THE SMOKER’S ROOM.
BY BRIAN MOSETI
M’ window is always open to filter out the smoke, but it
hangs in the air, thick as fog in the dim jaundiced light from a bulb that
never goes off, except for blackouts. An ash stained carpet with stubs from
three weeks ago scattered all over the floor. The smell is thick, almost sweet
in cannabis tones. Unwashed dishes jut out of a on a sink, an arm’s length away
from the bed. It’s one room, a bed, a table and a rack, containing his dreams,
which are gathering fast gathering dust. His guests, the spiders have made
themselves at home feasting on the cockroaches and mosquitoes.
M sits on the bed, newspaper on his lap, fingers deftly
rolling a joint, eyes in stupor concentration. Evening strides in in halos
through holes in the curtain, “oh, its evening again,” the smoker says without
realizing what day it is. But M is a man in a haze, whose mind is bewildered up
by the passage of time measured through high moments. He sees it all in
isolation, through a solitude fraught with empty dreams and a room that he
hasn’t left for a week. M thinks, he will clean after the toke, then go out
tomorrow and look for work.
After his smoke, M lies on the bed, serenely blowing out
smoke rings. In the background, from under the bed, a bass speaker haltingly
pulses out a reggae song. M shuts his eyes, the music plays on, M can’t get up
to clean his room, maybe tomorrow.
ENDS
@Mossetti
