Nicotine & Nostalgia
"A study of a mind in mid-release. It depicts a figure shrouded in a vest, eyes hidden behind a hand, as a singular, elegant trail of smoke curls upward into the dark. It illustrates the physical manifestation of a thought being let go the moment where the internal pressure of a memory becomes too much and must finally be exhaled into the night."
I’ve never been a smoker. I’ve never felt the need for the burn in my lungs, but tonight, I find myself wondering about the mechanics of it. Not the habit, but the escape. I look at this sketch and I imagine what it would feel like to take all this inner burden all the heavy, unsaid words and the weight of the "heartbroken phase" and simply blow it out into the room. To watch my sorrow turn into a grey, elegant ribbon and drift away until I finally feel light.
I think I’ve figured out why people get addicted. It’s not the nicotine. It’s the nostalgia.
It’s the way a ritual can become a time machine, dragging you back to the "past sweet good unforgettable memories" of your favorite person. They aren't addicted to the smoke; they are addicted to the ten minutes of quiet where they are allowed to miss someone who is no longer there. Every exhale is a temporary "letting go" of a grief that is too heavy to carry while breathing normally.
I’ve sat here with my pencil, wondering: What if I started? What if I took that chance? But then I stop. I’m firm enough to know that I don't need a new vice. Why take the risk of a second addiction when I’m already completely consumed by my first? I don't need nicotine to feel a "slow burn" in my chest; I already have her. She is the habit I can’t break, the memory I keep inhaling even when it hurts, and the "most favorite person" who occupies every 3 AM thought.
I don't need the smoke to find the nostalgia. I am already living in it. I’ll just keep drawing these exhales instead of taking them pouring the "vapor" of our story onto the page until the air in this room feels thin enough to breathe again.