I've Never Heard Them Called 'Analog' Before...

       When the unassuming flat-rate envelope arrives you already know what it is. Inside are two black boxes; one a compact cube, holding 5 cartons. Your eyes skim the five slim packs fit inside with frustrating precision. Though the tiny boxes hold for you their own secret allure, you set aside the small set of symmetry and approach the larger of the two.
       The black box opens like a book; charger and adapter slipped snug into separate plastic sleeves. Like the adventuring archaeologist, who brushes away dirt and debris from an ancient tome, you place them alongside their instructions.
       Nestled in the bottom of the packaging is a black
pack, cut-off corners suspiciously similar to the most infamous gimmick in cigarette history; the Camel Crush. Vaguely the thought passes that you may be partaking in the patterns of part time and premature smokers, but this pause is hardly enough to compete with that new-toy anticipation.
       Its top flips open to reveal two batteries and two atomizers, placed with super-spy precision. You carefully pull out the separate pieces and the device blinks blue as you twist the two halves together. Armed and ready you fit on a flavor cartridge. Of the five different varieties 'classic tobacco' is your natural first choice. Names like Java Jolt and Marvelous Menthol smack of the kind of alliteration employed by meddling marketers, a heavy layer of cheese that traditional cigarettes have tastefully avoided.
       Your receptors are already standing on curious tiptoes when you pace the hard plastic to your lips. Eyes flung unfocused in the distance, your mind gazes inward. You are happily surprised at the throat hit. The taste is somehow sweet, and familiar though you can't place it
            "It finally came, so how do you like it?"
       Offer the non-smoker a drag and they may remark on how it even tastes like a cigarette. But your intrepid tongue has tested countless tobacco blends, and this could not be farther from the truth.
       Yes, it is clever that the tip lights up when you take a drag. Yes, it even makes smoke. No, it's not at all the same thing. E-cigs are everything a non-smoker thinks their analog equivalents are, thankfully devoid of all the unfortunate side-effects.
       But you, cool consumer of countless smokes, feel their absence most of all. Already a milieu of missing minutiae mull themselves into your mind.
       The weighty tube tests itself in your hand; unfamiliar balance fondling fine fingers. It lends itself to being placed on a table, or held like a pen you are chewing on. Your finicky front teeth may even hazard a couple of nips, the end now satisfying several ticks.
       You take a couple of heavy drags, distilling the subtle flavors in your mouth, curious to see how much you can conjure from this curious contraption. You may put it down, doing your best to ignore it, waiting for something you can't quite define. You tap your fingers; bite your lip, then fire forward to pick up the stoic cylinder.
       A vague anxiety creeps up on you. Oh, Miss 21st Century, these moments are not rare, but this one in particular is coming quickly into view.
       You can't finish an e-cigarette. Flipping through the instructions, you find it; each cartridge lasts for 150 "puffs" (They couldn't think of a better word?). This number of course means nothing to you, a puff or a drag being applicable measurements only when there is one or two left.
      But it is clear that your tiny heart, already overtaxed, would explode were you to attempt such a marathon. It seems that the beginning and end of an e-cigarette remain defined by will or whim (or, in some extreme cases; nausea).
      Your mind flits from flameless machine to mortal cigarette, wrestling with the desire to actively finish what you've started. Blue led tip darkens, daring you to drag. The urge that characteristically built up to the ecstasy of the experience remains constant; never culminating, only cultivating an increasingly indefinite irresolution.
       As you become acutely aware of this infinite activity, your e-cigarette takes on an entirely different efficacy.
       It is with black body in hand you begin to go about your basic activities. Testing to see if it takes. You surf the separate spaces of TV channels, or the more amorphous design of the web. You read a book. Like a kid blowing bubbles into the air, you send scentless smoke wherever you walk.
       Your lighter lies unused on the table, and you recall its faint flick with nostalgic familiarity; the happy herald of your official break from life. Time itself is tucked in among tobacco strips; each cigarette a convenient capsule into which you can safeguard small spaces of the day.
       The e-cigarette, however, blasphemes the idea of a break, offering only the excuse to smoke inside, and thus refrain from the refrain you've come to relish. By contrast, a cigarette's conclusion is comfortably close.
       You can never lose yourself in an e-cigarette.
       But to this too, you can adapt. You are trying to keep an open mind about this whole thing after all. It's not like you would ever even consider quitting cigarettes altogether, but your room has become awfully smoky.
       Ah, the smoke. You, the proud, devil-may-care cigarette connoisseur once wreathed your round face in smoke, blowing endless clouds of it into the atmosphere. That sinuous smoke, which once traced seconds into the air, now replaced by a dormant cylinder. You miss the rippling incense of cool that rose from your fingers.
       With that thought, you shamelessly shake out a cig from your pack.
          *ftt, ftt*
      You inhale the fulfilling flick. Savoring that seductive sound. Relief at the familiar weight hanging from your fingertips, light with placebo possibility.
       A cigarette is company, if nothing else; it's digital equivalent provides the same solitary pleasure as the purple vibrator lying under your bed. But, like many things in life, your cigarette seems to be done before you've gotten a chance to fully consider it.
       Gently you smudge out embers. Even the act of finishing a cigarette has been harmonized into an art, you muse to yourself. The final faultless flick; flying filter following finite arc into the limitless fold of the forgotten.
       E-cigarettes have no such poetry. No great novels will ever be written while sucking on them, no mysterious conversations had over them, no grand philosophies. They lack the substance a cigarette alone supplies.
       E-cigarettes have forgotten that beauty is in the imperfections
       But for you, oh short-haired lover of short-lived dreams, it's that very mortality that you miss. Cigarettes are metaphors in a world being taken over by machinations devoid of these mysticisms.
       Purists, whether of tobacco or literature (and you are both), are natural born humanists. Though you mercilessly mock the majority, the mobs, most of the individuals; you are a humanist. That you cannot deny. It's because you catch character in the chaos of the unkempt human mind. To you, the scented pages, the forgiving filter; these things represent that indescribable allure of the organic. They have a fluid metaphorical malleability that their mechanical manifestations masticate with cold convenience and calm efficiency.
       These machines, like the people who employ them, are blind to the things they cannot quite describe. They ignore the immeasurable mystery that minds and meaning alike possess.

       Somewhere, an ashtray manufacturer is daydreaming of retirement as he breathes a sigh into the back of his cigarette.
       His young apprentice however takes no such breaks, electronic tube lying next to his pen, as he preps plans for e-cig holders.

       Picking up your (admittedly sleek) electronic cigarette, you realize that it all seems to hinge on one single detail.
       There is no fire.
       Fire, that volatile force you fearlessly finger, unflinchingly flicking grey ash in its wake. Sterile electronic cigarette in hand, there is no energy that furrows its dangerous potential in the back of your mind. No one will ever be burned by e-cigarettes, no pages will be browned by dripping embers. No line of gasoline will ever be dramatically lit by its flung form. And in addition to looking stupid, you'll be out 20 bucks for a new battery.
       You, Miss Camel Lights, calmly, carelessly confront comments like the infinitely unimaginative "Smoking is bad for you". You know this, and in partial defiance of these dull voices you proudly light your cigarette, for it represents something far more important than your health. Something the helmet culture of our society has long since turned their nose up at. A cigarette is a symbol of daring humanity. It is a line you linger on. Cool being style with which you stalk that edge.
       Fire is, after all, what made cigarettes cool in the first place. And you proudly recognize that yes, they are cool.
       You would never smoke an e-cigarette in public.
             "Why not? I'd think you'd be embarrassed to be seen smoking in public..."
       You shake your head in distant disdain. You've long since pledged yourself to the cult of the smokers. And alongside them, you would certainly ladle silent shame upon the e-cigarette smoker. You've joined the proud partakers of the sacred smoke; and though you may die a minority, though the world may lecture you about your habits; you'll die smoking and smiling. Because the day they told you not to play with fire was the day fire was destined to be your best friend.