I’m stoned in a California basement. The hot, stale, air circulates through a table fan.
The world melts
away.
I’m left with just my thoughts.
Usually I’d be freaking out right about now,
But the fly on my guacamole is whispering the secrets to the universe. I listen to him hum, he says that I’m doing fine. That just because I faced this blunt to myself doesn’t mean I have to have a bad time.
He’s right. Usually I’d ruin it by getting existential.
As I draw deeper into my own self I understand Plato’s perfect forms theory and collective consciousness. Or whatever.
I giggle at my small hands.
“Was I always this small?”
“Yeah. Since day one. A premature baby who’s lungs could have given out any moment.”
“Huh. Wild.”
“It takes a lot to be alive, I guess.”
“Oh hey,
That’s kind of deep.”