Quitter

I should quit. That I'm the quitter's quitter at. Comes to me as easy as opening my eyes: I quit when I see who I am not and I quit when I see who I don't wish to be. Which doesn't get me started being who I am (other than the quitter I will always see). Crossing the street near the hospital just north of Newark a vision hit me without warning or consideration, of me smoking a pipe. I didn't bother thinking the obvious, just took up smoking, let the random visions that follow through do the rest. Changes informed me the pipe was banned, so I took up Camels when the foreign brand I'd've preferred grew difficult to find. More changes that removed trains and planes and offices and cars and restaurants moved in, so I rediscovered the joys of simple solitude outside, away. Ignoring every warning, every friendly word of advice, even the bronchitis and loss of my youth and my voice and all. Until told: "You don't seem like a smoker." And I stopped halfway through the Camel I had in my mouth. And closed my eyes. And looked in the mirror only I see. And watched. Waited. And watched. And she was right. There was no cigarette, no cigar, no pipe, no smoke. So I quit. Without smoking out the one already lit, let it burn out on its own. No patch, no aids, no hypnosis, no withdrawal, no trying to be a better person, no nothing, not even the threat of diversion into food or other vice. I just quit. Simply because I could no longer see it. And I quit biting my fingernails as easily, once I saw what I needed to see. A senior colleague who had no control and even less nail to each finger, at a major meeting about cash balance plan legislation. His hands held the hands mine would've been. Except during that same meeting, I quit. So abruptly I was suspected of having an affair, not as though previous experience had exerted influence. No struggle, no training, no working up any new habits. I just quit. Simply because I didn't wish to see it. I never finish everything I so obsessively start, not one single thing. Quitting's unlike getting it done. So. Here's what I need to do. I need to see the man without his career, without that profession and trade. It's only a cigarette, only a pipe filled with Blue Boar. So. Here's what I want to do. I don't want to see one who finds his home only in the one corner he's allowed to own away from all the places he doesn't wish to be. That's only smoke disappearing off on a draft's thin trail. So. Here's what I ache to do. I don't care to be him who keeps on ticking and hopping and cruising only through elixirs and shots and pills. I used to do fine without so much as an asperin, and I can do so again, thank you. Medication, damn every bit! I'd rather gnaw a hangnail. So. Here's what I ought do. I ought give up trying to find the right words, both in that endless chase known as reading and in the useless attempt to write. What I've said and heard is enough. No more, no more. I could as easily quit watching TV, would miss nothing. I could as easily quit driving, could still be as driven. I could as easily quit dreaming, would wake up the same. I could easily quit eating, never did feel all that hungry. I could easily quit. Simply quit. Wouldn't take much. (And no, I'm not finished this any more than anything other. I'll quit this too, when I see myself without the bother.)