I Love You, I hate you.

I smoked my first spliff at fifteen. I remember laughing like a hyena for hours — the feeling was utterly euphoric, like a door had been opened, revealing a paradise of pleasure, all concerns dissipated, left in a state of warmth, sounds and colours enhanced. It was fun. From that moment, smoking pot turned into one of my favourite hobbies. It was all I could think about.

One could say it makes you creative, which it can; things that aren’t obvious in a state of sobriety become unlocked. Ideas and dreams are shown and brought to the forefront of the mind. Realisations, moments of clarity, anxieties are given the answers to. On the contrary, the reverse can happen, paranoia, brain fog and procrastination can take hold, slowly eating away until one is left in a funk of confusion.

It has shown me a new world of music — glitches, waves, beats, bass — hidden noises accessed, a song’s body uncovered, not seen in the sober realm, keys handed over, so many doors to unlock. Calmness, cohesion, connection come with a few tokes, if I could leave it there, then I’d be the happiest man alive.

Expulsion, scholar turned vampire, faded dreams, start, stop, unfinished, start, stop, unfinished, round and round we go, on the merry-go-round to nowhere, wake up, wake up, turn back, I want to go back in the box.        

It has brought me joy, but it has also torn me apart, a tale of two halves, it has given, taken, shown me the light and shown me the darkness, I’ve put it down on many occasion, but it always creeps back in like an ex-lover who you can’t say goodbye to, like Jekyll and Hyde, you’re not as innocent as you seem with your highs and your lows, I love you, I hate you.