A view through a smoky window

Sometimes, through the haze of alcohol blurred eyes and the smoke of imported weed, our submerged subconscious is able to glimpse the truth about life, or the truth that is true at the time of viewing. Which is the same as saying that the colour grey cannot be truly defined, but changes with perception, the time of day, the light and the mood of the viewer.
Confused?

What was the truth I glimpsed last night; or the illusion of a glimpse into eternity?

It was that from the moment we are born, we are set on decays conveyor belt; sliding inextricably through a melange of experiences, accidents, mistakes and misunderstandings. The very combustible air we breathe consumes us, and the food we stuff into our faces, turns to acid in our mouths, dissolving our teeth and rotting in our guts.
There is no escape.

No amount of face cream, rejuvenating ointment, injections and the knife of the surgeon can delay by one measly second, the silently sliding runway

Tobacco has never really been my poison of choice. Having said that, I did succumb to the charms of what is affectionately known as wacky-baccie while in my second year at a prestigious university, and quickly discovered that marijuana and sex were a heady, intoxicating mix; even though I didn’t always remember the nastier details when the smoke cleared from my befuddled brain; which for me particularly, is a wonderful novelty.

My name is Bee Wanton, and I am not an alcoholic, or a drug addict. Though I, like many others of my age, circumstance and social standing, are prone to abuse alcohol on a socially acceptable basis, and have been known to become unstable, giggly and moderately incoherent while toppling into a waiting taxi in the wee-small hours.

I’m still a little high while I write this, and I am struggling for clarity and coherence through the smoky window from which I am viewing my existence.