I wonder what is happening to me. What has happened to me.

I don't remember if I have always lived and experienced life like this. If I wasn't always like this,
then it started with the pot. I believe that it may have started with the pot. Perhaps I am simply
manufacturing this altered experience within my mind and things are far more mundane than I
lead myself to believe. Since I can not witness other people's experiences of life, all I have to
compare to is the idea that I wasn't always like this. Some memories lingering from my past
where time was so ordinary as to be unchanging and integral. Something you never took notice of
without undue circumstances, such as breathing or your heart beat. But perhaps it was the pot.

The first time I smoked, I didn't know what was going on until it was over. I was at a party with
Sophia and her friends. I had brought Clay along. It was a good party. It was supposed to be a
pajama party. I didn't want to just wear boxers, so I went in a T-shirt and my old Gi pants. In my
defense, they are terribly comfortable and I have slept in them more than once. There was a
spattering of pajamas, but everything was rather plain. I think Sophia called it a pj party so she
wouldn't have to get dressed. I mixed many frozen margaritas that night. Clay had a pint bottle of
Arrogant Bastard Ale. I tried some and it was horrible. I remember talking to people. Sophia got
"mad" at us for talking about the military. I think I almost got into an argument with her friend
about communism. I was still a communist in those days.

At some point, Clay asked me out to his truck. I followed him out, nervously continuing whatever
conversation we had going on. I think it was something about dreams and reality. This, I believe,
was in my early days of Taoism. We stood at the rear of his truck for a short while as I
stammered on. I was very nervous. I had no idea what was going on and was afraid he would hit
on me for some reason. Finally, we moved inside the cab, myself still yammering, and he pulled
out the pipe and loaded it and toked. I was relieved when I realized it was just drugs and then
quickly grew anxious and excited, like a kid on christmas morning.

My brother had started smoking pot a while before I ever did. Before the shift post-freshman
year, the leaving of the church, the leaving of conservatism, the obliteration of my prior morality,
I was starkly against drug use. After things changed and talking to my brother about things, after
watching Penn & Teller's Bullshit drug episode, I became more accepting. I had decided that I
wanted to get stoned a few months prior to actually getting that opportunity. My roommate,
Brandon, used to be a stoner. He had done many different drugs in his life. He had quit smoking
pot though, partially due to a drug test requirement for a job he had applied for and partly at the
behest of his girlfriend, now fiance. So Brandon was not an option and he didn't keep in touch
with any of his friends who had sources. Lucky me that Clay decided to pass the pipe.

I remember Clay explaining the process of smoking. At the time, it was rather complex to me.
Now, it's incredibly natural and I prefer it to bongs. The only thing better is probably a hookah,
but you don't smoke pot from those.
I coughed, a lot. I thought I was going to vomit and I opened the truck door to spit on the
ground. After Clay smoked some more, he passed it back to me and I toked again. I don't
remember how many drags I took. I just remember my throat burning and being certain that I
had swallowed twigs and flaming leaves.
I experienced life differently then. Clay was still talking and as he mentioned symptoms, I
experienced them. Drymouth, thirst, drowsiness, one right after the other.

"And then you're going to feel like you just wake up," he said and I did. At that instant, I was
certain I had fallen asleep and missed the entire trip, that I had slept through my first time ever
being stoned. I was disappointed in myself for being such a light weight and I eventually got up
the guts to ask Clay if I had fallen asleep. He said I had nodded for a minute, but I think he was
referring to when I had sat silently staring out of the windshield while he talked about what it felt
like to be stoned. I don't think I actually nodded off.

The rest of the night was a blur of single frame instances. I would be starkly aware of all the
actions I was performing, continuously telling myself that I didn't feel that stoned all the while as
my head floated ever higher in an elation of elevation. Then, in an instant of drug induced
dementia, I would awaken afresh all over again, clear as a bell until I slipped into grogginess once
more. Repeat, cycle repeat, cycle and repeat and the night passed. After that point, I didn't do
much. As when I reach that glorious party level of intoxication, I sat in a chair and talked about
anything and everything to cross not only my mind, but the collective minds around me. I also
shouted quite forcibly at anyone not sitting or not drinking, refusing to accept pleas of wanting to
return home or go to bed. When drama was began over someone driving drunk; I believe I told
them to quit their bitching and let the dumbass be a dumdass if he wanted.

Eventually, the remaining guests petered out and Sophia retired to her own room, so me and Clay
left in search of food. I recall leaving the apartment in a sort of daze, the only certainty I knew at
that point was a desire for spaghetti-O's. When I voiced this to Clay, he laughed and fell over into
the grass. I kept walking, fleeing my embarrassment and doubting as to whether I really desired
spaghetti-O's or if I was merely trying to take advantage of my situation by manufacturing the
odd cravings that I thought stoned people should harbor. Perpetuating a stereotype, in a way.
Finally, we fed ourselves at Whataburger since it was a readily available 24 hour establishment.
Clay dropped me off and I promptly went to sleep.

The most startling aspect of this venture was my perception of time while intoxicated. The
continual sensation of waking up fresh and the manner in which a passage of minutes would seem
like hours led me to an incongruous experience of the evening's course. In the following days,
some remnant of this altered perception remained with me, jarring me to avidly notice the oddly
peculiar manner in which we humans progress through our lives. An instant remembered is still a
memory, be it from an hour ago or a year. What we lose are the details of our memories.
However, the recent memories may simply consist of manufactured details. What marijuana did
for me was to force this realization upon myself. Due to the incongruous experience of time and
the constant awakenings, I would be forced the remember the entire time. The following day, I
would find myself being forced to remember recent events. Every occurence that happened a few
moments ago was thrown into a mire. Life was presenting itself to me as either being presently
lived or something that had been lived. Things from five minutes ago might as well have
happened five years ago. Every memory felt the same to me in the sense that they were all
constructs of my mind. I recall reading an article talking about the nature of human memory. It
said that humans remembered events by recreating the event instead of simply recalling the
event. Every moment of these days became a reconstructed event I would have to piece together.
What did I eat for breakfast? Well, I'd have to mentally process the actions before I could even
guess.

Eventually, this sensation passed. Perhaps it didn't really pass, but I simply quit noticing it. Life
shifted back into the mindless blur of all moments equally unnoticed. This is speculation. I'm
speculating. I can't really say how I lived in the in betweens, I'm simply stating how life is lived
for me now. Of course, as soon as I smoked again, this sensation returned. I recall telling Clay at
one point that I wasn't sure about smoking pot due to these specific effects. It made life feel
manufactured, as if all of my memories were nothing more than creations and I hadn't really done
any of these things.

I mentioned before the manner of time passing in a blur for me now. I can't really say if this is my
"default" setting or a result of my situation, but, whatever the reason, it is certainly different from
the incongruity I've discussed. In the "time blur" setting, all time is a faceless, unrecognizable
torrent. There are tasks you know you must achieve and sometimes you do complete them, based
upon whether or not you remember them. So the marking of your days is really more of a tally of
what there is left to do, what you are doing and what you remember doing. One day is the next
becomes the last and all that we seem to know is the time of day (after consulting a watch) and
occasionally your present location. This distracted and hollow state makes it very easy to forget
your location, both temporally and geographically, so the rigors that you must go through the
remember those stem your curiosity as to the rest of the universe's pertinent information.

I suppose that all of the described temporal effects can simply be summarized to being forced to
be aware of the act of remembering. It's simply processing the knowledge that what you are
thinking of is a memory and may not have actually happened that way rather then allowing it to
be witnessed it as another facet of reality.