Forbidden Fruit

That smell. Musty, like an old basement, inhabited by a skunk. Still, I lifted the cold, glass pipe to my lips and inhaled. Quickly pushing my chest to capacity, It seemed that Smaug had blown fire down my throat. I hacked and coughed. “ Why would anyone do this?” I thought as the smoke seemed to pour from me like water over the falls. By the time I caught my breath, I was fully submerged in that state of mind that single handedly supports Frito Lay, Taco Bell, and every distributor of gummy candy. My understanding had always been that people would typically “zombie-fy” and melt to the couch. This was not my reaction. As the daze took me over, I noticed colors had transformed, shining brighter and more vibrant. Colors taking on purpose; red becomes anger and aggression, but also passion and romantic love; blue becomes that special sorrow, that translates easiest to expression; yellow becomes an excited happiness and a drive for excellence.

I’m able to translate my thoughts to words without any hinderance or worry of judgement. As I tried to explain my revelations to my companion, who was stuck to the couch and losing each word. I realize I’m accessing parts of my imagination previously closed. Epiphany becomes expression. An impolite curiosity overwhelmed me, and I try to steer conversations to that uncomfortable, existential area. Every conversation brought out of quantum ignorance, thrown out by an off-hand reference to my favorite movie or book. Then, the world pops.

It affects my attention span.

At It’s best, It tastes like the first spoonful of Fruity Pebbles in the morning. On rare occasion, It tastes like flowers. I’d close my eyes and be transported to a field of lavenders, then open my eyes to a clouded environment. My mind would race far beyond myself, yet my feet are turned to stone. It’s scent pushed against my face like a bouquet of flowers. Don’t mistake It; these colorful buds don’t bloom.

It comes in all different colors; from blue to red to white. Often, the color stands in a hairlike cocoon, coating the vibrant green nugget. Tearing into the beautiful plant will leave me with sticky fingers, as if coated in sap. Perhaps, to coincide with the pungent evergreen smell which must be what the Great White North smells like in the most remote locations. In a refined state, It’s colors blend into a collage of dust among shredded green. It sparkles as if It had just been brought in from the morning dew. Using It’s own natural adhesive I’d roll my finger across the powdered plant, collecting as much as possible. Careful as can be, meaning to not lose a single piece of leaf, I would push the Christmas Tree crumbs into the round bowl of my dirty pipe. pick up my red lighter and rub my thumb across the gear. With a quick scratch, flame bursts forth.

Sublime; adjective: of such grandeur as to inspire awe; verb: elevation to a higher degree of spiritual purity. One word to sum It up. That tickle in your stomach when you see Mother start digging for the quarter in her purse, next to the smiley, mechanical train outside the grocery store, is the tickle I feel now. Slowly growing into an anxious rush, as if at the height of the tallest roller coaster. Exhale, I’d release a white plume of cloud, I was once again breathing fire. As the euphoric tickle rolled my stomach, my head swam with introspection.

I may let my hand wander to absorb the texture of the world around me. It often turns my skin ultrasensitive, feeling the molecules roll off my body. As I hold this pipe, which moments ago was smooth glass, I see is now ridged and filled with imperfections, almost invisible to the naked eye. Running my finger across the stem, I now notice little dings from having been dropped. It puts beauty into the pipe, making this paraphernalia something unique. Something crafted with hands like mine.

Woah, my hands.

Bulbous and oddly shaped. Fingertips now glinting with It’s crystalline residue. The green tint fades to a familiar pink at the crease of my thumb. A thumb that shoots straight up, perfect for hitchhiking. I notice my thumbs are asymmetric, with the other rising only half mass. I trace the lines of my palms, pausing over the sandpaper calluses. The tendons in the back of shift and dance as I type messages to peers, inquisitive of their experience. Tendons that spread from a miniscule wrist to dwarf-like knuckles.

Sublime; a reggae band from Long Beach, CA. All focus is driven out as spine shaking vibrations radiated from the speaker. All thought replaced by the translation of Bradley Nowell and his message of love. It had placed me in an analytical state. All too easily, I’d fall from Eric’s bass to Bud’s drums, and find a new meaning in every word. The sound pushed my body to and fro, hardly in time, hardly caring. It moved the music around me, through me. This is not the only sound in which I find myself enthralled. I melt into every conversation in the room, hanging on to each syllable as if I mean to translate the meaning of life from the dialogue around me.

It affects the short-term memory.

Some could argue that It has been putting me in a state of confusion. A dirty drug, and It has certainly acquired that association. At It’s worst, It smells like dirty laundry and ammonia. I would be lying if I said It has never hindered my thoughts. Stretching minutes to hours, and throwing me off balance. Alternative to the tickle, It makes me feel panicked and paranoid. Every noise beyond my home breaks a cold sweat. Someone coming to pervade my intimate experience. Someone coming to tell me It is wrong. It has broken my brain. I should have stayed away from It.

The growls and groans of Cerberus emanate from my stomach, and I realize my misery. With new found grace, I bound up the stairs and tear open the fridge. I am immediately overwhelmed by selection. The sweetest of treats seem to glow, while the fruits and vegetables cower in the shadows. It has thrown pacing out the window as I feast upon snack cakes and pizza rolls. With a full and swollen belly, the Ritual of Munch is complete.

The Ritual is not always so easy; however. I have been one to stare in an open fridge. Perhaps pickles...and...peanut butter? Unfuckingbelievable. The single greatest thing I’ve learned under It’s influence; (1) anything can be a sandwich, and (2) anything in sandwich form is better.