My highest points in life are when I am high
talk about a feel good moment
Facing the greenery, I — stoned as the Great Wall Of China — sitting in my chair, feeling my flesh press against it, only wish for people to feel as good, and as at ease, as I was feeling right there, in my chair — stoned as fuck.
I am not a big fan of romanticizing drugs. I would never, for example, write a tribute to nicotine. But I sure as hell would do it for baby M (oh and I never give nicknames, but baby M is one special kiddo).
Okay if these last three lines did not make sense, then forgive me because I am high as fuck. Because when I am high as fuck, I am no longer that rigid, self-critical, perfectionistic (as fuck )— person I routinely am.
I am just high as fuck. Naturally then, I do not second guess what I write. I do not delete and then re-write, and then delete, and then re-write.
I just write. I create the words, and flow with them, from left to right, rarely in retrograde.
So I am sorry if any — or none — of this makes sense.
I tend to introspect alot when I am high. Not overthink my goddamn past mistakes and future imaginings, but reflect on what is: my state of high, which leads me to ponder joyfully about my purpose in life.
It is simply that when I am high, I go deep, too. I begin to wonder about what exists within me, like my breath, to what is beyond me, like how the study of Calculus came to be (talk a perfect pastime of mine; I solve imagined Calculus problems in the air. The more complex the formula to integrate is, the better).
I muse on my thoughts, observing them the way of a mother looking at her new-born baby.
Oh and my introspection is only but a part of this wonderful, exhilirating experience.
The world looks and feels different when I am high. My sensations are amplified. I am more aware of the touch, taste, smell, and sound of things, human and non-human.
My backyard chair is not just a piece of wood to sit on, it is a grounding, comfortable place to sink into.
Playing Lana Del Rey’s Norman Fucking Rockwell playlist is not the same when I am high. I am not just listening. I am moving, or tather being moved, by her soothing voice singing soul-stirring words, perfectly matched together with melody, beat, and rhythm.
Because when in a state of high — art takes a more profound form, leaving me in reverie and awe.
Eating is not a grudgingly difficult process to go through. I am not thinking about the calories. I am not thinking of the disgust and heaviness I will feel afterwards. Instead, food feels like a delicacy. I take it in, feel the richness ,the juiciness of it, savoring its taste.
And it is not just decadent food I am talking about here. I am talking about anything from a Tim Horton’s plain bagel with cheap cream cheese, to caviar and truffles. From a frivilous Aero chocolate bar to a decadent toasted Marshmellow Butterscotch Pie.
Because when in a state of high — anything edible is foodgasmic.
And how could I forget about that which I barely remember how to do when sober: laugh. When a semi-funny joke could barely get me to smile in my usual, it could get me to laugh like I never have before. I remember laughing at a joke my friend said, one I would otherwise respond with my resting bitch face to, and her telling me “you are showing your teeth?!”.
Because when in a state of high — everything is light. There is no seriousness, no tension.
There is only you — so way up there — you could feel the world breezing underneath your fingertips. Not it over your shoulders.
