Three Puffs Later

Reality blurred. A bombarding rattle awoke in my chest and the idea of leaving seemed more desirable than any dream I had ever wanted. What I wanted was out. I didn’t know half of these people. Half of these people didn’t know me. Chances were that general position wouldn’t change. So why the hell was I here? I was too introspective to be social, too weird in my own frenzied stream of consciousness to give an opinion worth hearing. Confidence was declining by the seconds; my mind was a slippery slope and I had sweaty palms to prove it. A galloping heart beat, too.

My departure was coming. That much was evident; for, I was succumbed to investigate the inner lives of those around me. This became obsessive. And I could not stop. No. I was not the pilot of my thoughts. I was a passenger on a plummeting plane with a perforated engine, gripping at the seat for my dear life, praying to God and the angels I would survive the crash and not perish in flames. The realization was clear each time: weed was not my drug.

I didn’t understand the unfazed expressions, the placid facade of being ‘hip’. The nonchalant proverbial spews of conversation. The exchange of status and inflating egos. It was a foreign concept, an unknown language, garbled scribbling spoken aloud. If psychoanalysis serves me correct, one could argue that I was a depersonalized Holden Caulfield. And God I hated it. Goddam, I fucking hated it. Hated myself for being there, hated those people for being there, hated the weed for revealing my profound insecurities to these strangers who couldn’t give a damn of what I thought was valuable in this world…. The insecurities I had so desperately tried to bury, all splayed out on my pale face.

The strangers felt like molds of ashy clay. Ashy clay that was crafted into statues of what a person should be, how a person should speak. Each one of them felt like a blank painting, clinging to its wooden frame—an empty slate using its frame for purpose. Their bodies served as a vessel, polarizing the nothingness that steamed inside. I hated it all. But I couldn’t move. Couldn’t find the strength to depart. Couldn’t allow the words ‘I’m leaving’ to flow from my mouth. I was like the tin man from the Wizard of Oz, except all the oil in the world wouldn’t loosen my clenched jaws. I was paralyzed with blight, almost queasy. I found myself feigning weak laughter, saying the words ‘Yeah’ ‘Totally’ and ‘You’re right’. It wasn’t merely teenage angst. It was perpetual fear. I was malformed into a social alien. Reality blurred.