Not surprisingly, my mood worsened on day 3 much to the displeasure of everyone around me. I’ve also managed to gain 1.5kg from being ravenously hungry at all times, thanks to the nicotine leaving my body (hopefully) for good. In the mean-time I’m starting to notice some significant positives: my skin has lost its grey, aging look, things taste amazing, plus I’m running again without getting awfully out of breath. I find I don’t think about smoking unless I tune out of boring conversations or I’m writing – like right now. It seems like some kind of creative injustice that I have to say goodbye to my new muse, and I feel a strange sense of grief of having to let go of my nasty, beautiful habit.
Yesterday was fine until the tutor starting gabbing on about the no-smoking ban at Curtin, and how things used to be back in the 80s where lecturers could smoke inside while taking class. Once again I felt an odd nostalgia for a time where I wasn’t even a thought, a time of decent music, historical change, and freedom to do as you choose without someone telling you off. I miss Europe for this sense of freedom – in some parts you can even still smoke in a pub or a café. Nothing made me feel more grown up then the waitress bringing me over a delicate ashtray to accompany my dinner. After my first inhale, I’d feel relaxed enough to swirl my wine (or coffee) and sit back and read my book, all while getting painful smoke in my eyes.
What I find most surprising in all this, is how hard I’m finding it. Instead of uncontrollable cravings, I now feel a sadness that I’ve let go of that part of my life. This is absolute torture. I really, really, really want a smoke.