I remember when I was in college in a dormitory where smoking was not allowed, I would wait when everybody was gone from our room and as soon as the last person steps out that's when I would grab a pack of menthol cigarettes from my book bag and I would light it unhurriedly at the cuddled shadow of sunlight. I would smoke in that pristine room without any trace of guilt. One thing I loved about that experience was blowing smoke rings in the air - pretending that I was one of those cool movie stars in some cowboy movie. That fascinated me. It was like skirting the underworld in a peculiar way. Everybody knew I was a problem child, but moments like that I felt wise just gazing at the ceiling, bobbing my head in understanding the beauty of freedom and at the same time chasing the circled epiphany of youth. I loved forgetting the crashing sound of restrained minds. From the air I inhaled the fallen constellations witnessed by my delicate and glazed eyes. And I had to ask... softly ask: "Would I ever return again?".
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