Cyclical Cynacism: The Song that Never Ends
What to Expect When You Quit Smoking

Today marks two weeks since I last inhaled my old friend nicotine (and about 4,000 other chemicals). I befriended the death sticks for five years. It was not until the last year and a half of my life that I would label myself a “moderate” smoker, meaning I usually purchased a pack of cigarettes every other day. To me, they were the ideal stress relief, a constant companion, and a mood enhancer. In reality, they were poison and a pointless money pisser.  

Two Tuesday’s ago I came down with a cold. Despite how shitty I felt, I still forced myself to smoke (all logic goes out the window when you consciously choose to destroy your body’s functionality on a daily basis). Immediately after the deed, I felt ten times worse. That is when reason reared its intrusive head and said, “Hey dumbass, maybe you should not put more toxins in your body! That way, you will recover faster.” I decided that day to quit being moronic.

There was no “one last hurrah” for me. All the other times in life that I attempted to “quit”, I generally partook in a good-bye cigarette. However, by adding this “emotional layer” to quitting, you are inadvertently giving more power to the substance and making it more difficult to “break up” with it. If you’re going to kick the habit, you’re better off by being that dickhead boyfriend who leaves without saying a word.

On a more serious note, if you are considering quitting, I would highly recommend doing it while you are sick. You already feel like you are dying from the effects of the illness, so you might as well multiply that by your withdrawal suffering. The only cons about this are that it is difficult to discern your cold symptoms from your withdrawal symptoms, and it makes your sickness last a lot longer. You also begin to question if quitting was the right decision because you feel so god damn terrible. But do not despair—it is totally worth it!

A lot of websites only harp on the beneficial results of giving up smoking; not too many warn you about the misery that ensues. That is why I thought I would create a list of ailments that I personally suffered from. It is also important to remember that every BODY is different (men’s and women’s health differ); also, the longevity and intensity of one’s smoking determines the severity of their withdrawal. I apologize in advance if any of this seems like tooooo much information.

1. Swollen Boobs: Honestly, I never felt so much soreness in my breasts before in my life. I know that it is a common thing to experience during PMS but this was quite painful. A lot of women seem to have this issue after quitting, but it was hard to find any credible websites that highlighted this symptom. Therefore, it is my duty to warn women: your boobs will hurt.

2. Nausea/Diarrhea: In the beginning, you will lose any desire to eat because your stomach seems to reject the notion of digestion. There will be times when you are nauseated (and wonder if quitting smoking is similar to being pregnant); and then, when you actually decide to take a gamble with eating, whatever you consumed immediately shoots out of you. You will also be extremely bloated and gassy. Fun times are ahead.

3. Coughing/Vomiting: I linked these two activities together because there are times when the coughing can be so violent and incessant that it leads to you retching. This only happened a couple of times to me. Regardless, the coughing is terribly annoying but necessary in order to cleanse your body.

4. Panic Attacks/Dizziness: As sad as this sounds, your body is readjusting to the idea of receiving an adequate amount of oxygen. You will not be used to this at first. One night I started freaking out because my breathing felt incredibly different. My chest also felt lighter (an elephant was not squatting on it anymore). It is a strange sensation, but you will embrace it.

 5. Insomnia/Exhaustion: Some nights you will find it impossible to fall asleep or that your sleep will be constantly interrupted. Damn you, oxygen! You will also feel like doing jack shit when you are awake. This is a temporary thing (unless you are innately a lazy person).

6. Cravings: You will crave a cigarette every now and then for the rest of your life. It sounds like a terrible torture, but you become accustomed to the idea. Cravings in general only last a few minutes. Mind over matter is the key. Do not let a substance rule your life. However, do not follow my example: I combatted my cigarette cravings by devouring desserts. I am on the path to becoming a fatass.

7. Depression: Going cold turkey is not easy. The chemicals in your body are all out-of-sort’s, and in turn, you start to cry for no reason and want to isolate yourself. You also morph into an introspective state-of-being and begin to question all your other life decisions (this may just be me being a weirdo).

8. Headaches: They suck, especially when it feels like someone is trying to rip your brain out of your skull.

My last word of advice to my fellow quitters: try to avoid getting angry. If you can, do not go to work the first few days (unless your job makes you happy, and if that is the case, I hate you). Withdrawal will turn you into a viper ready to attack.

To the non-smokers: try to not be so self-righteous about everything. Nothing inspired me to smoke more than to hear the judgments and lectures of everyone (and because I hate when people tell me what to do). Quitting a substance is a decision that only a substance-user can make; you should never try to force life choices in this aspect on anyone. Change to one’s self must be inspired by looking inward, not by pressure from others.

Anywho, on that note: quitting sucks but it’s the best decision for me. Woohoo! Amen.

Ab initio

She pressed her ear to the old earth, eager to find where the self lies. Without a flinch, she shed her eyes and erased her name. The unresolved phantasmata leaked from her memory and she echoed the refrain, “God is without form, God is without form.”

The megalithic harmony erupted from below, roaming free as freedom across the air waves. She consumed the placid concordance with a greedy mouth. In the transitory progression, she forgot her finite quality. She stumbled backward and the past reached forward, ripping her tongue from its roots. It disrupted the cycle that history had created.

“I know why you made me suffer, Butcher,” she lamented. “But this goat will not spite you.”

The perfect music squeezed at her heart, gripping harder and harder as the crescendo increased. She understood that the naked terror would not blind her. The climax peaked, exploding her every pore and fiber of being to nothingness. Silence answered: rebirth was forever abandoned.

Sach khand, they call it.


Pen for permanence; paper for fragility. Incoherent thought is lost in the translation to structured statements. The song is trapped on a cycle of repetition, and in the end, it’s nothing more than bad poetry.

Inspiration wails on nights such as these. The words spray and flicker off a lopping tongue, desecrated with a savage urge to quench the pit of hunger. It won’t be long before the cavity stretches into a yawning mouth, eager to gnaw the marrow.

Meanwhile, the mind unhinged itself during the introspective backsplash. It was bitter, diluted and in want of saccharine taste. The id crumbled in an apocalyptic heap. 2+2=4?! The numbers! The logic! The weight of definition!

If only the mind were malleable! Especially since I lost my religion long ago. Love? Truth? Beauty? All hidden beneath masks of cowardice. Hence, I don the guise of a motley joker.

When we are born we cry that we are come to this great stage of fools

Books offer attractive ideals, but their application stops at the threshold of the consciousness.

Up until the apex of truth, the will is merely an idea; an intangible thought. Words harbor the weight of vacancy until action provides substance.

And the birth of excess resumes.

Rapture (2011)

I saw nothing.

I crushed my eyes tightly until I felt my vital fluid gush out of them. My vision blinked crimson, again and again. 

I looked upward: the morning sky appeared a watery blend of bloodshot images. I breathed in the red sea. Drizzles of plasma sank into my bated breath. It was a perfect portrait of allegorical bloodshed.

I trickled with delight.

The waves advanced to their positions, ready for the onslaught. The storming music began. I felt the sailors’ frenzied screams erupt in my red cells. I swallowed up their sexy terror. The savage waves thrust against the ships mercilessly, until they ripened into a gory aftertaste.

A warm, frothy bloodbath awaited me. I fervently capsized into the collected carnage; the bloody bulk of excess. 

Death perfumed the muted air and I inhaled gratefully. This was true love.

My heart grew two sizes that day.

From Years Ago:

If my muted lips could speak
They’d sail in soft symphonies
By alluding to a simple kiss
With a complex taste
Tangled with tenderness.
I sighed silently.
You looked so lovely
And I was a god damn mess.
I harbored flaws in the wrong places
Yet you delivered the right ideas
The seduction riding off your tongue
Numbed all my self-deprecation
And hit me with heavy hunger.
Passion basked my crawling skin
In coaxing, heated breaths
That’s when the steady drumbeat
Of frantic friction commenced
And with every blushing thought aside,
I felt ready.
My mind fell across a backward stream
Into a mirage of hypnotic disarray
In which every cogitation
Faced conscious decimation
For a moment I felt beautiful,
Because I forgot my name.
But then, you did too.
And everything went dark
Except for the fiery hues
Of my dying daydreams.

Some old ramblings…

They say it’s all in the timing.

They couldn’t be more right.

Everything in life is linked by a numerical relationship. Those precious people and perfect events that attach to your life stream originate from rhythm and timing; if you break it down, it all turns to numbers. We are the prime examples of immaculate mathematics.

Geometric patterns and auditory flashes morph into a living memory, breathing and tickling the bud of your dendrites. This is life.

There is a musicality in talking to one another, whether its verbally or gesturally-based. You can catch a melody in the rising and falling tones of a voice quaking with emotion. And then, you can witness the aversion of timid eyes and the slow extension of a crooked smile—the root of it being a carefully timed composition. 

Communication is intertwined with harmony and mathematics, and my life is pulsing with a steady drumbeat of want and need.

I am an imprinted collage of every person’s timed impression.

Another old piece of writing…”A work in progress.”

A work in progress.

“The drudgery of human existence is a perpetual ennui,” she said, leaning against the window pane. “I am in a chronic limbo, balancing between awake and asleep.”

She glanced down at her fingers and then held them up to the light for inspection.

“There’s no dirt under my nails—I don’t even have callouses on my fingers. Might as well throw me in with the china in the god damn curio cabinet.”

A man sauntered toward the woman, smiling crookedly.

“You belong in a Dostoevsky novel, the way you cry about God and mankind,” he laughed softly. The man placed his hand on the crook of her back. She stiffened.

“Perhaps. 2+2=5 is an attractive idea, afterall,” she said.

He scoffed. A vixen of misology. He hated her. He wanted her.

“I guess you haven’t reached the age of reason, yet.”

“Reason? I never understood why humans were inclined to enslave themselves…”

“Society is the overseer and morality is the master. Disobedience is the enemy—”

“Rebellion is the answer,” she intervened swiftly. She moved away from the window toward the door frame, smiling at him mockingly.

“Monogamy is positively dreadful,” she spat. “And those god awful suburban lawns! Hideous status symbols! I wouldn’t care if your dog shit on them.”

“Property is the extension of the self, is it not? One of the fueling purposes for life is the acquisition of and the expansion of ownership. A universal communication.”

“You can only claim ownership over your own body,” she paused, breathing heavily. “Nothing else; no one else.”

His temper flared. His face frowned heavily. Must he turn to force?

But then, an epiphany.

“What about love? Don’t you believe in that?”

He stared at her knowingly. A cool victory.

Her smile fluttered straight out the window; her color fell right through her toes. He would have drowned in her eyes if he wasn’t careful.

“Love?” She hesitated. “I…I used to love. But I forgot how.”

She paused. “I am a vortex of forgotten memories.”

She reached for the nearest glass—a brandy snifter, filled half-way with scotch. Hopefully it was GlenFiddich.

“They say hell is remembering love, but never willing yourself to again,” the man said.

The light left the room.

“I lie forgotten and unknown in hell,” she said softly.

She chased away the last drops of alcohol.

They tasted strong and burned nicely. She didn’t even dirty her nails.

To Whom it May Concern

I wrote this about a year ago:

To Whom it May Concern:

This is my catharsis. This is my pandemonium. This is my bonafide declaration, if you please:

Anything memorable in life attaches itself to an idealized point.

It’s all in the timing; a perfect moment serving as an aperture into the human soul.

Will ours ever arrive? Or has it been abandoned?

I looked to the east for answers; to the west for comfort. Perhaps it’s best to remain in the twilight zone, because my heart careens steadily. I’m like a lush in the realm of oblivion. I’m drunk in love.

Red red wine, help me forget.

I suffered from your knowing eyes. Every time I fell into them I redefined masochism. Your searching fingertips blistered my skin; your lips shivered my mind to the breaking point. Those piquant memories haunt my taste buds. I am parched and ravenous.

Resuscitate me, only so I can taste them again. Withdrawal symptoms ignited: I am an addict.

I’ll return the favor, my darling.

The day that time dies, remember me. You’ll hear music playing along the stars: it’s the melody of our thoughts; confessions of the here and now.

I’ll be at the coda; the pinnacle point.

That’s where you’ll find me. We’ll disappear into the harmony; our love becoming perfectly timeless.

My dreams have been vivid, morbid, and seemingly apocalyptic in nature, as of late. Perhaps my subconscious takes the doomsday prophecy a bit more seriously than my conscious self does. Or maybe my internal self just prefers to think of the macabre—either way, I find my recent dreams to be detailed and interesting enough to share with an audience. 


The first dream I’d like to recount occurred approximately a week ago. In it, there was a great starvation and famine that spread across the entire earth. The setting was arid and desert-like, and the perspective was first person. The hunger was so great, I advised people close to me to hunt owls for food. I remember feeling a certain reluctance when the wise bird became my prey, for I greatly respected the creature. I said a prayer of thanks before ripping into its carcass. I removed the feathers, cooked its meat and eagerly devoured it. The blood from the creature was used to decorate my face, and I reconstructed its bones to create a skeleton of the dead owl. I shared this meal with a few others. 


The second odd dream happened that same night. America was in chaos and anarchy, every citizen abandoning structure and fighting with an “every man for himself” mentality. I worked with a group of people who were trying to reform a government for the people, and somehow, I was highly skilled in detecting terrorist activity and disarming bombs (previously I worked as a member of the C.I.A. before America collapsed). I knew where the next intended target was for a bombing: a residential house that harbored many children. I remember my family begging me not to go to the house, for they feared I would die. I was afraid as well. It was a suffocating fear that weighed heavily on my heart, like a true reflection of my inner self’s phobia. I greatly considered abandoning my obligations for fear that I would die and end up in hell. In the end though, I told my family, “I would rather die trying to save those children, than live another day to face my failure.” I woke up before knowing if I succeeded in the rescue.


The next night gave me a weirder dream. I wasn’t even part of the story line, this time. In the dream, I was like a fly on the wall, paying close attention to this older woman who suffered from clinical depression. In order to better herself, she separated from her family and found solace in finding a job that brought her pride and self-satisfaction. A few years later, her daughter approached her by saying, “Mom, I tried to better myself like you did, but it’s just not working. I’m sorry.” The daughter immediately lifted a gun to her forehead, and released a fatal bullet. The mother screamed in terror as she watched her daughter’s brain bits smear and splatter on the wall.

I immediately woke up in a state of confusion. 


Last night’s dream wasn’t terribly morbid, but it proved interesting enough. According to my dream, I discovered that numerology played an important factor in determining whether a person would acquire a disease or not. For instance, a set of numbers was assigned to various types of cancer, and if the numbers in your life matched that set of digits, you were predetermined to receive that type of cancer.

I remember feeling a rush of anger when learning that the cure for these diseases and cancers resided in a set of numbers that reflected those that were assigned to the illnesses. I couldn’t expel that information though, or else I would be killed. The voices warned me it was essential for these sicknesses to exist to maintain population control and a sense of fear among the masses. If not, the new world order will never be able to come into being.


Strange dreams indeed. 

A very very old short story:

      It was a not-so-special day in October. It was one of those typical lazy Sunday’s; the kind where you’re not quite sure what to do with yourself, so you just turn into a couch potato, daydreaming about nothing. And that’s how my day went: it was aimless and lazy, and I enjoyed it.

                My mother and brothers left the premises in the morning, off to go shopping at the FLEA market. Ugh. How grateful I was for the fact that my dad did not work on Sunday’s. For one, shopping was my mortal enemy—I absolutely loathed it. I mean, what’s the fun in sorting through thousands of clothing racks, only to find a shirt that ends up looking ugly on you anyway? I’d much rather eat a bundle of boogers. And another thing is, I was still sketched out about the flea market. A small part of me believed a large population of fleas resided in the area and I was not about to take any chances.

                So my day was going pretty well on that not-so-special Sunday until doom literally knocked at my door.

                “I need to go to the hardware store. Go get your jacket,” my Dad announced. I groaned audibly.

                “Aw, man!” I whined. I did not get it—my mom would be home in fifteen minutes. Couldn’t he wait?

                “It’ll only take a half an hour, I promise.” Pfft! More like a half an hour of H-E-DOUBLE HOCKEY STICKS!

                I grudgingly went along with him to the store and tried to make it the most annoying experience possible for him to end my torture sooner. I stomped about, huffed, and sucked my teeth continuously. I even ran through the humongous aisles screaming like a banshee, but he still would not budge.

                Fortunately, it did only take a half an hour like he said, and before I knew it, I jetted down the sidewalk to my front door, ready to enter my sanctuary. There to greet me was my mother, propping the screen door opened for me and smiling warmly. A bit too warmly. I inspected her form, and discovered she grasped a small water dish made for an animal. She noticed where I was looking and quickly hid the object behind her back.

                “New water dish for pepper,” she said with a weird grin on her face. I eyed her suspiciously.

                “Why don’t you go into the kitchen? There’s some lunch on the table.” I shrugged and stepped inside. My stomach started to growl and the idea of eating some delicious grub caused me to disregard my mother’s wacky actions.

                I entered the room and my gaze immediately darted to the table. Something was out of place—something was not right. Then it clicked. Right in the middle of the kitchen table was a big cardboard box. I briefly wondered who put it there: it was probably Bryan or Chris, those darn slackers. My mom would flip if she saw that box sitting on her precious table.

                Being the good daughter that I was, I figured I’d move it for her to save us all from hearing her shrilly screams. I started to pick up the box, but it made a noise.

                “Mew!” Something moved about on the inside, and it started to claw at the side. I looked at it, completely puzzled.

                “What’s in the box?” I yelled for the whole house to hear.

                “Why don’t you open it up, stupid?” Bryan retorted. I spun around and noticed him standing there with my parents and Chris. They seemed to be waiting in anticipation with knowing smiled. I felt like it was my birthday and everyone was just killing to see my reaction to the gift.

                “Mew!” The box said again. My eyebrows rose. Maybe it was some electronic toy my mom picked up at the market for me. I began to open the topic of the box, excitement electrocuting me all over. What could it be? Would I like it?

                I gasped out loud when I peeked inside. Peering back at me was the cutest thing in the world: a charming and sweet kitten. Orange brown stripes wrapped around its tiny body and its eyes stared at me in both fear and curiosity. My mouth stayed agape as I slowly wrapped my hands around it and picked it up as it made its small cat-like noises. I was speechless. I remembered asking for a kitten nearly two years ago when I was in kindergarten. I had pretty much given up hope on a feline companion. And no, there was one in my hand!

                “You don’t like it?” My mom asked, concerned.

                “No, I love her! Or him?” I replied immediately. I guess she expected me to jump around screaming like an idiot, kind of how I act around Christmas time when I rip apart a present. But right now, I was too surprised and pleased to do anything but stare.

                “Her,” she said. I grinned. But then something occurred to me and the smile slowly started to fade…

                “Mom, she doesn’t have fleas, right?” I said in a worried voice, holding the kitten a bit farther from me.

                “No, why?”

                “Well, you did get her from the flea market,” I said, holding the kitten closer to my body now. A roar of laughter from everyone ensued. I rolled my eyes and turned back to my new friend.

                I guess today was not a not-so-special Sunday after all.