I'm generally an honest person. And because I strive to be generally honest and non-hypocritical, I tend to be naive about honesty and the rest of the world, and expect people to be honest with me. And when I toke, that honesty is compounded abstractly... in other words, it doesn't really make sense unless you're open to the kind of deep honesty I'm presenting, or you're a little baked yourself.
Yes, this is a stoner journal.
Every single time I smoke with someone, I have epiphanies about myself. And if I'm smoking with the right person, I can't stop talking. For example, my favorite smoke buddy lives in town with me. (4/20's too close, I'm not going to quit smoking until after that date.) Every time we smoke, I end up being the one with a lot to say and so little time to say it. I have brilliant ideas that I wish I could muster the effort to write down, or at least carry a tape recorder with me so I can record them. Half of what I say I'm sure makes absolutely no sense, but the other half might revolutionize the way we think. If only I could remember it!
For instance, the most recent time we smoked together, I was able to relate to her how I felt about one of my most favorite Thursday songs, Autobiography of a Nation. If you listen intently to the introductory melody, it sounds relatively soft and tame, and there's not much danger inherent within it. But then the vocals kick in and you're left with a kind of fearful feeling, like the split second of fear you feel when skydiving and pulling the cord to open your parachute and your subconscious asks, "What if this doesn't work?" And that's just when the vocals kick in. You haven't even gotten to the part of listening where you begin to interpret the lyrics themselves.
That song has always filled me with a sense of fear and anger. The anger was incredibly heavy when I was in the military, because for once I felt as if the song was speaking directly to me, and that I should be ashamed of my actions. And I was ashamed, for the longest time, especially after I was kicked out. I wasn't ashamed that I was kicked out, or that I had gotten in trouble, or even that I had spent so much time there and had nothing to show for it. I was ashamed because I had willingly devoted my self and nearly two years of my life to such a flawed system in the name of 'free schooling' and 'world travel.' I have come to realize that I have never stopped feeling that shame, which helps to explain why I hate this country so much. I hate my country because I hate myself. But it's a different kind of self hate. Less superficial self-loathing, and more deep down, committed hate... the kind you relate to an abusive father or something of which you have a phobia.
But when I'm stoned, I don't feel that shame. When I'm stoned, I can feel like I'm myself, but free of the inherited shame of being former military, of being a former 'defender' (READ: bully). It's why I open up more when I smoke. It's why I can talk more freely; I don't feel like every word coming out of my mouth (in its mumbled, jumbled stuttering) is worth less than dirt-covered shit. Hell, I don't care what the words are worth, I just say them because I feel like saying them. I get the same sort of feeling from being an online persona, but even that fails sometimes because I strive to be honest and be as much like my IRL self as I can stand to be.
I don't honestly remember where I was planning to go with this. It had something to do with fantasizing at some point, and friends, and fantasizing about friends, but because I'm sober as I write this, I can't bring myself to name names. So I'll just stop there and save myself further embarrassment, shame, and hate...
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