ANTISOCIAL
BY BRIAN
MOSETI
Weed does not
make one antisocial. It makes one selective. Its ties are far much stronger
than the chain of smokers. It is smoked in a chain, the joint always to the
left. Puff, puff, pass. You don’t jump the next man in line, the next man does
not refuse the toke.
There is nothing
the smoker wants more than to be left alone. With his pink bubbles. Society
assumes you do not want them around you. They do not understand the level at
which your thoughts are flowing could never match yours. Different dimensions
of thought. They do not understand the monotony or boredom of a drug, and its
impulses.
Weed loves
monotony. It loves boredom. A type that can be achieved by doing the same thing
over and over. Or the kind of boredom that drives men to try counting the
pebbles on a beach. Enjoyably.
The Rasta guy
who sits outside the veranda on your way to Hema is always stoned. Hourly
intervals between tokes you see. “Yessayah!” Fist bump! He has a very
cute wife and an even cuter son, about four. The whole family had dreadlocks.
He makes ornaments; necklaces, earrings, bangles… He is one of the familiar
faces. A face I know I will meet tomorrow, here.
The smoker seeks
smokers. Those smokers who know the savored sweetness of a dying joint and
burnt fingers. Where conversations range from inverted logic to lopsided
philosophy. The stars seem nearer, the oceans less deep, the colors more vivid.
You can clearly count your heartbeat in your ears. The impossible becomes
theoretically possible. Except for people. The nonsmokers judge, point fingers
and fear. Always. Maybe it’s the paranoia setting in.
Often, one is
forced to justify.
When M had not
really started smoking, he attended a funeral vigil and got stoned. Margret,
the old Catholic widow who was known to and knew everyone in the village had
died. M sat around the vigil fire reminiscing about the little hells the little
old woman had made them go through in Sunday school. M and his friends sneaked
off behind the banana plantation. After the third joint amongst the four of
them, M wanted to eat raw sweet bananas. His friends had to drag him away with
him baying at the top of his voice for the bananas. The light from the fire had
made the sweet bananas seem ripe. So you see why sometimes it can be called
antisocial.
ENDS
@Mossetti
(photo credit - Internet)
