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The Art of Smoking

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It fascinates me to watch cigarettes burn. Each time I smoke, the best part is to watch it being lit up and burned, until the cigarette butt becomes ashes. Somewhere between my fingers that hold sacred to this little demon would urge me to flick the ashes away, but sometimes, I'd prefer letting them wither and scatter about in the wind, burning whatever that comes in their way. I've had this one time when the hot ashes were blown to land on my leg, it hurt but only after a short while did it last.

You see, I am not what they call, a regular smoker. As a matter of fact, I'm not even a fan of cigarettes. I smoke occasionally only to enjoy burning things - cigarette butts to be concise. It is believed that tobacco kills, although slowly, its fatality cannot be easily tamed. Still, we smoke. We breathe in the devilish creature through our trachea and allow it to fill up our lungs. We exhale the smoke but the creature never leaves; it grows and lives inside of us - lurking, waiting for the perfect time to conquer your whole. We had known, yet we invite Satan in to destroy us.

As we are breathing out fog after inhaling poison into our body, we might as well have exhaled our soul little by little, each and every time. Never forget, though, the cigarette burns faster for every breath we take; it dies and becomes ashes, only too hot to blaze my leg for just a short while; then, another cigarette - forgotten. I smoke fast to watch it burn fast, I might as well die fast; but unlike cigarettes, I do not die being burned to ashes. I do not die to be flicked away and float around to flare for a few seconds. I do not die being forgotten.



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