The smoke of a cigarette is like a train. The Drugs that almost killed me. Drinking alcohol is like a fish. We eat food like pigs.

Chapter One: Smoke and Steel

He smoked like a train.

Not for pleasure. Not for rebellion. But for rhythm. The rhythm of survival. The rhythm of forgetting. Each drag was a beat in the song of his struggle. Each exhale, a cloud of memory he didn’t want to carry anymore.

Minden, Louisiana. The place where the tracks began. Where the smoke first curled around his childhood like a warning. Mama prayed hard. Daddy disappeared early. And Ceaser learned to read silence like scripture.

He was just a boy when he first saw the men on the corner— leaning into their cigarettes like they were lifelines. They didn’t talk much, but their eyes told stories. Stories of heartbreak, of prison time, of women who left and wounds that stayed. He watched them closely, memorizing the way they held their pain between their fingers.

By sixteen, he had his own pack. Not because he liked the taste. But because he needed something to hold when the world felt too heavy. The smoke gave him space. Space to think. Space to disappear.

He smoked through heartbreak. Through the nights when love felt like a lie. Through the mornings when he woke up in someone else’s bed, trying to remember who he was supposed to be.

He smoked through addiction. Not just to nicotine, but to chaos. To the cycle of self-sabotage. To the feeling of being needed, even if it was only by his demons.

He smoked like a train— relentless, loud, and always moving. But he didn’t know where he was headed. Didn’t know if the tracks led to healing or hell.

Then came the night that changed everything.

Porch light flickering like a warning. Sky heavy with stars and silence. He stood outside his grandmother’s house, cigarette in hand, soul on edge.

He whispered, “God, if you’re real, show me a way out.”

No thunder. No lightning. Just a stillness that wrapped around him like a blanket. And a voice—not loud, but clear— Write.

So he did.

He wrote through the smoke. Through the pain. Through the memories that wouldn’t let go.

Memoir pages stained with tobacco and tears. Stories of a boy who loved too hard and lost too often. Of a man who gave everything and got nothing back. Of a soul that refused to stay broken.

He wrote about Minden. About the streets that raised him and the spirits that haunted him. About the women who kissed his scars and the ones who added new ones. About the God who stayed silent until Ceaser learned how to listen.

He smoked like a train. But he prayed like a prophet. Cooked like a survivor. Spoke like a poet. And loved like a man who knew what it meant to be left behind.

Now, each puff is punctuation. Not the end of the sentence, but a pause before the next testimony.

He’s still on the tracks. But the destination has changed

He’s headed toward healing. Toward redemption. Toward a life where smoke doesn’t mean escape— it means reflection.

Because sometimes, the train doesn’t crash. Sometimes, it just slows down long enough for the conductor to change course.

Chapter Two: Love Like Smoke

He loved like he smoked— hard, fast, and without a filter.

The first time he fell, it was all fire. She had eyes like Sunday morning and a laugh that made him forget the weight of Monday. They met outside a corner store, her braids swinging like gospel verses. He was seventeen, still learning how to carry his pain without spilling it. She saw the cracks and kissed them like they were promises.

But love, like smoke, doesn’t always rise. Sometimes it suffocates.

She said she loved him, but only when he was quiet. Only when he didn’t dream too loud. Only when he didn’t ask for more than her broken heart could give.

He tried to shrink himself to fit her silence. Stopped writing. Stopped praying. Started smoking more.

Because when love feels like rejection wrapped in affection, you start looking for comfort in the burn.

He gave her everything— his time, his money, his soul. She gave him pieces. Pieces of herself when it was convenient. Pieces of her body, but never her heart.

And still, he stayed. Because Ceaser didn’t know how to leave what he thought was love. He thought sacrifice was the price of connection. Thought pain was proof that it mattered.

But God was watching.

One night, after another fight that ended in silence, he sat on the edge of his bed, cigarette glowing like a confession. He whispered, “Lord, why does love hurt so much?”

And the answer didn’t come in thunder. It came in memory.

He remembered his mama— how she loved without limits, how she prayed even when her heart was breaking. He remembered the way she held him after his daddy left, how she said, “Real love don’t leave you empty.”

So he started writing again.

Not for her. Not for revenge. But for release.

He wrote about the way she looked at him like he was a burden. About the way he begged for crumbs when he was made for feasts. About the way he lost himself trying to earn what should’ve been freely given.

And in the writing, he found God again.

Found Him in the margins. In the metaphors. In the moments when the pen felt more honest than his own voice.

He realized love wasn’t supposed to feel like smoke in your lungs. It was supposed to feel like breath. Like life.

So he let her go.

Not with anger. But with grace.

He stopped calling. Stopped chasing. Started healing.

And the healing didn’t come easy. It came in waves. In nights when the bed felt too big. In mornings when the silence screamed louder than her absence.

But he kept writing. Kept praying. Kept cooking meals that tasted like hope.

He smoked less. Not because the craving disappeared, but because the need to escape did.

He started loving himself. Started seeing his worth not through her eyes, but through God’s.

And when the next woman came— with eyes like truth and hands that didn’t tremble— he didn’t rush. Didn’t pour out everything at once.

He let love be slow. Let it simmer like a good stew. Let it prove itself.

Because Ceaser had learned: Love isn’t loud. It’s consistent.It shows up. It stays. It heals.