If Marc Emery is the Prince of Pot, I'm the King! (upinsmoke) wrote in forgotten_gods, @ 2009-12-07 10:57:00 |
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Entry tags: | lsd, marijuana |
And when the broken-hearted people living in the world agree, there will be an answer, let it be.
Who: Marijuana and LSD.
What: After longer than six months, ex-lovers run into each other while mourning a fallen loved one.
When: Evening, December eighth, the anniversary of John Lennon's death.
Where: Strawberry Fields Memorial, Central Park.
Warnings: Language, drug use, allusions to past violence/death, nonlinear Drugs, jumbled lyrics.
Marijuana entered the park from the west but first, he stopped to look up at the Dakota. He'd been in the city when it had happened. Sometimes, Marijuana thought he'd been able to hear four shots, feel them enter his back and shoulder, but that was probably just his imagination. He had felt John die, however, felt a user flicker out of existence, out of Marijuana's mind to slip, slip away into the darkness that the Drugs could not penetrate, as much as they would like to. Staring up at the hotel, Marijuana swallowed hard, eyes drawn down to the steps that had been stained with John's blood, eyes drawn to the spot where Chapman had taken a seat to read Catcher in the Rye and wait for the police. Marijuana's lip curled briefly in anger but he forced himself to turn away, to lose himself in the paths of Central Park, the paths that lead to the inner circle of the memorial. There were people there already, people with candles and guitars, but Marijuana had forgotten his guitar.
He had forgotten his cell phone, his wallet, and his winter coat as well, but the most important thing, a flask of whiskey, was tucked into the pocket of his jeans. The walk down the memorial paths designated a quiet area wasn't exactly quiet. They were singing, little groups of people dotting the inner paths. Bits and pieces of lyrics spun around in his mind. In my hour of darkness, she is standing right in front of me. Marijuana's steps faltered. And any time you feel the pain, hey Jude, refrain, don't carry the world upon your shoulder. Marijuana slowed. And to see that you are only very small and life goes on within you and without you. Marijuana closed his eyes. Living is easy with eyes closed, misunderstanding all you see. It's getting hard to be someone but it all works out. It doesn't matter much to me. The Imagine Circle loomed up ahead of him, ringed by mourners. A young man with a guitar in his lap looked up at Marijuana as the god passed, singing in a crystal clear, beautiful voice.
Picture yourself on a train in a station, with plasticine porters with looking glass eyes. Suddenly someone is there at the turnstile, the girl with kaleidoscope eyes.
Marijuana stopped at the edge of the clearing, not bothering the small groups of mourners spread out in the concrete circle around the mosaic. He only shifted down to his knees, bowed his head began to murmur words of mourning. It took him a moment to realize he was murmuring lyrics instead of actual words. "You may say I'm a dreamer but I'm not the only one. I hope someday you'll join us and the world will live as one." Marijuana shook his head as if to clear it and when the fog of mourning lifted for a moment, he thought he felt... something. Something familiar, something heart-breaking.
Marijuana just shook his head again and returned to his lyric-prayer.