Rooftops and Carcinogenic Lollipops

The sky is grayish blue tonight.

My boss said a storm is brewing and it would probably hit the metro over the weekend. Maybe it's the impending army of storm clouds that created this hue. Either way, it's beautiful.

It would have been nice to lie down and gaze at the vast stretch of the evening sky but I don't have the luxury to do it now. The bougainvillea stalk above me slices through the scene and breaks my supposedly clear view of the universe above. It would have been nice seeing the smoke from the cigarette I am holding uncurl itself into the starless sky.

Yeah, I know how to smoke. I've written about it before.

I know how to but I refuse to say that I smoke because I don't. Perhaps I'm being stingy with the technicalities of words; however, I personally believe that even the simplest of sentences connote various meanings to those who read it.

I know how to smoke. But I'm not a smoker. A smoker is someone who holds on a pack as if it is her or his life support. I don't smoke all the time. I just do it when I feel like doing so. Which is once every two months, if I be strict with the math. I remember buying a fresh pack of Ice Blast and ended giving it to a random guy in Rotonda just because I know he'd make better use of it. At times, a pack lasts six months with only two sticks taken from it. 

I can smoke. But I don’t smoke that much. 

It was a similar night like this November of 2012 when I learned how to properly burn my lungs. A friend gave me what remained of her Marlboro Reds (five sticks) so I can "practice". And practice I did. I can still remember wobbling on my way home that night. I flopped on the bed and fell asleep few minutes after.

Whenever the topic comes up on how I learned smoking, I automatically answer "when I found out that my mom was diagnosed with throat cancer". The irony. My mom is okay now and I know the miracle isn't from the sticks I burnt. 

It was nice, back then, smoking. It's just funny, now that I think of it, how I never got addicted. People I'm close with will probably not believe you if you tell them I smoke. Once, my sister saw a pack of half-consumed Ice Blast on my bag. She asked who owns it. I told her it was mine but she got annoyed and demanded me to return it to the real owner. Perhaps, the reason why most people never believed was because I proudly say I do smoke but they never saw me do it. I can't blame them. As I've said, I smoke when I want to and my whims can be picky. Although, I noticed that me smoking almost always has to do with cold weathers and elevated places. Like how it was in Jakarta when I first learned to do it.

Back then, I used to climb the roof of my kos. I've always liked staying on that part of the house. The muffled sounds of the street below and the glimmering lights of the Pancoran skyline gives a sense of comfort unmatched by any people-related activity. The rooftop is where I usually hang out when I'm bored or when I want some time with myself. And I always wanted time with myself. 

The cigarette isn't a requisite but it was almost always there. Like a companion. Now that I think of it, the cigarette was a companion. When you are alone with your thoughts, thoughts can get extra noisy. And I have a lot of thoughts. The smell of smoke and the feeling of having my mind half-hazy help silence the rowdy thoughts and allow the more colorful ideas remain as accompaniment of the welcome party for the carcinogens in my body.

I like being alone with my thoughts. A part of me still wonders why I'm still not sick of it when I am actually alone with my thoughts most of the time. Sometimes, I crave human interaction. I look for it and enjoy how it's like to be away from my noisy thoughts for a moment and have my mouth do the talking. But at the end of that, when evening skies are pretty (and they're always pretty), I always go back to my thoughts. Material objects are less annoying than worried looks and probing sympathetic questions. 

A cigarette will not ask you what went wrong. You don't have to explain. Explaining makes me feel worse, most of the time. Not to mention, opening my mouth is a tiring activity. So I stay away from people and sneak to my favorite hideout and let my mind wander. I've always been more comfortable with myself, anyway.

I hold a personal mantra that roofs and smoke go together. It was that way in Jakarta and it was also that way in Seoul. It was 15 degrees and I only have the usual tropical country-ready jacket on but that didn't stop me from hanging out on the roof with the chilly Seoul autumn night breeze around me. I had with me then a pack of cigarettes I bought from the nearest G25 store and my ever-dependable phone which, at that time, was blaring traditional Korean music.

Rooftops and cigarette, for some reason, calm me. Music too. That's the right combination. Roofs, earphones, cigarettes. And then I turn into an artist. After the initial puffs, the words would follow. Sometimes, words make way for images and I trap them on any blank piece of paper, fence them with my pen. I once read somewhere that Fine Art students and artists tend to smoke because it helps bring out their creative juices. Preposterous, I once said. Until I got to experience it, of course.

Tonight, I had with me three sticks of Marlboro Ice Blast I took from a friend. It's been a while since I last lit a stick. Like incense sticks to spirits, cigarettes summon words. The usual chaos inside my head was clothed with the smoke and fearless words jutted out through the hazy confines. Words and figures. Followed by question marks. And then ellipsis which shape-shifted into realizations. 

The realization for tonight is whims.

Tonight, I realized I do things out of whim. Like smoking.

I told my friend Hope that the biggest problem I see about myself today is that I do things out of whim. I do things because I want to. I say sorry even if it is not my fault because I want to. I am kind to rude people because I want to. I am also rude and blunt sometimes when I want to---but then I end up feeling bad because I know that it is not what I really am. 

It is a tumultuous time in the Philippines these days, politically speaking. Last March, during the pre-election period, a lot of friendship ended all because of contrasting political opinions. Though I do not claim to be the Jesus of online essays, I have to admit that my online posts---particularly those well-thought out and well-written---have reached a wide audience. At one point, my words even granted me 'FB cred' when big-shot journalists started adding me on their friends' list. Hence, when I write in facebook, I always try to see to it that I am not being biased. My words matter and some people even take it as a reference. Hence, when I felt that I have been too pushy with my online posts last summer, I put up an apology post in Facebook for the people I might have offended without me knowing. I put up the post because I want to and not because I need to. Which is why it irked me when some people I know started commenting and advising me to stop saying sorry for my opinions.

Great. Someone who claims to know what's on my mind. It annoyed me, really, because the person assumed that I care about what people think of me. Really, bitch? And even if I do, the fuck you care about it anyway? I got angry. And then I didn't. Because I want to. I felt that I don’t like being angry anymore so I didn't.

Looking at it now, there are good things about me being a whimsical folk that helps me get through my day. I get pissed and then I move on. I get hurt and then I let go. Because I want to. I do things when I want to but then, what do I really want?

The whims are the gears that keep the wheel of my life moving. And since the whims hold control, I cannot direct where the wheel should go. 

It's nice because it moves. It never stops. I go fast. But I'm going nowhere.

Like the smoke curling from the burnt end of this now wasted cigarette that I forgot to puff just because I felt the need to write something.