Smoking Marijuana To Avoid The Memoir
Don’t let your feet touch the ground, or do they ever touch the ground? Those are my thoughts right now and in general for this last month, literally, where my ways follow trend and pressure gets the better of me, the pressures of the writer, of the true millennium and now, in this need for another month’s closure, a trait-followed trend of procrastination.
How then does it come this morning and what twist of relevance does it add? Well, this morning, its latest bout wheels itself to me in meager excuses. As my parents are out, and always unbeknownst to my ways, the writer is alone, stoned, and peddling his hazy words to make due with progress. The relevance? Well, I forgot it, but maybe my being made vague and less stringent with words was the intent when lighting up a joint this morning.
Being stoned forces me to concentrate harder, but maybe it was seen as an escape from my tormentor as well as an excuse to smoke. Maybe my parents heading out merely gave me the chance to light one up without having to run around the house hiding. In part, it is seen mostly as a snapping up of opportunity but at most, my smoking this morning was seen more as some relief of pressure.
There has been a long list of trait-followed trends this month, and smoking pot to elude the trepid sobriety of my memoirs was one of them. However, unlike the internet, work on the true millennium project or even massage parlors (which are so easily the neglectors when the writer grows stale), the trend of eluding my memoirs by smoking pot seems only a passing phase. Once the weed runs out, the novelty of smoking my way out of trouble will go with it, or so the writer hopes. I could see how this could turn habitual though.
Pressure just seems to drift away like puffs of smoke that float from my mouth when drawing back on a joint.
Marijuana, it relaxes you and takes away that reckless need to perform highly, one, which has buried the writer umpteenth times over the years.
Nevertheless, even if my smoking does become a habit, it shouldn’t have to get in the way of my memoirs. These words seem somewhat tipsy when written but they are words nonetheless, and so, a contribution withal. The only difference is my having to rely on a short memory span and the lack of focus that comes with it. Ironic how the writer needs more focus and concentration for longer periods of time in order to achieve the same results as being straight. The only difference is that smoking substitutes pressure for this greater need of patience.
Ah, it is a distorted discipline when there are some smokes in hand, but if we can get over the fact that they were so poorly rolled then maybe we can get away with one last entry this month. The comedown should hit me in about an hour. Some relief should come from this strain of decorative thinking. Forgive me in advance then for this below-par performance. I will try to keep it as objective as possible.
Hah, shall it be another so-called informal dig then? Saying so always adds breadth to my memoirs while doing not will leave enough energy to up the ante next month.
“Make a sacrifice now and thrive later,” the writer feels.
So, to clear the path for a healthy new month, he ends this month now with four tedious nights to write about.
A Long Literary Drought
What a long run without writing, one of the longest actually, five nights of literary drought and nothing to show save for some work here, there and then compensatory fillings for the writer. This month has to be one of the driest since the word “recession” reared its ugly head, and such that there shouldn’t be an excuse for my tardiness.
Unfortunately though, my memoirs have been as desolate dearth as a lonely sunrise on my objective ways, with no sparkle, warmth, or of days brimming with lively tales to tell. There seems no hope for the willing to have their way, as when they do, and with hope aim, forlorn things come smite them down.
These last few nights were prime estate for the writer to get his roll on but instead of grabbing the bull by the horns, he was plagued by headaches and harassed by all the little neighborly nibblings. Fortunately, tonight I had a chance to finish the backlog for four days, from January 25, 2001 to January 28, 2001.
Keeping Up The Good Fight
Keeping a low profile is good though. It’s not like this month hasn’t had its stretch of isolation. Then again, it’s not like isolation has helped produce good results for the writer. “Another failed month,” you would think but to me, it would seem that “faith hath no speed” when men are ambitious.
The glass is always half full and never half empty. In my opinion, with my memoirs, there is always a chance before there is recession. What does that say about me then? Does it show my drive as instrumental through adversity, or would it be more apt at showing my proud struggle to exist? Trust me to give you an option as synonymous as that. One or the other are both similar in difference, and none more famous than neither.
A fighter. That’s me. One without pomp or parade and which in whose humbled words beat his wildly heart for recognition. Would he be wrong though to say that he is already famous? No, he thinks not. The glass is half full. The world just doesn’t know it yet.
Diary Of A Mad Chaos is a daily diary written from March 1996 until today, of which individual books and book series have been created, namely “The Lost Years” an exploration of young, entwined love, the “Wubao In China (猎艳奇缘)” book series which provides an extensive comparative analysis of the cultural differences between Eastern and Western societies, and the book titled “Foreigner (华人)” an exploration of race relations in Australia.
