After the high, the comedown. A type of slow, dragging slothfulness - not quite fatigue, although that is there, too. And not the mental confusion like after I ran into that stone post with my head. No - this is more subtle. My muscles, arms, hands are slower - I make more typing mistakes, and have to press the backspace button many more times than usual. I sigh, and it feels wierd. As if I'm not getting enough air. I try again this time, breathing in more air - but it still feels as if I'm at the threshold of getting enough air that I feel good. The memories of last night are a jumble in my mind: making the gravity-bong --skip-- getting high from a mere 1/4 of a GRAM - that is, one bowl --skip-- ravenously wolfing down the salad --skip-- paranoia sets in as the neighbours walk by, and one of my friends yells: "Hey, they have a baby! Hehehehehehe!" --skip-- not much after that. I remember sleeping on the trampoline, then not getting to sleep at all and going inside to sleep. There it finally overtook me. Now - I'm still tired, and I tried to get to sleep for the last 30 minutes. No go. Too tired. I remember thinking yesterday that if I smoked enough ganja, I could make a monologue like the one Johnny Depp recited in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. A swamp, and I'm trudging through it. Time is somewhat distorted, but not as much as the day after nutmeg. Wow, was that something. Anyway, time is pretty distorted, although now less so, now that I've eaten. Fatigue of the mind, that was what they called it. Like thousands of giant bats swooping down on the car and a voice screaming: "Holy shit! What are these goddamn animals?" Woops, was that Hunter S. Thompson? I would never have gotten this idea had I not smoked weed yesterday. It's like - now I'm getting slightly ominous images, but no bad vibes - it's like the effects of marijuana are like big, green tendrils - they rip and suck all the creative force out of your subconcious, bringing it all flooding into your concious mind in a glorious stream of information and colors and sounds and warm, prickly feelings you get when your leg falls asleep, and then all of that creative energy dissipates, because unfortunately, you are too goddamn high and laughing and at the same time angry at your friend who got drunk, evne though you(I? Me?) explicitly said no alcohol, to do anything - to write down that creative energy, put it all forth into the deep, black ink swirling down from that nice pen you have onto the paper, yes, too high and laughing too much to do anything about it. Because of that, you have to scrape up the residue, those little colorful balls of colored light on the sides of your head, like resin in a pipe or bong, you have to scrape up all that residue and focus it, driving away the fatigue of the mind and of the body, the wierd time distortion, the white-faced violin player, and you have to focus that energy and put it all forth into something. Because I would have never thought to write this had I not been under the influence of marijuana yesterday. Goodbye, and goodnight. I have to go watch my younger brother. :dupe:
