“We made the whole earth a couch for you,
And the mountains its tent stakes.
We created you of two sexes,
And ordained your sleep for rest”.
– Sura LXXVIII.
Pleasure, which obliterated its own history by surgically altering its face and coming up with new revelations each century, is the hero or ‘heroin’ (purposely misspelt) of this story.
I, the person writing this blog post, is definitely ‘not’ the I who’s telling you the story; rather the ‘I’ who’s being told, thinking of the first time I saw someone light the lamp and open the window to the moon because when the day starts, the entire fantasy vanishes into thin air. These are night-time tales, tales that vanish in sunlight like vampire dust, tales that vividly describe the ‘I’ narrating this story.
I’ll have to stop, wait now – light me up so we do this right, hold me steady to the lamp and hold it good, a slow pull to start with, to draw the smoke into the lungs and another for my nostrils; and now that we tend to delve into the fantasy further and get into the who of it, let me tell you that the ‘I’ you’re imagining this moment, a pondering someone who is giving herself away to the love for words, who is arranging time in a chronological sequence, someone with an overall plan, a cliched engineer in the machine elucidating her affairs with ‘I’.
Have you ever trawled through the silver lining down your cerebrum, thinking of your first day at high school, or the last time you met someone, or the first time you had a vodka shot, or the last time you stammered on stage. Trying to remember what it was like, the past, as I recall it, is a landscape of dizzy smoke in the air.
Wait, oh wait – light me up again. Let the bliss that allows calm to settle on the spirit take over your. Does it sink in? Does it render velocity manageable? Yes, lovely!
Somewhere down the alley, someone said, “Do I take a single continuous drag, or pull deep and keep pulling until I stop and the ‘I’ burns me and I can do nothing with it but throw it away?”.
I’m turning in my head, inhaling, sailing the opiate sea, viewing the raucous procession behind my closed eyelids; sometimes, a voice inside me breaks my reverie, my own voice talking to someone who isn’t there, because you’re alone, on your back.
I’ve tried to comprehend, to separate one from the other, to sift pleasure from passion; but I’m not separating, rather connecting. I’m giving in to the lovely stories. I’m lighting the bowl, one for me and one for me, I’m tasting it one last time, savouring the color and the bouquet, the nose of it, yes – like that, so good, and then I’m stopping, because it’s time now to subside into silence and let the other I speak.
Meet Me. Opium!