"Cigarettes are for the weak!",
I told Vincent as I walked away scoffing. I believed in it. I very passionately believed in it.
It was the last puff I ever took. The remains of the cigarette butt that marked a victorious history tagged along under my sole.
"Cigarettes are great to take your mind away from something you want to ignore, IF you are too weak to deal with it."
I thought the reliance on it was absurd. But, I couldn't stop thinking as I walked into the most crowded subway station. I could feel the stinking breath of the people from the country that consumed the most cigarettes in the world suffocate me.
A suffocation I enjoyed.
I had to stop thinking. "I can't take this anymore." I felt uneasy thinking there was something I did not understand completely. Did Vincent really rely on the murderous chemicals as much as I think? Do all these people rely on it? Did I?
...or was it all an act? An act that goes way deeper than I realize?
We all have our ways to deal with the problems that make life worth living. We all have our fixes, we all hide under a blanket of comfort. A blanket that comes in all shapes and sizes.
I didn't like my blanket. Time to switch.
"What are you doing coming home this late?"
Daddy screamed through the phone when he learnt I was out all day in the snow and only had I reached home. I kept my mouth shut. I did not know the answer. Deep inside I knew there was something not right.
I always knew there was a reason I had become a workaholic. It wasn't the pompous drive of being independent nor was it the thirst for richness. It had to be something else. The bragging rights and making money for the honey and the parties was an elaborate cover up for something else.
My right knee was getting worse.
Ever since I got kicked in my knee while playing soccer in high school the situation kept deteriorating. Every time my knee clicked it felt like a knife in my heart and my subconscious kept asking me why. Really, why did I continue pushing?
I kept ignoring the question.
Not a single day passed by where I hadn't put my "hustle" cap on and left home to get a fix of success and productivity. Not a single day passed by when my knee wouldn't click and I would keep pushing.
Not a single day passed by where I did not ignore the everlasting burning question.
That night when daddy called, I slept a long sleep. I clutched the 200 Hryvnias I earned that day and dreamt the most beautiful dream. I hadn't slept in a long time. I hadn't dreamt in a longer time.
I somehow managed to trick myself into believing that I had done good for the day. I tricked myself to thinking that 200 Hryvnia was a success. Although deep down it was a huge contract that went south, and what I had was literally pity pay.
I bragged to the world that I needed no cigarette to support myself. I showed off how free of "fixes" was I. The ones closest to me saw a different picture. I had the biggest reliance problem, and I failed to see it.
Day after day I felt freer. So free that even a bird felt captive. I thrived on being unstoppable, on never coming across a task I couldn't get done. I thrived on being the person people asked about when they needed a "Right Hand Man". I lived off the feeling of being independent, of being successful. Deep inside my subconscious stabbed me harder everyday.
I nicknamed myself Clutch Master. I could hit the clutch whenever I wanted, and shift the gear whenever I wished to.
But when the night went dark, I sat in the balcony staring into the darkness. I searched within, searched for me among the stars. I knew for a fact that this was all an elaborate scheme to fuel the monster I had become and hide away from the truth.
Clutch Master was, in reality, just blind.
He did not see what really was happening. Nor did he want to acknowledge why was it happening.
It did teach me a valuable lesson. If you are passionate enough, you can reach any goal you desire.
For some weird reason, I chose financial independence as a goal out of everything in the world.
In reality, it was just a fix.
It was a fix to deal with something very deep.
We all have our fixes, we all deal with things differently.
Mine was no longer a cigarette, but a more sinister one.
One that had no value for others, one that was cutthroat, and selfish.
One that had the shiniest polish on it.
With everyday passing by becoming more relentless and wicked, I buried a kid so deep in the ground I had almost forgotten about it.
A kid that never lived out his childhood. A kid that never really knew how to be a kid. A kid that never could grow up as planned, but was forced into growing. A kid that would become a workaholic...
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