Coming to my senses: TasteSubmitted by Spam at 2007-08-15 17:12:45 EDT
Rating: 1.8 on 32 ratings (32 reviews) (Review this item) (V)
The first breath of smog soaked air is tactile, almost chewy, an impurity in total contrast to the clean, air-conned air of the office. The carbon and sulphur pumped into the atmosphere from humanity slides through my palette to choke my lungs and as I reach into my pocket for a cigarette, I can’t help but feel that it tastes fucking lovely, this, the unfiltered dirt of society.
This is where I’m supposed to be man, not locked in that fucking laminated monitored prison upstairs, but right here, in the open, exposed to the great unwashed.
Packet, fag, lighter, flame. Inhale.
And the tarry fumes slide into my chest to join the smog, that wave of relaxation washing over me a moment later. I’m light-headed and high from my earlier epiphany but my sense of wonder at the world and it’s delights has lost none of it’s edge. Fucking hell this cigarette is good.
I just wish it were something stronger.
So the decision’s made and I’m skinning up on the steps leading into my office before I even realise that I’m still supposed to be at work for another three hours. Fuck it man, run with it, that’s how these things go for people like us Sam, when you’ve run your course, you’ve run your course, pointless fighting it.
Like The Man says, we all follow the whim of the great magnet, I’d be a fool to defy him.
I stifle a cough as I take my first pull from the most rebellious joint I’ve smoked since that first day but the pain and ache on my lungs is worth it when I exhale and everything just flows straight out of me, all of the stress, the fatigue, the questions, the joy, hope, laughter and delight, everything. And I’m empty, sitting here on these steps, with no past no future, just the mysterious beauty of the ever-present Now.
I am the vessel.
I don’t know how long I sit there, blank. Time doesn’t really matter anymore, I haven’t worked any of this out far enough to be waiting for something, and where I’ve come from is already too insignificant for me to keep track of.
The wind picks up and carries with it more humanity, the taste of stale beer and nicotine, of sweat and vomit. I realise I’ve been staring at the ground all this time and when I look up and see the Pub across the street, my throat is parched and an uncontrollable thirst wells up within me.
Go with it Sam.
So again, I’m at the bar and ordering before I even consider the fact that my boss will have surely seen me stroll in here from his seat by the window. Fuck him though, that senseless drone. He doesn’t understand, he’ll never have this moment, never have this feeling. And suddenly my hate turns to pity and if I had an ounce of compassion in me for the prick, a tear or two would emerge.
The day’s black-bagged proper now, no half-measures anymore, no way we’re going back to that place today. The barmaid knows it too and she throws a worried look my way to see if I’m really sure. The grin I return is so heartfelt and genuine that she laughs and I can see that part of what I’m feeling has rubbed off on her, that, for a second at least, she wasn’t there anymore, behind thar stinking bar serving dickheads she didn’t care about. She was with me man, just for a second, but you can do a lot with that second my friend, don’t let anybody tell you otherwise.
And when she’s sauntered off regretfully, I take a sip from the first drink of the day, Remy Martin, Champagne Cognac. The best.
And the sensation as I pour it down is so fucking amazing, so totally fucking pleasurable that I draw a sharpe intake of breath and shudder a little, like it’s the first drink I’ve ever had.
The experts will you that this tastes like the perfect blend of oakey ripeness, a roundness of summer fruits and violets.
But they’re talking shit my friend.
Because when you shed the confinements of life and stroll out of reality for the day, that first drink tastes entirely different.
Different to anything you’ve ever felt before.
It tastes like freedom.
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