the cigarette you don’t need
It’s the cigarette you would light up after reaching a summit — sitting there in solitude, you look out in satisfaction, surrounded by a vast, more powerful force, something concrete and permanent. You climbed there alone, and you are contempt — alone.
It’s the cigarette you want but don’t need; you can’t decide whether it would enhance or spoil your current mood.
You take the cigarette, a companion, and place it to your lips, holding it there for a minute, contemplating.
Keeping your eyes fixed on the horizon, you lift your lighter to the end of the cigarette and cup your hand around the hypothetical flame.
Your thumb sinks deeper into the teeth of the spark wheel until you can feel it form an imprint in your skin… you haven’t lit the flame yet.
You want the cigarette, but you don’t need it-the toxic, black tar, an attraction, this illusion. Do you put the cigarette away?
This moment is perfect without it, but you want it, it’s already to your lips and you can taste the filter.
You can feel the smoke filling your lungs, your feet starting to tingle, your eyes narrowing, becoming more focused, as your anxieties are exhaled in a metaphorical puff.
You want it but don’t need it.
But what if you can’t have it?
A sudden fear sets in that the lighter might be empty.
The gas is still in there. You know because you can see it.
Spark*, *spark*, *spark*, *spark*
You flick harder, *spark!* *spark!* *spark!*
There must be something left. You shake it.
Frantically, you push the fork down harder.
The gas! it was just there! It’s no use.
Now you need it-the cigarette. Why do you need it so? It’s ruining you. You’re better off alone.
You sigh, putting the lighter in your pocket you enjoy the scenery once more.
You move on-another summit, another cigarette, a new lighter.