DAYLIGHT FADING

twenty two | to mix a gin and sink into oblivion

                 | twenty two: to mix a gin and sink into oblivion |

                                                        or

                       | we used to vacation: cold war kids |

As Matt promises, I don’t dream for a month.

What used to be regular cigarettes interspersed with the odd spliff has gone rapidly downhill. I’m not even sure I smoke regular cigarettes anymore, nicotine no longer giving me anything close to the soothing waves that roll over me when I’m under the influence of a joint.

The papers have gone mad and there’s a part of me that adores it. No one understands how a pop star could have played that cover of Magic – which went viral on the internet days after Justin posted it – and suddenly be seen everywhere with a cigarette in hand.

There are rumours about the pot because I spend so much time with Matt and it seems everyone now knows that Matt’s diversified from regular cigarettes. I hope Adam reads the articles and I hope he knows that it’s all his fault.

Whenever I ring Jez, she’ll speak a few sentences to me before hanging up, telling me she won’t talk to me when I’m high. Gigi refused to tattoo me last week and Cam constantly texts me to tell me I’m throwing my life away.

They don’t understand. They haven’t been in my head so they can’t know the way the guilt seems to cripple me.

I don’t remember things as well with marijuana but that date is imprinted in my marrow. There are times when I can’t believe it’s been eight months, that it can have been that short. It seems as though I have been living in the same hell for all eternity.

Jez and Gigi and Cam all have their own demons but they do not have mine. They have not lived my life but they still think they have the right to judge me regardless. They don’t know what it’s like to live with two ghosts over your shoulder and so many dreams of what might have been.

I’ve largely been obsolete in the studio, playing what’s required of me before sitting in the small garden in the back with Matt.

We’re trying to counteract the inevitable bad we are doing with marijuana smoke by planting some brightly coloured flowers. Apparently, he has a hidden green thumb because his are growing far better than mine.

There are times when I’ll sit in the kitchen and talk to Dylan or try another of Justin’s weird tea flavours. I’ve barely spoken to Declan – I don’t think he likes me. He just glares, brooding on his drum stool, whenever I appear. I think he automatically labels anyone who touches a drug as bad which is pretty rich from a guy who I was introduced to through his pinning Dylan to a wall.

I bite off a curse word as a rose thorn slices at my finger. They’re constantly covered in little tiny cuts now but I’ve found that roses are my friends. I don’t feel rewarded by growing hardy plants that grow no matter what you put them through but there are too many flowers that die as a result of my overzealous gardening which is usually brought on by boredom.

The roses, however, seem to thrive off the attention. The cuts from their thorns warn me when I go too far and I can kneel down to smell them when the heady smoke from my joint is not that appealing.

The petals feel like velvet, even against the solid callouses on my fingers. The hard, heavy pads mean that I rarely get to appreciate textures – they’re all dulled, stunted feelings through the thick skin there.