As soon as he came to his senses, his first feeling was – weariness. Abject, brutal, crushing weakness. He hadn’t done anything physical that day, neither had he read or dwelled on important things like current affairs about the country’s politics and economy. It was six in the evening, the sun, was by now a small golden ball loitering on the edge of the horizon, gazing at him fondly, as if saying a sad good-bye, while promising to come back in fresh spirits soon, which it would, and he would miss it.
He had lost the spark to live, or rather, he couldn’t understand why he was living. It was fair to say, he hadn’t found his calling, a reason to wake up with vigour early in the morning. On slow reflection, he did sometimes wake up early in the morning, not deliberately of course, but by fortune, as if destiny sought to throw him a lucky bone from time to time, in the hope that he would find his eureka moment in the fresh scent of mornings. The opportunities were allowed to pass by, like a thirsty traveler declining the holy water, blind and intent upon self-destruction.
He had had a nightmare last night, and had woken up screaming, while his roommates were oblivious in the next room, labelled a hot box to account for the holy fumes which swirled about around its narrow confines, the walls sucking in the stench while being illuminated in psychedelic colours of all sorts, flashing and entrapping the intoxicated minds which spent most of their waking hours there into an endless loop of ecstasy and bliss. His screams turned into a feeble rant, his eyes rolled, while he inhaled moundful quantities of air, his windpipe feeling as fragile as a thin straw, made of millions of pieces of dust. He felt impure. Polluted. He wished he could vomit out this feeling, and start life from scratch. He had seen clouds and devils wearing suits, armed with shotguns in the nightmare.
He wished he had the shotgun. He would slaughter the sorry souls in the hot box, liberating them from this existence, probably thanking him from the afterlife, and maybe, he would be liberated himself. He imagined he was living in America, where he could steal a vicious looking gun, and go around shooting people, like he had innumerable times in Grand Theft Auto. Oh, how he loved that game. He had binged on it in his teenage years, when his body had been pure, untouched of the poisons he was subjecting it to now. He so desperately wanted a gun, he screamed in frustration.
Willing himself to stand, in spite of the crushing weight in his head dragging him down, he went to the kitchen to grab water from the dispenser. He needed clarity of thought. The oxygen from the water would do it. The killing urge refused to let go, after two cups of water. He felt like crying. There was something sinister inside his head, he was convinced of it. His head felt like splitting into two, right down the middle of his skull. Visions moved in front of eyes haphazardly, ranging from decapitated horses to mutilated bodies. He wished he hadn’t taken the pill last night, especially the stronger dosed one. His eyes fell on an object, and he began moving towards it with a sudden, surprising clear line of thought.
He lifted the black knife, felling like Satan.
Marijuana Maharaj 