It was probably on the ferry. From Liloan to Dumaguete watching the sunset over the Philippines sea.
The last night in Malapascua, I finished half a packet of Marlboro over beer. The other half was still in my bag.
Before some exasperating philosophy swept over me, I decided to quit. I just told myself that the last cigarette has been smoked.
There is not going be a ceremonial last smoke… in the future. It was over. In the past.
The one thing that I have come to love in recent years is diving. And I realized smoking will burn whatever is beautiful about diving. See, I never gave up smoking when people asked me. The girls I knew were vehemently against it, my mom obviously was disapproving and so were other friends. But I finally gave it up for myself. I’m selfish that way.
By sharing this, I don’t mean to bring about a reform. Preaching is for the religious.
All I want to say is ever since I left that packet behind in the hostel, I’ve breathed better. A two-full-lungs of better.