Don't you ever just wish to be known?
Maybe I am the only one who ever wishes for such a thing.

I sat outside and smoked on my back porch tonight, alone, watching my dissipating clouds of smoke rise to heaven, the only kind of prayer I know- my nicotine-laced incense of singed tobacco drifts up to the infinite black sky. I live and interact with people every day, we smile and nod and acknowledge each other, but doesn't everyone wish to be known, rather than just acknowledged?
There are a few people that come into the Dunn Brothers where I work every day. Sometimes they sit there for hours at time, staring at some cornea-impairing computer screen, or fixing their gaze upon a thick novel or other comparable volume. I worked a twelve-hour shift today (don't ask me why, I suppose just because it was Easter, and I needed the hours), and some of the "regulars" came into the coffee shop during my morning shift, and were still there when I came back to visit during the evening shift. I wonder if they stay there for such long hours because they might not want to go home and face the fact that they are alone, and lonely to boot. (I know I am.) To be in a semblance of strangers, not meeting each other's gaze or engaging in conversation seems superficial and trite, but it is at least some piece of humanity that might connect us, rather than sitting in one's home, daring to remain alone. When I didn't have a job for the entire months of February and March, I would often go out to a cafe or a library, (usually whichever one was closest and had the cheapest coffee), and I would just sit and read, or work on my homework for writing class. The goal of completing a book or a writing piece, or even getting a cup of coffee, was not at all what I was after. I just wanted to join a small part of humanity, even if for just a few hours. Even just the momentary interaction with the bustling baristas was sometimes enough to remind me that I am not completely alone.

I often smoke while standing on sidewalks, or on my back porch, or as I walk through the city. If one would be watching me from a distance, it would appear as if I simply cast away my finished filter, unaware as to where and how it lands and rests as trash. I don't simply toss it away. I often study the other used filters on the sidewalks, wondering who it was who smoked those, what they were thinking as they inhaled that relaxing smoke, and how it strangely and slightly connects us, our conglomeration of nicotine-laced litter, which seems to be our own unique mark to show that we were here. I can see outside of the Dunn Brothers where I work, the filters of my own Camel Lights, or the Marlboros of my boss, Sanjeev, or the cheap Parliaments that all the male baristas at Dunn Bros prefer (which is a mystery to me, Parliaments are not good cigarettes at all). Along with our staff's smoke break pile-up along the Bryant Avenue sidewalk, other pedestrians and motorists have added to the mosaic of snuffed-out remnants. The environmentalist in me used to recoil at the sight of cigarette filters covering the ground, but now it shows me and reminds me that we are not alone. We live among other smokers, yes; but also among other human beings- humans who crave touch, love, connection. . . .and are trying to exist in this world just as I am (and you are, whoever may read this). The dirty remainders from our nicotine fixes establish our humanity, our connectedness, our common need for knowing and being known. . . . .