Hot Box Tree House

I’ve hidden myself away in a plume of smoke, deep in the crevasse of quantum mechanics. The void in between choice and not. Action and inaction. Behind a shrubbery at the fork in the road. My shell—this burning bush of a womb, I’ve hotboxed myself into a treehouse above my own decisions.

I considered this coma-like hiatus on my indecisions a home. This slumbering wide-eyed boy grew a beard out the window of his skyline apartment. High—not quite Godhead—but breathtakingly close. We called it majesty. Floating in the unknown. Mystery without fear.

On the ocean, adrift. No rudder. No sail. An ark with faith—we were on track. Open minds with open hearts. Bobbing on through the lives of love and glorious smoke; toking off to cloud 9 and then 10. Why stop there, best believe we cranked that shit all the way to 11.

Our eyes dilated—we knew and communed with ghosts. We witnessed geometry of life echoing and shattering, becoming whole so viciously. Similar to that of noticing the cigarette burns on an old film at the theater. Or like hyper-sensitivity in your eyes and noticing what no one else does in a fluorescent-lit room. Rave like strobe effects. The anxiety flickers as frequently as the lightbulbs.

I noticed a veil to existence. The speed at which the universe actually moves—and it is much slower than we all hoped for. The reason we still smoke cigarettes on top of the weed.

Maybe the cancer will catch us while we are floating on this ocean in the clouds in an ark built by me next to this reefer stench stained bush at the crossroads of action and immediate consequence in my head before I ever have to actually go anywhere, but hey—that’s just wishful thinking.

You see, we find me in the place I never left. Handing out advice to those who intrude my personal space. Here—

Alone, yet ever bothered by those bumbling around me trying to find their way on this long game we called life.

I have become the hermit. Hidden—and giggling still about the burning bush line. I’ve become an old soul in my solitude. To the untrained eye they see a rock. Stoned, left in peace behind a stinky shrub, I sit and ponder my fate, hidden in the quantum mechanics of —God Damn It—