Nicotine

We see them almost every day. We silently and helplessly stand by as they
perform their sacrificial rituals. We look on as the mesmerizing, dancing
ribbons of smoke ascend as sweet incense from their instruments of worship, anachronistic remnants of an ancient primitive culture. It is in this smoke
the god they serve lives and breathes and has his being. And so they deeply
breathe it in, to lungs once pink and perfect.

He is never far from them, enticing them to his altars... at the ceremonial
rising of the sun, as the sun assumes its rightful place, as the shadows of
evening lengthen, in the night watches... whenever they hear his call they
willingly submit and bow down before him. Some have said he is a harsh god, but they choose not to listen. Yes, he commands self sacrifice, but in return he imparts his presence. And in that presence they find hope to carry on...

Other interests slowly fade. They have no other gods before him. Those who
remain faithful are anointed high priests. Their eyes now dull and lifeless,
their skin now grey and blotched and thin, they repeat their sacred mantras
with pursed lips and raspy voices, gasping for air between words.

They have sacrificed their souls and strength and children to him, but he
is not satisfied. He is a selfish god. And theirs, a strange salvation. They
realize, too late, there is no one to redeem them. They realize, too late,
no one has died in their stead...


c 2000 B Philp