crush a bit, little bit, roll it up, take a hit

He pulls out a ziplock and burrows his nose in it, "One of the best smells on earth," he says, eyes closed with content. He pulls out a little bit and starts breaking it into shreds, sprinkling the dirty green into a foil wrap. He demonstrates quickly on what to do, but I am still not certain. He clicks the lighter on and tilts it into the foil, suddenly the clear glass pipe is filled with smoke climbing upwards and out, he places his lips onto the top and sucks the air in, I listen to the bubbling water and watch the white fog disappear into his mouth. He blows out the window, and coughs a bit, traces of smoke escaping each choke. He hands the glass pipe to me, and I clumsily place my hands where they're supposed to go. He lights it up for me, and I hold on for a bit too long and breathe in just one wisp too much of smoke, my lungs are full of it, and I splutter it out into the cold dawn air. The taste of bitter grass is lodged in the back of my throat, but a glass of water washes it away. I take another hit, too much, I am gasping for air and practically choking on the smoke, I feel like vomiting and my head is spinning, but I go against my reason, instead of fighting the smoke, I dwell in it, I relax and I hug the discomfort, "its all part of it," I tell myself.
Fifteen minutes later and my eyes are bloodshot, the room is spinning and I am laughing at things that are not funny. I am lazy and I am paranoid, wondering if I am being annoying by laughing at stupid comments, I don't want to irritate anyone, are they irritated? I hope not. I try to explain how I feel, but I find myself saying the word "weird" three times in one sentence. Her eyes are melting in shape, like she has undergone strange camera effects. I laugh at this. Every moment is disconnected from the next, all I can comprehend is my current thought, and then I physically feel it melting and slipping away into some black hole where every previous thought has gone. I try to close my eyes and sleep but I am too curious, what is happening to me? I feel slight jerks and it takes me a while to realize that I occassionally twitch, it feels like a shot of cold ice. I lie still, wondering if I will still remember this later.

You and I were made for this, I was made to taste your kiss.

It's like I'm falling down a luminous, floral, vine-draped well, deeper and deeper into aromatic air that massages all ends of my delight. My guards are down and this is me, raw and at my most vulnerable, placing my beating and bloody heart straight into your palms.
I know it will be safe with you.
I have been falling for months, with increased velocity as time dashes by, it felt like just yesterday when I hesitantly peeked into ground, trying to figure how far the jump would be. Now, I am plunging headfirst into the depths of the unknown, thankfully still no end in sight, but even more surprisingly, I still feel the adrenaline rush I had during the first stumble.
This fall, it's nothing I ever expected and everything I could ever want, it's the best thing that has happened to me in long time. And I know that it could go on forever if nothing gets in the way.

Wait, they don't love you like I love you.

I woke up to a new message in my inbox, a long letter from an old friend I haven't seen or spoken to in three years. I was surprised, of course, to see his name staring at me from the computer screen, and I wondered what he might want or what the message might regard.

As soon as I opened it, I wasn't surprised to see that it was about my father. In fact, I was quite glad that it was, since he was one of the few people I could actually relate to. His words defined every feeling I couldn't name; every thought that seemed like an enigma suddenly underwent a moment of realization, and I finally felt like I wasn't alone, like I was normal.

I didn't really want to tell anyone about it, because I wanted it to be between the two of us, a silent understanding of fatherless teens. But I found his words too beautiful and inspiring to be locked away from others, so I wanted to share it with you. Beauty that is shared only multiplies, so here is a part of the letter:

A last word of encouragement: sometimes it feels like things are going to be okay, and other times you'll feel like things will never be okay.

No one can truthfully tell you that things are going to be ok in the end, because nobody knows how it'll turn out in the end. That being said, what you choose to believe doesn't always have to be based on proof. Call it optimism or call it faith, but I think that if you start believing things will work out in the end, they just might.

Blue Elephants in Plastic Cases.

What the fuck is wrong with me. I hate it when you think you're doing okay, then one small thing can make all your progress count for nothing. I seriously thought I was perfectly fine, or that I should be by now. But then I came across this photo and all old scars ripped open once again like eternal wounds. I keep asking myself if I'm over it, if I'm better, but I guess this proves that some things never heal. With people, I can bring up the topic easily, and I will not waver as long as I do not linger on the idea. I am blunt, I am light about it to avoid letting the heavy feeling sink in. But these sudden outbursts of sadness and the severe mood swings are obviously a manifestation of what I am too much of a coward to face. I will never be 100% better, I don't think. But maybe one day I will be able to fully accept it, and then I will stop running.

To kingdom come, you're the one I want.

They were a tangled heap, sharing body heat under the blankets. She lay her head on the chambers of his heart and heard it call out her name passionately. Her hair was messy and she wore no make-up, but he didn't care; To him, this was her at her finest. He kissed her forehead, her eyelids, her cheeks. Every meeting of lips against skin was a burst of heaven on fire.

Seven Diamonds

It's quiet days such as this one, where rain gently drips from a grey sky, that make me truly appreciate solitude. Alone at home with only my sleeping puppy, I wrap myself in my thickest blankets to ward off the whirl of cold air that has swallowed my room. The occasional chiming of my phone, announcing heartfelt messages from familiar people; Good books lay unread on my side tables, and slow music drips from all around. Time has stopped for me to catch up on what I have missed, sweet moments for myself. Where painting, reading, writing is ideal. I have missed these days, although I have spent two months away from school, I guess all I really needed was to first feel frazzled and hassled with work before I could truly appreciate a day such as this one.

photosource: http://www.flickr.com/photos/fantheflame/4687223522/

Schools are filled with the ghost of every student who was there before you.

All of a sudden I am five years old again, sitting on a carpeted floor with other five year olds who are just like me. Five year olds whose mums braid their hair in the morning, five year olds who don't eat their vegetables, five year olds who have scabby knees and fat fingers.
We are all five years old.

In front of us, sitting on a big chair to show that she is in charge, even though she is quite small, is the teacher we have come to love. Her red hair flares out, away from her face, and her nose is dusted with freckles. She is the one we go to for cuddles and pats on the back, when our friend has stolen our favourite crayon. She is the one who sits beside us, slowly teaching us to count the coloured bears in front of us so we can go home and enthusiastically show our parents that we know our numbers up to one hundred.

Every so often, she would show us something new. Last week she introduced a puppet that was exactly the same as the one I had inherited from my grandfather, one I never really appreciated because it was wooden and old-fashioned. Today, she has graced us with a book. She pulls it out and begins to turn the pages as a story unfolds and plays before our eyes.

It's about a caterpillar who doesn't stop eating, and such a simple story brings such delight to our little minds. Enough delight to last 12 years to today. Enough delight to be called my favourite childhood story.

Enough delight to look for it in every bookstore I walk into and be five years old again.

No one has to know.

No one has to know. In fact, I'd prefer it if no one did know. This, the both of us, here, this is our little secret. Just one bottle of wine too many, just one lonely night too many, just one asshole, ex-boyfriend too many. There has always been something about girls that interest me, the curve of their waist, the smooth skin, the long lashes and crafted lips. Everything I already possess, but have never held in my arms at night. Try everything once, I say. And it's not like one night will make much of a difference. Tonight, I can be the one running my hands over long locks for a change, I can drape my fingertips on powdery skin, I can breathe in the scent of a woman. And tomorrow, I can wake to find my bed empty, but the trace of your perfume still lingering on my pillowcase, possibly a silver bracelet you forgot on my coffee table and a few strands of golden hair that have fallen to my floor.