Saturday, March 7, 2009

Just This Once

The room was dark. And quiet. It smelt of raw plywood and rotting wood polish. A damp woody smell. Perfect, thought Mike. He walked towards the window sill, his sneakers making a soft muffled sound as they passed over the wood shavings scattered on the floor. He stopped. The window sill. Perfect. the weather was cloudy. A soft drizzle followed as he stood there, watching. Darkening the sky even more. Perfect. He sat on the window sill, one leg up resting his elbow on it. Slid a window open. Fresh air greeted him. Maybe for the last time, he mused. The drizzle turned into a downpour. People, children, dogs scattered for shelter. Perfect, thought mike. To be safe inside a man made structure but still feel the iron grip of nature on yourself. And to do something so unethical that even nature would be upset. He smiled. And took out his smoke. Lit it. Rested his head on the wall, closed his eyes, letting it burn idly. I am not sad, or depressed or in any trouble. Neither am I under any peer pressure, he thought bluntly. I am just doing it to try it out. Just once. Just this once. He looked at his Marlboro light. It was halfway through. Hell I think too much. He took a drag. A small one. His throat grew hot, his chest burnt and what followed was a series of coughs. Violent ones. Uncontrollable ones. His eyes watered. What pleasure do people derive from doing this, he thought. It was nearly over. He put it in his mouth, and inhaled slowly. This time there were no desperate coughs. No burning lungs. A floating sensation. A mind devoid of thought. Clarity to the maximum. His heartbeat went up as blood rushed to his brain. And then it slowed down. Easing it of all pain. Of the confusion. He thought the smoke would cloud his thoughts and retard his thinking capabilities. On the contrary, he had never been so clear. Or confident. He opened his eyes. The feeling started fading and he could already feel himself reaching out for a second. But he stopped himself. And smiled. Is this what they called being high? Is this what people wasted their lives on? Someone had told him that meditation gave one the same feeling after years of practice. What a quick way this was. But he promised himself he wouldn’t get addicted. Addicted? And me? Definitely not, he thought. He could feel beads of sweat forming on his forehead as he struggled to fight off the urge. His body swayed and his mind raged a battle against his so called ethics. Maybe I just need another one to calm myself down, just this once. Just this once.

**(this article does not in any way promote smoking or any related activities. I have tried to show it in a bad light, how it becomes addictive. Also the character is purely fictitious. Any resemblance to any person living or dead is highly coincidental.)