Happy lungin on outta yur mama day
Cricket match on Tv, weed mixed in with the coffee flavored sheesha. Sunday, lazy Sunday.
Languidly, eyes staring unblinking at the screen, my hand blindly reaches for the nozzle which lies somewhere by the zip lock bag. Almost without knowing I stick it in between my partly parted lips and breathe.
I do this over and over for hours. Past the highlights of the Srilankan win last night, well past watching Dhoni's live fall to a Collymore inswinger. My high has taken me into orbit, my head is a universe of swirling mixing nebulae of disjointed thoughts. Part of it ponders over Dhoni's horrid batting technique while a stray piece of grey matter contemplates the reasons for the Indians being so much better at advertising than us, their severed counterparts. Then both these seemingly unrelated streams come across each other and strike up a conversation and abandon their premises 2 more hits from being theoretically proven to give rise to yet another ungraspable concept having to do something or the other with the beginning of the universe. For a hazy instance I question the existence of god, and in the next what to have for dinner. Soon i can't keep up with my evolving new world of scrambled, jumbled, stupor induced streams of consciousness and shake my head to break free.
I smile as all the stray threads begin to coil into one uniform memory. The one which somehow automatically re surfaces as soon as this month begins. The one which i had hoped i would manage to not recall anymore. The one I've been smoking so hard to forget.
The Umpires call the day's first session over, the player's retire to their meal and to team meetings. I graze one finger over the power off button and the image collapses into itself to leave a grey/black blank surface mimicking emptiness.
I stare at the screen with envy, at the power button with mournful jealousy. Maybe if i smoke some more... enough to forget what day it is, what year, what era in human history.
So i smoke. And i stare at the blank screen until my eyes begin to flutter. The edges of the light streaming in form the window becomes a golden cloud and the scenery begins to melt into a hollow grey black darkness.
Once or twice, i jerk into wakefulness but find no respite in what i have to look at.
I sleep.
3 hours later, groggy and cramped up from the awkward posture I stumble into sobriety. And much to my disdain recall, before anything else, what I've spent all day trying to forget. .
A few embers still flicker atop the sheesha, there's a good long hit trapped inside, smoke full of delicious numbness swirls beneath the blue glass like a genie waiting to be released. I waste no time and breathe again.
Languidly, eyes staring unblinking at the screen, my hand blindly reaches for the nozzle which lies somewhere by the zip lock bag. Almost without knowing I stick it in between my partly parted lips and breathe.
I do this over and over for hours. Past the highlights of the Srilankan win last night, well past watching Dhoni's live fall to a Collymore inswinger. My high has taken me into orbit, my head is a universe of swirling mixing nebulae of disjointed thoughts. Part of it ponders over Dhoni's horrid batting technique while a stray piece of grey matter contemplates the reasons for the Indians being so much better at advertising than us, their severed counterparts. Then both these seemingly unrelated streams come across each other and strike up a conversation and abandon their premises 2 more hits from being theoretically proven to give rise to yet another ungraspable concept having to do something or the other with the beginning of the universe. For a hazy instance I question the existence of god, and in the next what to have for dinner. Soon i can't keep up with my evolving new world of scrambled, jumbled, stupor induced streams of consciousness and shake my head to break free.
I smile as all the stray threads begin to coil into one uniform memory. The one which somehow automatically re surfaces as soon as this month begins. The one which i had hoped i would manage to not recall anymore. The one I've been smoking so hard to forget.
The Umpires call the day's first session over, the player's retire to their meal and to team meetings. I graze one finger over the power off button and the image collapses into itself to leave a grey/black blank surface mimicking emptiness.
I stare at the screen with envy, at the power button with mournful jealousy. Maybe if i smoke some more... enough to forget what day it is, what year, what era in human history.
So i smoke. And i stare at the blank screen until my eyes begin to flutter. The edges of the light streaming in form the window becomes a golden cloud and the scenery begins to melt into a hollow grey black darkness.
Once or twice, i jerk into wakefulness but find no respite in what i have to look at.
I sleep.
3 hours later, groggy and cramped up from the awkward posture I stumble into sobriety. And much to my disdain recall, before anything else, what I've spent all day trying to forget. .
A few embers still flicker atop the sheesha, there's a good long hit trapped inside, smoke full of delicious numbness swirls beneath the blue glass like a genie waiting to be released. I waste no time and breathe again.
Comments
You're nothing but the O Level guy who was good at English who grew up to do too much Sheesha.
Peace.
Frivolity.... Phitaymaun. Pick up the pen that wrote better things.
While i'm at it, would you like me to quit smoking too?
Man, you really can't take criticism, can you? .... :)