I believe I have an addiction.
It didn’t start out that way. It was an occasional thing, with friends on dark nights, on cracked concrete illuminated by headlights.
And then I became eighteen, the age to legally make bad decisions.
And family couldn’t stop it. Cancerous deaths could pause it a day at most.
Is it an addiction? I wrestle with it as I walk to convenience stores and quiet places to smoke.
What started as a little teenage rebellion grew a conscience and became a full-bodied monstrosity.
Could I stop? I think often of it.
Of using free hours to breathe in actual oxygen, to let my lungs rest. The scary situation is that I do not know. I don’t want to know.
And therein lies the rub.