of life I slipped in and out of, and how my strong hold on this cigarette has allowed the addiction such perseverance.

     I thought to myself, “This is the last thing I’ve yet to let go of.” And at the end of that thought, I feel the unconscious muscle movement in my arm, pulling the cigarette up to my mouth. I take notice of this and begin to realize things about the habit that wasn't perceived before; how second-nature it is, how underlying it is, so sly and hard to detect. It truly is a slow motion suicide.

     This makes me understand it better, and puts the addiction into the forefront of my thoughts. I begin to think how much I’ve conquered, yet how miniscule all of those things are in the midst of this cigarette. This cigarette is so hard to control, that I've given up any thought of doing so. It's this daunting presence, and I submit to it — practically devote myself to it, even though it will kill me in time. Now, I've been in toxic relationships before, but I had always gotten out of them eventually. How would i get out of this one? 

     With this… thought of quitting now set before me, I begin to think of myself having conquered this craving. For the first time ever, I really put some time and effort into imagining the benefits of quitting. Health isn’t a concern. It never has been. If the rational were, “this is bad for my health”, and that was what got me to quit, then I would have never started in the first place! No, that will not be my answer. I don’t give a shit about my body. I need something conceptual, for I’ve already given up on the routines and guidelines of this physical world. Instead of health concerns, I think of my identity.

     Quitting cigarettes would mean the return of the Alex who was lost so long ago. Alex before the depression was ambitious, as I am now. Alex before the depression looked for the beauty in this world, as I do now. Alex before the depression was not a creature of detrimental habits, unlike how I am now. To become Alex again would mean to be everything he was, and nothing he would never be… I’m looking at my cigarette now.

     What would it take for me to quit this? Quite literally…I would just have to drop it. My hand is already outstretched with the tip of the cigarette hovering over the ash canteen. I would just need to relieve my fingertips of rigor mortis and walk inside. But to do that would be to fly. To let go now would mean self-actualization. To do that now would mean to conquer Everest. But to do that now would mean to see Alex again and have him back, and in my mind I could hug and hold him and tell him how much I missed him.

     That was my answer. That was all I needed. I felt this overwhelming sense of happiness, of excitement with little space left for reluctance. The idea of accomplishing something nearly impossible with the flick of the wrist, and in turn receive all that I’ve been searching for was something I could not pass up.

     There wasn’t much time between conception of the thought and the action, for there was no questioning needed. I pushed the end of my cigarette hard against the rim of the canteen, snapping it in half. One half of the Titanic sunk, never to be seen again. The other half was released from my hand a split second later. I stood up and went inside, taking out the pack I had bought just hours before. In the kitchen, I stood over the trashcan and split the rest of them in half with one counter-motioning of my two fists.

     I saw them broken into pieces amongst the trash. For the first time, cigarettes looked dirty.