While it's true that using psychoactive substances can help bring your creative endeavors to life, it can also make you think something's a great idea, when in reality, it's just a random, nonsensical shit. In 2004, while on vacation in Boracay, I tried to write inside my hotel room after partaking in some dope festivity: five bong hits, two bottles of light beer and lots of pizza. This was the result:
I'm here at the beach, a mere mortal in boardshorts and sandals, breathing some fresh air while walking on a hot summer evening. You're inside your expensive hotel room, typing away on your laptop while listening to Kate Bush, or Mazzy Star, maybe Jeff Buckley. I am several meters below you, silently staring at happy faces with great grief.
Lucky girl, you nymphet of the southern isles, share your thoughts. Share your wisdom. Share your sorrows. My knees are weak. My back is aching. But I can't let the white whale win. My lips linger on the rim of the glass while some old guy screams.
Fire breathers, jackasses and hookers everywhere. Neon lights blinking on and off. Welcome to hell. Welcome to paradise. Welcome to false epiphanies.
Calm waters take me now. I am going to wade in, for my final baptism.
April 6, 2004
Marijuana did not improve my motivation to write or my creativity because I wrote this awful piece of garbage for two hours while looking at some online porn. For me, weed is great for ideas and inspiration, but for a narrative to be composed I have to be sober.