Dancing With Fire

- Poetry -

Getting home in the evening, I began to think that I needed less excitement in my life. Power Maya had begun to fade and I found myself at home, exhausted again. I flicked on the lights, threw my bag off my shoulder, and sank into my plush, forest green sofa. I looked around my simple unit. Along with the timber floorboards, I tried to keep it as organic as possible, sticking to earthy colours from my hardwood work desk to the sandstone paint on the walls. Large potted plants covered one side of the room in a varied green wall. It calmed me down and was easy on the eyes, giving me the illusion of being closer to the outdoors than I actually was. The day had been good, but the weight of it still bogged me down, and I knew just the thing that would make it all better.

Shrugging off my jacket, I put the kettle on and prepared a mug with some peppermint tea. I turned off the overhead lights and left on the standing lamps in my bedroom. Peeling off my socks, I snuggled my feet into my doona to warm up and reached into the nightstand drawer. After feeling around underneath a small folded silk scarf, my fingers closed around their mark and pulled out a shiny rectangular tin. I popped it open and was greeted with a beautiful bud. I could have a little smoke, drink some tea, and put on some trashy TV while I drifted off to sleep. I lit some sandalwood incense to set the mood and keep the air from getting too dank.

I rolled a quick spliff and lit it, reclining in bed and inhaling deeply. My eyelids drifted close and the smell of the smoke from the joint and the incense melded together in a sickly sweet herbal mix. A few puffs in I was feeling pretty mellow, but my mouth was getting dry and I had a deep hankering for curry. The elevated state of my mind wrapped me in a comfortable cloud and I couldn't be assed to cook. The only logical explanation at this point was to order in. I set down the spliff in an ashtray and rummaged through my bag for my phone but couldn't find it. I second guessed myself on whether or not I'd actually looked, so I searched again. A couple of failed attempts later I realised I couldn't find my wallet in there either. Was it the weed, or was I going mad? Mild, momentary panic hit me as I rushed around turning the pockets of my jacket inside out and emptying my bag messily onto the floor, before I mentally retraced my steps and my brain caught up to the fact that I had left them at the office.

Right. That wasn't so hard. Just had to go and get them. I hadn't been high outside of the comfort of my own home for a while, and I didn't want to get all weird. But if I walked, I could air myself out a bit enough to take the bus back home. I absently stuffed my keys and the half smoked spliff in my pocket and headed out.

The weather was mild and the walk was leisurely. The stars seemed to be twinkling just for me, and a breeze played with the loose bun I tossed my hair into. After what felt like a month later, I arrived at the office. I swiped my keycard at the entrance and crept in. The entire studio was dark, save for a single light that was on at one of the stations near my desk, indicating that someone was still there. I didn't want to act too strange so I straightened my back and tried to remember how sober people walked, and sauntered with stiff limbs and false confidence over to my desk. It was Imran. Ah, shit. Should I leave? Or no, there was no reason to. We've been good lately, I didn't need to be so formal around him. But I'm hiiiigh. This might not be a good idea.

I turned to go, then turned back to him, before doubling back on myself again, then changing my mind a second time. In all the commotion I was causing for myself, he looked up from his work and was surprised to discover me pivoting awkwardly in place at my station.

"Hey! What are you doing here so late?" He asked, turning over in his chair. His tablet was on full brightness, books scattered across his desk. He was one to talk. What was he doing here so late? I tried to control my voice and expressions when replying, avoiding eye contact in case my eyes were as bloodshot as they felt.