give me a city to roam, and a hand to hold.
Beers, indie rock songs, cheap motels and rebellious decisions inside the back of a dark green Volkswagen: You have lived years of your life with high spirits and tears and broken memories. With the agony...
CHAPTER SEVEN where the land meets the sea, and the sea meets the sky.
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There's different types of people when they get high. There's those who ask the hardest questions no one knows the answer to and there are those who ask the dumbest questions. There's also those who just sit there, and contemplate about everything in their lives and just chill there, sinking far into the mind's deepest thoughts. In this case, Jackson is the dumb type. I don't mean that in an offensive way but his brain literally disappears when he's high.
Here, the three of us sit in this green car, just in front of the small and cheap motel passing rolls of weed that my best friend has gotten on his late night drive. There's different types of weed. There's Sativa and Indica. Sativa for the mind and Indica for the body. My personal favorite was Sativa. Mainly, because it's stimulates the cerebral which helps with focus, creativity, fighting depression and it's also uplifting. Weed, according to parents who want to raise good kids or to anybody who's against it, is known as the devils lettuce. Yes, it's a drug that affects the brain but not exactly in a bad way. It's a way to go into the state of euphoria. While weed helps make you feel good and is illegal, there's cigarettes that's not illegal and kills you. Makes sense, right?
There's that song lyric that I like coming from one of my favorite bands, The 1975: "I'm sorry but I'd rather be getting high than watching my family die."
I sit in the passenger seat, exhaling the smoke out into the air. I turn over to Jackson who is smiling stupidly towards the front window. Then, I turn to Lauren who is staring at the ceiling of the car. She didn't seem that high, but I guess it was none of my business of how many hits she took. Me, on the other hand, I already lost track of how many hits I've taken and I'm guessing Jackson has too.
"Hey, (Y/N/N)." I hear Jackson say, "Words. Spill."
I could already feeling Lauren's confusing gaze on Jackson. Words. Spill. It was a way of him telling me to speak my words. My poems to be exact. They weren't anything special. They were just a set of words hidden inside my mind that paper can't handle.
"Which one?" I ask.
"What does that mean?" A husky voice spoke behind us.
"(Y/N) is quite poetic, you know?" Jackson smiles, "A little soothing to hear and something good to think about. Besides, I'm pretty sure she has something in that pretty little head of hers. And it's your first time hearing a poem written by her so, yay."
From the mirror attached to the ceiling of the car, I could see Lauren turn her head to listen to me. I sighed nervously as I turned my head towards my best friend who was playing with his aviators resting on his lap. Looking over to the hood of the car, the headlights shone bravely out into the night only to be swallowed by the pressing darkness.
"My favorite one." I hear Jackson confirm.
"Uh, that one is nothing special. All my poems are just free-verses so none of them are that special—"
