All Hot Air

I am squatting outside of HK passed the candle lights and music that sets the restaurant apart from the rest of the Hell's Kitchen wastelands. Haunched beside a huge flower pot I take a much needed drag off of my djarams and hold the sweet cinnamon flavored smoke in my lungs till my head spins out of control. I let out a bellow of smoke that stampedes through the evening air before it is whisked away into the night. I watch as the embers from my cigarette crackle then fade into darkness and I try to recall how I ever started smoking in the first place. Such a disgusting habit and one that I really do want to kick, but lately have felt powerless to...

"I wish I was a stronger man," I say to myself before taking another pull from my cigarette and watching the tip glow bright red as it races even closer to the two fingers that hold it in place. I can feel the warmth against my face as I consume its fire hoping somehow that it will replace my own. I feel my lungs grow heavy and my heart begin to pound. A feeling I have come to miss, and a great reminder that I am indeed alive. A slight tingling sensation overcomes me just before I let it out followed by a numbness that supposedly only clove cigarettes can provide. Such a great choice in vice. Out rushes the smoke and all my pain and sadness and weakness and frustrations and anger- leaving me numb, almost soul less but somehow happy in my resignation.

Pain is my friend. Pain reminds me that I am alive, for now that will suffice. Let me figure out how to deal with living. Perhaps I will find something warm to replace the numbness inside.