I think I understand now, something I couldn’t quite understand before as I sit at my desk and stare out the window and into the ever darkening, blue sky, twirling a joint between my fingers.
The weed is an addiction of the mind. I’d asked many smokers before if they thought they were addicted and I always got back the same answer, “no. I can quit anytime.” and while that later part is true, as I find it true for myself, I sit here and look out the window and feel the intense urge to light the end of the joint.
I went from not smoking, to smoking everyday.
Understanding my addiction had become quite clear to me: I needed to lose myself.
I’m not saying all potheads are trying to escape. In fact, I hate that word, pothead. What makes me a pothead? Is it the two years under my belt that makes it so? Is it the frequency? I’m not sure about that yet. I don’t consider myself a pothead at all but here I sit at my desk, twirling a joint between my fingers, begging myself not to light it.
I want to, so badly, to smoke it. To give in and let my mind wander, for time to pass me by and the monotony of life to skip me, even if just for a bit.
I find myself with more time to be me. With more time to change and do the things I like, but I pick up a glass and fill it with booze and drink till i’m dizzy. I add a bit of weed to the mix to really get myself going, then I fall into bed, forgetting whatever ugly, writhing thing was hiding in the recess of my mind.
Yes, I know I want to escape myself and my own mind. I shake desperately for it, like a coffee fiend without caffeine.
Still I stare at the joint and I stare at my lighter.
I could get high tomorrow, and the next, but should I get high tonight? Should I indulge myself like the night before and the night before that? Two o’clock afternoons aren’t enough to stop me from my habit.
Am I becoming my mother? She’s the reason I never smoked. I saw her and didn’t want to become that, but I look at the mirror and at the joint in my hand and I see my future. Unlike her though, i’m no coward. In the face of such a mess, I would do myself the favor of checking out.
My mind digresses because it cannot handle the predicament I have put myself in.
There are other things to do, but I don’t want them. I want to get high. I want to forget. I want to escape and scream my favorite songs at the top of my lungs. I want to be taken by the rush and warm vibrations–yet I hesitate.
I know I will smoke it.
But what happens afterward? What happens between those moments, when the smoke is filling my lungs? Did I lose something important along the way?
I’m not sure I care. Perhaps it really doesn’t matter at all. Perhaps none of it does. I stare at the mirror and at the joint in my hand. I see the future and what I will become.