His collar was upturned at the corner, and he turned towards the sunrise over the shadows of buildings and forgotten grounds seen from the balcony, the smoke escaping through his slightly open mouth. HIs hair looked like he got out of bed, goofy though, not Mills and Boons style or anything.
As he spoke about how the scars of our society crumble every shade of utopian idea of humanity, I flew. We spoke one language – the stories of dreamers, and maybe naive beliefs of the ‘humane’ side of our nature. Even knowing that the situation may indeed be hopelessly bigger than us – we stuck on. Mainly also because we were high. Yeah, that could be it. It didn’t matter. What people thought didn’t matter. If I got branded, it didn’t matter. Weed gave me hope. It gave me hope for life. For something bigger than my own life and more about the meaning of the large-sized word ‘life.’
It also made me forget the world though, which was peaceful. More peaceful than anything my normal self would allow. I am not a calm person. I am never calm; always nervous, fidgety, worrying too much about things that everyone say matters and also doesn’t matter. I am a tired person, who doesn’t get past her own self-critical doubts to address others. I am someone who is badly bruised, and only wishes to lick her wounds with love for the rest of her life. So basically, I am a little insignificant in terms of the world.
When I am high though, I find that love that I need to heal, and I find it within myself. It is that rare moment when my self love is enough to boost my pride and confidence. I am solid. I exist and I take my irreplaceable place in this world. All of this, because for a few hours, my mind is quiet. Not empty, but quiet. And the peace is like a river, bringing with it all that positivity that I keep blocked out like a dam. Of course, this is always mixed in with a tinge of detachment. It wouldn’t be possible otherwise.
That detachment is opaque, floating in and out. I watch the love scenes from Vampire Diaries – the intensity that we dreamed of as starry eyed 16 year-olds. I see a friend talking about her love with confidence, and even more so enchanting are her stories of lust – of equal balance between the two – and I wonder. I see my own sister, living my starry-eyed dream – the same age I used to be. And those moments, they pierce through my cover. They pinch like a reminder to wake me up from my dream and understand that such love may always be a fantasy for me. Because love involves two people, and it seems, so does dreaming.
I turn to him, still talking to me while I had apparently nodded at the appropriate times, and I smile. This boy I could dream with occasionally; when I need a dose. Before I go back to the love of my life – carrying the hope that someday things will be different. We will find that bruise and look it in the eye – with the courage to face it together.
-the positivity of black