There were four of us trekking through these misty, lonely woods with one common goal: getting stoned.
Ignoring the rigidity and ignorance, pretentions and constraints of legality: Fuck with Us. Dirt makes dust at our feet and fog dampens our brows with sweat-like accuracy.
The Bench: Two poles between which is loosely bolted a piece of wood. Unstable gathering at the 12th hole. Getting high at the ropes course with no risk of falling.
I produce bud. We smoke a joint laced with Mugwort and Sage – Stephanie being big on herbs and all things natural: rocks, teas, oils, smiles, dance, music, dreadlocks, love shown by the eyes. You know the type: Free.
Mugwort, for lucid dreaming; Marijuana, for lucid living; Kraig: lucidity personified. We call out for the poem he did not share in class for middle-aged mother. Stephanie holds the flame of illumination while Kraig reads aloud. Only taken seriously because it is Kraig and somehow, he gets it.
Maggie is high. She needs an arm for the walk back to campus. I offer stability, calm. The half-moon lights surrounding the architecturally surreal library produce a science fiction glow in the gathering mist as we approach civilization, borne again from the coastal oak forest.
We remark on the Calm.
We remark on the fog, gathering on flower petals.
We remark on the fleeting moments in life and the uncertainty of new friendships we hope will last.
At least, I do, silently, as Stephanie drives me to my unfamiliar home.
We remark on Beauty.
We remark on Love.
We remark on the fleeting moments of life that, unless remarked upon, would go unnoticed.
At least, I do.