Smoking too much

"Don't smoke", "You're too pretty to smoke", "Ruin your skin"

I keep smoking. Morning till night. Wondering why I crave so much something that hurts me, will ruin me, might cause cancer, fucks up my cardio.
I keep thinking I need to exercise, workout, feel better. Wondering why I don't do something that is good for me. I live in a beautiful place, go hike, get moving.
I keep getting through the days trying so hard to get my mind to just take a break. Wondering when it will be a little quieter.
I float in the ocean and the thoughts are quiet. Maybe because it feels like the ocean is the one place vast enough to encompass all the thoughts, the miles worth of words of thoughts, swirling in my mind.
Maybe it's because the rise and fall of the ocean swell perfectly matches my own anxieties. I remember they will pass as the waves crash and surge.
Maybe it's because all I can hear out there is my own breath, my own heartbeat, and for those moments remember I live in a body, not just a head judging a body, judging the character, judging the whole fucking thing. I remember I live in a body, just as much as I think about being this body.
I keep coming back to the ocean.
I keep worrying, anxiety-ing, stressing, breathing, calming, doing my best.
When you've been doing therapy and self-examination for a while and have a tendency towards judgements of yourself its amazing how you can become so overwhelmed by all the possible ways to help yourself, make yourself feel better, you give up and stare at a computer screen instead.
I keep doing. I keep writing and reading and feeling.
Wondering when I will gain a little more clarity. Wondering when I'll stop overthinking all the good I've done into minimized psychoanalysis of all the ways I've failed at doing all the good things I've done, am doing, wondering when I'll stop smoking so damn much.
I keep going.
I keep smoking.
Wondering at the wonder of my existence in one moment.
Chastising myself for the lack of profundity in myself the next.
Wandering through this existence in one moment.
Clawing at my skin the next.

I smoke too much. I feel a lot. I worry so much I love and feel joy and self-examine and then self-examine my failure to self-examine enough.

My priorities and thoughts are far-reaching and chaotic and still and much too aware of themselves as insignificant and powerful and confusing.


And you think I give a shit about being too pretty to smoke?