Smokin’ Weed

When I smoke weed I feel like my mind is disintegrating. I feel it flake off like shreds of a stale pastry. It has been over three weeks since I last smoked and I can still feel the repair. The gradual reclamation smoke-art-dave-barstom-seo-dota-pjlighthouse-00of my spiritual vocabulary and access to the sentiments of my soul. The world gains dimension and I become aware of the consciousness and spirit behind a dog’s smile, of my love for the sun and urge to be a photosynthetic subject, to feed off of it and to give back to the creatures around me… to be the source of their oxygen and to be one of a multitude of god’s pure creatures. To be an innocent one- not vein, not gluttonous, but modest. To detract from no one else by feeding but in feeding, to give back to them. To let raindrops linger on my skin, to let slugs mate on me, to be the host of a spider web. And we all live intertwined. The weed dulls me as if you scuffed sand paper against the grain of a finished oak dinner table. A fog descends upon me from which I cannot escape and I move through the sludge in slow motion- too slow to keep up with the constantly cycling caprices of life. I miss out on the first steps of a child, or even the wobbly steps of an old man as he mounts his bike, the unintentional overwhelming beauty of a few chords of a guitar within the tuning routine. And I miss that opportunity to smile. To be flooded with the sensation that for an instant, I glimpsed into the most profound level of life’s beauty, buried under the layers of silcate rock and nickel and iron at the center of the earth.

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