I was in the middle of writing another entry when the Maghreb call sounded, so I stopped to eat and then went to smoke my first cigarette in 20 hours. And damn... it hit so hard that I felt the need to write about the beauty of that feeling.

I’m not much of a smoker, I can go weeks without smoking, and then there are days when I finish a whole pack. I consider myself one of the lucky ones who won the addiction gene lottery; it’s just not in my blood. And since it doesn’t affect my ability to breathe or run my usual 16 flights of stairs, I see no point in stopping. I don’t treat my body like a temple by any means, but I don’t want it to be a broken mess by my 40s either. And since I’ve answered the question of why not to smoke, I feel like I need to answer the question of why to smoke too.

My uncle asked me this a couple of days ago. I admire this man and his opinions so much that when he told me he sees no point in smoking, I had to dig deep to find my own. Why risk addiction and a bad smell? And to be frank, I couldn’t explain my reasoning all that well. But something about the flair, the feeling of the smoke filling my lungs, and watching the beautiful cigarette burn herself away for my pleasure, it just feels so good.

The first cigarette of the morning, the one with coffee. A cigarette after a good movie, or after sending a risky text. The one I smoke while locking in and getting so much work done, and the one after finishing it all. The one I share with a friend over a deep conversation, and the cigarettes I’ve shared with lovers, with their lipstick still on the filter. And, in the end, the cigarette that marks the close of the day. I love them all, well.. not equally, but I love them all.

Will I ever stop smoking? Maybe, at some point in my life when everything is so okay that I no longer need the company of a cigarette. But for now? Let’s burn one for that lovely, beautiful one.