Wafting Introspection

There is a certain type of peace to be found at night, when one is outdoors with only the sounds of nature. While everyone else sleeps, recharging their bodies and minds for the coming day, I sit and try to find this peace, and I contemplate how the world all fits together. On such a night as described, I find myself initiating the familiar steps of my ritual. My steps are few and the work is easy, but I follow them to the letter. There is something ceremonious about doing a thing that one does often, exactly in the way that one always does it. My mother makes her coffee the same way, in the same order, every morning. I suppose these constants in life bring us comfort. 

The whole process really began some time ago, when a seed was fertilized in the womb of the earth. Its tendrils broke free, some snaking downward in search of nutrition, another straining upwards to glimpse the light of life. The warm rays of the sun imbued energy into this plant, and the moist soil beneath powered its growth. Eventually, it brought forth blooming, pungent flowers, and these flowers are now in my possession. My work begins by grinding them finely, but not before I take time to examine them. They truly are beautiful flowers, with their dark hues of green, sometimes flecked with purple, others with orange. The trichomes shine like a morning dew upon the grass. The resulting fluffy ground matter sticks to my fingers as I guide it carefully into its receptacle. This is where the process can undergo alterations. Whether the herb is cylindrically embraced in a combustible sheet, or fitted snugly into a glass percolator, the goal and results are inevitably the same.

Now is when the ritual truly begins, everything preceding being mere preparation. A flame is needed, any match or lighter will do, and it all takes place outside. This is imperative, the endless height of the atmosphere is necessary. I don’t enjoy the feeling of inhaling anything but pure air from said atmosphere, and I hold no delusions that anything but is healthy. Yet as the smoke passes my lips, I find myself breathing in deeply. I expel the cloud outwards and upwards. It wafts away into the night sky, and I close my eyes.

I hear the faint laughter of others, neighbors out enjoying this night as well. I hear the crush of aluminum cans, the clink of glass bottles. They too are altering their consciousness. The only difference is that I am a criminal, and I am committing a criminal act. There is an illogical hypocrisy surrounding my culture’s use of consciousness altering substances. Historically and factually, I understand how our situation has reached this point, but it is by no means right or fair. We maintain certain contradictions that we just can’t seem to come to terms with as unreasonable, as so they remain and they fester. This giggling, loosening, muddling elixir is just what you need. You deserve it, in fact. This herb, however, well this herb is only for the immoral. Reserved for the delinquents. For the streets.

Ah, now I realize the flame has gone out. Not to worry, fire is plentiful, it’s the plant matter that is to be conserved. As the feelings set in, my eyes move from one star in the sky to the next, individually. The chirping sounds of frogs and insects become an ambient symphony to my ears, and I take another draw.

Who am I kidding, really? By no means am I oppressed for doing this, the others simply view it differently, through a separate generational lens. I suppose the problem is that I am meant to respect these people, and to look to them for encouragement, and for validation. This is where my anxieties stem from, the disconnect that I find impossible to ignore. I don’t like the word “vice”, either. I choose to do this. If there is a mode of existence in which the battle of life is fought empty handed, I have yet to discover it. Perhaps that mode is attained by those who, in fact, do not see life as a battle, but instead as a dance. We are bound to take wrong steps. We may even tread on another’s toes or have our own stepped upon, and the dance resumes. But what happens when a sword comes out and someone is stabbed? Can the dance ever resume? The blood is all over the floor, everyone seems to be stepping in it. What if someone slips? Someone is bound to slip. I sometimes feel the sting of that sword on my own skin, and I don’t even know who is wielding it. The hilt could be in my own hand. Perhaps it’s not a dance, but a forward march. Should we all stand in line, in step with whoever is ahead and behind us? Whatever the case is, I don’t feel like dancing, marching, or fighting, so I take another hit.

The taste is of burnt sweetness; the texture thick on my tongue. Water is always to be kept at hand during the process. I reach for it and take a long sip. This is a step of the ritual rarely forgotten. Water is life, not fire. Though, this fire can project dazzling light over the surface of the pond.

At this point, I feel as though I’m being too bitter. Perhaps this conflict in my mind is just so: all in my mind. Perhaps no one even cares enough for it to matter. But, what a happy ending that would be. I fear many of us care too much, myself included, and that we all must pick a side. And yet it isn’t about sides, is it? It can’t be that black and white, can it? Sometimes I wish it was, but that would be too simple. There is nothing simple about this life, we can’t even decide on the rules. How can we, when we have to make them ourselves? Who has the loudest voice, or the biggest stick? God would be a great help, if only he would make use of himself. I wish he would take control. Perhaps he has. I think these thoughts to myself as I take another hit, and I open my eyes to begin to look around at my surroundings.

I have shelter. There are rooms inside this shelter filled with food and clean water. This is more than what many other have prayed for. What reason have I ever had to feel unhappy? I look away from my house, and gaze back out towards the woods. I wonder about the insects and the frogs that provide the soundscape. Do they feel? Do they feel anything without the burden of conscious self-awareness?

Alas, now the flame has gone out for the last time. Only ash remains, and the night is solely illuminated by the moon. I bury the ash, so the cycle of natural growth may continue. And then, I go to bed, since my own cycle of natural growth must continue as well. This is when I realize, I’ve been worrying about nothing. Because nothing makes sense, and now, that makes all the sense in the world. With everything to worry about, there is simply no worry. When faced with such simplicity, how could we not make things complicated? This is where the comfort lies. I hope these introspections shed light into any sort of unilluminated place. But for now, my ritual has ended. Until I wake again tomorrow.