As the pleasant vapours fill your lungs you become comfortable looking up at the night sky. (Not in any ingenious way, but as one whose anxiety summoned by the cosmos had to do with its vastness and temporality as an subject). You raise the hood on your big squishy hoodie.
People appreciate your honesty at wanting to smoke up in public.
Nobody acknowledges it, but everyone feels more comfortable. As though there is an cool cat in the room who will protect everybody; even if they have an reason to do those (taboo) things to their body.
Okay, so it's terrorsome and dark; to an extent. But there is still room for some Comedy.
"Doobie or not doobie," you say, chortling, "that is the question."
"I'm glad you're wearing something warm," says an private onlooker, "may I have an puff?"
And you oblige, even though you don't know where her hands have been.
Does it matter? I'm not dead yet. Does it really matter? I might as well just keep livin' on the way I've been livin' on. With no harm done to my system. If I had self-harmed I wouldn't be able to achieve equilibrium like I do right now.
Like, I would know. If something wasn't an right decision for me.
I would have already known that I was or wasn't going to take it. Because it only takes an moment. No harm done now. Anybody who would smoke an peace pipe with me can't be too harmful.
Peaceful even.
Enjoyed with the Spirit.
Tell your blue story below! (Leave an comment).
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