Popcorn

The scent of freshly popped kernels fills the air,

triggering a Pavlovian response that makes my mouth water.

It's a familiar and comforting smell, offering a momentary respite

reminding me of my childhood, when life wasn't so consuming.

Soothing as it may be, it's an ineffectual meal.

I could eat an entire bag in just one sitting,

and it would still not be enough

to sate this profound yawing hunger within me

with an appetite the size of the moon

craving the days where my only worries were the figment monsters under my bed

Now, the monsters live inside my head,

demanding to be fed.

My reliance on the salty snack as a source of comfort goes beyond mere fulfillment

It's a ritual that I've come to depend on, like a drug.

A temporary escape from the harsh realities of this world.

It's a coping mechanism that I've developed to deal with the deep-seasonal burdens of adulthood.

I am aware that the satisfaction I seek won't be found at the bottom of the bowl.

And yet, it is the one thing I always have in my pantry,

to imitate my childhood bliss

So as I take a bite, feeling the popcorn melting on my tongue,

It isn't just butter that I taste, but my own relief.

Like a release of tension in my soul.

Some may say the popcorn only provides a temporary reprieve,

I know.

I know it is only an interim solution to the underlying problem.

Still, I continue to reach for the bag,

inhaling a deep breath and letting the steam fill my lungs.

If this self-indulgence is considered a vice, then I'm a confirmed addict.

And I need my fix.

Lest I go into withdrawal and lose my only sense of peace.