An Address to a Joint

That one joint. Neatly rolled marijuana bought in a small plastic bag from a kiosk by the road, or a friend who knows those freelancers, hidden in the printed paper torn from an old magazine which contains pictures of bollywood stars and shampoo ads, smoked on a thursday night after going through multiple fucks - missing the alarm once again, abusing those show-offs with six packs who rule the gym in which you workout thrice a week, having a rough day at the office with your crush giving you an indifferent look, deleting yourself from one more whatsapp group your second cousin just added you in as you come back to your rented flat, patting yourself at the back as you realize that you have managed to avoid a bitchy reply on that facebook post by your high school girlfriend.

You pluck the buds sincerely without causing any harm to the flower, all this while enjoying the slight aroma; grind them and mix them with those dry leaves of cannabis obtained straight from Eden, on the crisp sheet. Neatly folding it, avoiding any bending or tearing, slightly pressing the edges with your fingers. You look at it for a moment as if it’s a delicate piece of art fashioned from glass.

And then you bring it to your mouth. Holding the middle of the joint firmly in between your forefinger and your thumb, your lips automatically pout letting the front of the joint penetrate in them. Then you slowly pick up the lighter with enough oil in it, and give your best shot in lighting it at one go. You feel like a pro although you have managed to do it several times in the past as well.

Then you light the joint you had been holding firmly in between your fingers all this while. Avoiding that small trail of thought you just had passing by your brain, you divert all your attention to the joint, gazing at the tantalizing fire at the other end and snorting within at that cliché of Thug Life those twitter celebs keep twaddling about.

You take a long drag and let it go deep into your throat, forgetting to breath in the normal air. Your eyes become small, your nose sensitive, and your throat viscous.

You take it out from your mouth and look at it as if it’s that chic from your college who didn’t accept your friend request.

You take one more drag, a longer one this time, and think about that idea of a start-up you had been discussing with your friends. You quickly avoid thinking about it at this point as you experience a kick.
One more drag. You are glad that the air around you has now been filled with the smoke of the weed.

The final one is taken with eyes either completely closed or staring at the wall, as the smoke rises and your mind sinks.