i got so fuckin' high, i lost appeal. weird, right. you know you sink into this position where your centre of gravity holds point comfortably and you realise you haven't been self aware for the past few seconds you're not sure how many. you look around. no one's watching. the woman by that window doesn't come down this path. you lean against the wall and into the shadows; you zone back out.
it's been so long.
you sink back in as this really wonderful weirdo of a woman suddenly hits the peak of her tone singing Drive, and the music finally starts dancing; this is what you've been waiting for. you move to get into a better position but the physic(x)s engine isn't working, the left hand moves up to compensate, but hey, lets face it, you're bad at math, so you dance your way back to the bad for balance yourself. you look at the joint. It's not finished yet. you blow your mind again because you realise your minds been fucking blown for the fake four minutes that this song has been running. how is time real if in the short time you've been here you've been somewhere else for so much longer.
you sit for a while, aah. sitting. sitting more comfortably. comfortably seated. Mission Mangal what? there was nothing more important than that for those few seconds. humanity helped with pillows, so crisis averted. your zone out resumes. look at you. crazy chasing a high. what do you find there?
you look for a pack of cigarettes to keep your joint in. you need to get a pack of cigarettes to keep your joint in so that you can stop smoking. life is different now, there are people who don't do it. there are fewer who do. you don't really like the people who do. could this mean it's time to give up on something that you've always wanted to? Nicotine, not marijuana is the gateway drug. Shut off the gateway. You're already where you need to be, where the leaves come in five. you count just to be sure. one papa bear, two mama bears, two baby bears. two foetus bears. you don't talk about fetuses. you look down from the window and there's the woman, still walking. you look at her. she's talking on the phone. she looks comfortably well in her mid-life and she's wearing a nightie.
you wanna grow hair someday. you think you might just manage to. but then you think you're gonna end up losing it again. that's make you sad. it'll feel like the difference between one punch man and what dexter aspires to be in his laboratory. not having hair makes people take you seriously, but not really. its like how the totem keeps spinning and you don't know how Inception ends? like, you think something is happening, but then, you're not really sure?
the lady is looking at you. hey. you're still looking at the lady. you move away. no point brooding over just another instance of creeping out a random stranger. don't worry. nothing bad is gonna happen. life has other ways of biting back. you wish people bit you back.
you walk out to make small talk with your new flatmate. he's blown away by how blown out you are. you tell him how you never really expect weed dealers to look like they do. he tells you that you're visibly tripping, for the 7th time. you leave before you zone out again. how long has it been? just two more songs. yeah you were good for this one. that's roughly as long as two songs last.
you go back to view the story you posted on social media out of sheer joy of holding a newly crafted joint. your joint isn't in focus. you remember you noticed, but didn't care. the sticker on the mac behind is what mattered. and your laptop in the backdrop too. the post goes off instagram. you've lost aesthetic appeal. the room smells of weed. need a room freshener. your deo should do for now. you look at the vaporiser sitting on the table of your new room. it'd be rad if you could use it right now. you think of the lavender oil you didn't take because you weren't sure how you'd feel about it later. what does lavender smell like? you can almost smell it, but it fades away just before you can take a whiff. funny. there's the pattern again.
you go back to the picture. what was it? the excitement of getting high after ages? the need to show off the fact that you're better now? why does substance make you happy? and why were you clearly not before? maybe you just lack the smell of lavender in your life.
things feel a lot more sober now. how long has it been? yeah. it's been over and hour. you're not sure if time had really slowed down back there anymore. but you know you felt it. you felt every moment last longer. what's the point of making time last longer you're alone anyway? is that why you get high with someone else? you spend a longer time with them? is it why you get high all the time with someone you know you're not gonna end up with? you just try your best to live an infinity in your limited longer seconds? maybe not. maybe it's just the chase. the switch from sober to baked with cottonmouth. maybe it's all life is now. you're financially independent and you can finance your takeout, vices and demons. but that's about it, and that's good enough right? because you're finally high and manic at the extremes, feeling either manically elated or manically morose. and that's a lot better than when you're sober and moderate, but there's rarely any elation. it's less of a feeling, and more of a voice, anyway. so drowning one out for a while should work right? what else are you supposed to do? this is how you can *not* be miserable, because you have always chosen to be miserable. so not being in control sounds like a nearsighted solution, right? but look at you. stickers on your mac, smiling when in view of others, and happy when you don't think of anything. you have an instagram filter on now, and you've lost aesthetic appeal.
you look in the mirror. the mirror looks back. the mirror is you. you are the mirror. the water splashes on your face.
This mirror looks clean. No blemishes. No filters. I should keep the mirror that way.
But hey. I'm out of denial now. I have a drug problem. Why is the mirror smiling at me? Must be me. I got the filter on.
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