image via sara shakeel
we were older when we finally met. we’d somehow managed to avoid each other throughout my time at school, where i’d spent days distracted, dickmatized, occasionally drunk (also napping). nights spent wild, always blurry often blackened. days lost to kissing porcelain. and around we go. this was normal, non?
we found eachother in my twenties, the blessed by-product of a relationship with an unevolved type of thing. after days spent making too much money and not enough sense he’d introduced me to her mystic. the sparkling sheen she somehow veiled over the world, over our bodies, our words our minds our food our sex enraptured me. and sent her running to create. while he kushed into the cushions, poems poured from my body. she danced to a song only she could hear. we wanted to play, experiment, create only somewhat absurd outfits, take pictures, paint flowers that looked like pussy. it was electric. it was fuckin love. just me and mary jane.
an 80’s child but a hippie at heart, we've always known that mama earth holds exactly what we need to survive and enhance our time here. to breakthrough and see our selves, perhaps for the first time. the high helped to reveal a higher self, a higher perspective, a new kinda zjujz. what sacred simplicity, a plant revealing the folds of ourselves that happened to be there all along, waiting for. a flower empowering you to live it louder. it’s this imaginative, playful state the world could use a little more of.
don’t invite the muse to your bedside and tell her you’ll fuck her later. don’t waste the j. build the ritual. create the ceremony. focused on breath. brought into the body. engaged with your surroundings. grounded, and alive.
the earth laughs in flowers, holds music for those who listen. nature brings forth the true colors of the spirit. smoking herb just reveals you to your self.