In one of my poems I wrote: "I lie, cheat, steal, and kill."
Now you respond by saying that you know me and that you know that I have never killed anything in my life to which I say, "Quiet. I used to smoke cigarettes."
When I inhaled my cigarettes, I killed myself: the first way.
Then when I exhaled cigarette smoke, I killed those people who had to breathe my smoke: I killed you who were in my immediate sphere: the second way.
Then because people saw me smoke cigarettes, they said to themselves, "If he thinks that it's safe, then I can smoke too." And so I killed in the third way, namely, I killed those who followed my example: those who looked up to me.
Then because I bought my cigarettes, I gave the company which sold those cigarettes, profits with which to advertise. And so I killed the fourth way; I killed those who succumbed to the slick sale of cigarettes which I bought on behalf of the company.
I don't smoke anymore. My fingers are no longer stained yellow. And yet sometimes I'll have a nightmare: that my fingers are red with blood straight from the lungs. And as hard as I wash I cannot scour out those stains. Those stains whisper to me like the echoes of a ghost occupying a castle.
I'm guilty and I survive today without owning a second house. You see, that potential second house went up in cigarette smoke, along with carpentry tools and cars and good times with friends which I traded for cigarettes.
I live, yes. But live with dead memories. I am not an example. Do not follow me, because I should have saved lives, saved money for a second house, saved for things which I wanted to buy. I should have chosen to quit earlier.
I could have layered one form of quitting on the top of another. I could have found things to do with my hands earlier as well as substitutes for my mouth to do, earlier. I could have stayed away from people, places and things which set off cravings. And, I could have sought out people who didn't smoke, earlier.
Instead? I postponed...living.
