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Cigarette Smoking! Really?



Cigarette smoking causes the penis to shrink an inch every 3 to 5 years.

Read that on Health Facts.

Well, for starters, I cannot in all earnestness fathom how the scientists arrive at such hideous hypotheses. If one were to use that postulate as a measure of truth, then I should be sans a penis as I sit authoring this piece!

How about women? What happens to them dear researchers? Will you now try and acquaint us with the fact; a thoroughly empty one at that, that smoking would shrivel their breasts and as a consequence their upper body would resemble the nipples of the male chest?

I understand the medical fraternity wants people not to smoke (mostly for their own good) but that does not mean that they use the penis which, according to their psychological logic, might be wanting to frighten men armed with the assumption that the man’s most coveted possession is indeed his penis. The same applying to women and their breasts!

Come on clowns, grow up and engineer creative ways to work around the human mind.

THE CURE BEYOND THE CARTON



One does not require the paraphernalia so industriously marketed by modern science to liberate the soul from the clutches of a cigarette—be it the sleek electronic vaporiser masquerading as a lesser evil, the patch that promises deliverance by degrees, or even the solemn circles of Nicotine Anonymous where testimonies echo with well-intentioned despair. Nor is one likely to find redemption in the morbid gallery of images plastered upon cigarette packs—those ghastly portraits of decay meant to evoke fear, yet rarely touching the heart with conviction. All these, though perhaps fashioned with good intent, remain but external instruments—mere scaffolding erected around a problem whose root lies deeper within.

 

No, the truth—plain, unfashionable, and rarely spoken in the antiseptic halls of public health—is this: what a man truly needs, if he is ever to break the chains of such an enslaving habit, is not a product or a program, but a person. Not merely anyone, and certainly not one of those shallow infatuations which we so easily mistake for love, but someone whom he truly, unwaveringly, and self-forgetfully loves. Someone before whom all pretence falls away, whose well-being is dearer to him than his own fleeting comfort or momentary pleasure. It is in such a relationship—authentic, luminous, and profoundly human—that the desire to smoke withers not by command, but by choice.

 

For when such a one—this beloved soul—looks into your eyes, not with condemnation but with earnest care, and asks you to stop—to truly stop—you will find that the ember’s allure fades into ash. The hand which once reached for the lighter now trembles with a new resolve. Not out of guilt, nor even fear, but out of love—a love that sees beyond the smoke to the life it wishes to preserve.

 

And in that moment, without drama or spectacle, the real miracle happens. You do not quit for your health, or your lungs, or your wallet. You quit because someone matters more. And that, my darlings, is a far more potent medicine than any patch or pill could ever hope to be.

 



FROM A YOUNG POET



Not so long ago I met a young poet. She wrote some lines about me from our first meeting.

Lives by heart, dreams like moon,
life dawns in his eyes to kiss the gold.

There you go with the puff of the next cigarette
as the smoke of class defies gravity...

There you go with a wink of vintage,
pretty oblivious, but does strike...

There you go with the hidden gestures
unmindful, yet leaves the imprints...