An Ode to My Morning Cigarette
Updated: Dec 5, 2022
By Aditya Nalge
I wake up. It takes me five obscure seconds to grasp reality.
Five beautiful seconds remain while my mind ignites like a spontaneous nuclear reaction. Four seconds to go as it quickly computes our reality and gives meaning to my existence. Three seconds left; before it realizes, that since the minute I fell asleep, and until the minute I woke up, I only existed for the universe. Two seconds before it deduces the identity assigned to me by the same universe. One final second of pure peace as I contemplate accepting this identity bestowed upon me before I fell asleep.
The present moment arrives, and I humbly accept the gift of my identity again. Every morning is an ambiguous battle of figuring out if I have answered or avoided the “Who Am I?” question.
I prepare to play my role in this grand canvas of time. As I rise from my bed, my hands are grabbing my phone, the lighter and a cigarette box off the bedside table. The recognizable shape, texture and weight of my belongings, put my mind to ease even before my feet touch the ground. I leave my house and descend the staircase to get out of the smoke free apartment complex, as I reluctantly honor the one rule I hated the most. Even half asleep, my morning ritual requires very little intellectual effort and minimal consciousness. It is muscle memory at this point.
Getting robbed early in the morning, because I left my door unlocked seems like a fair bargain; if only it means I don’t have to waste time looking for my keys and can start smoking my cigarette sooner. I go downstairs to smoke the fuck out of my morning cigarette.
Like two long distance lovers who reunite at the airport, I meet my morning cigarette with restlessness in my heart. Even though my relationship with her is one-sided, I never hold back. As I pull the box out of my pocket, I know exactly what is going to happen. It is the same thing that has happened a thousand times before. I wonder if at this point I am in love with the nicotine high or the familiarity of the experience.
Here it comes. The one moment every smoker in the world is very familiar with. The moment of hesitation while I open the box. A lot happens in this one moment. You could signify this moment with battle drums as it is the fight between relapsing and quitting forever.
My conscience makes a strong argument. It isn’t the first time it is making this argument and precisely why it is so good at doing it.
‘We shouldn’t do this. We said we would quit. We have quit so many times before. How did we get here? You know she is not good for our health. She could give us cancer. Imagine how your parents would feel if they found out. Do you want your loved ones to see you suffer? You still haven’t smoked. Throw it awa…’
The argument was just about to convince me when my nicotine deprived brain takes over. It’s been corrupted by the dopamine bribes. It makes an even stronger argument.
‘This is the last time’
And I’m sold. I wonder if every smoker in the world also lies to themselves. I’m truly puzzled by how we believe with complete conviction, that every cigarette we smoke is the last cigarette we would smoke. And yet, it works every time.
In the aftermath of my internal battle, I hold my morning cigarette gently between my fingers. The delicate yet firm grip I have on her prepares me for what’s coming. I light it with relentless anticipation. The first puff fills my mouth with smoke. It gives me the instant nicotine hit I had been craving. Just like a gorgeous sunset, I get one first puff of the day with her. No amount of money and power could buy an extra first puff a day. If I had to, I would protect this first puff like my newborn with raw primal instinct.
As I try to inhale the smoke deeper, there is a calming energy that flows through my limbs. While my lungs fill with smoke, my heart fills with gratitude. I thank the universe because she gifted me with one more day when I could feel this. A feeling so familiar yet so pure. I experience this every day. Yet each experience feels distinct.
There is a slow release of smoke as I purse my lips and blow it out gently. Every smoke release caresses my lips as it blends into the mist around me. I like to think that every atom of smoke I have ever exhaled follows me around in an invisible envelop of air, like a possessive lover.
My hand is already guiding the cigarette to my mouth before the first puff’s smoke has dispersed. The amazing smell of her smoke engulfs me. With each puff, she sacrifices a little part of herself for my happiness.
The nicotine hits now take over my brain. My arms jelly, legs barely supporting me. I can’t believe how lucky I am to experience this. Every puff giving me a straight dose of pure ecstasy. The world has disappeared. It’s just me and her and a finite amount of time before she must leave. A cruel timer on this bliss. But it makes each puff that much sweeter. As I get to the end, I suck in a little harder. Trying to hold in the smoke as long as I can. Knowing this might be the last hit I get off her. And just like that, it ends.
The hole in me that didn’t feel so empty for a while, is gaping once again. I come back to my apartment, with one goal. Exist, until I can see her again.
By Aditya Nalge
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