Too High to Title This

I dreamed that
I was high
and never woke up.

Bliss. At all times.
This dude walks up
to me, his facial
expressions are of
pure apathy:
“Raffaella, your
best friend died”.

I laughed.
Not because I thought
he was joking,
but just because.

I walked away
and cooked myself
scrambled eggs
on a 2-week
dirty pan.
Amusing is how
eggs fry and
have these tiny
little explosions
within.
It’s tragic but
inevitable, and
let’s be honest:
what’s tragic
is usually very,
very funny.

So I laughed
one more time.

As I sat down
to eat, while
pushing aside
piles of clothes
I barely recognized,
perhaps because
I’d forgotten to
do laundry or
because they were
strangers’, I stopped
to think if I hadn’t
to be somewhere
important, like work.
Not work, dumbass,
you’re dreaming,
you don’t work in
your dreams.

So I smiled because
I did not have to
work and I laughed
until my lower back
cramped at those who had
to work.

Ha.
Amazing.

I questioned,
like a good follower
of Descartes , if
I was dreaming or
was high or wishing so
bad I was high that
I had made myself believe it.
If the later, then I could
turn my thought into a religion!
Picture this slogan:
“Work your mind in
such high degree of
meditation to
reach the state of
Cannabiska”,
which would just be a
fancy Indian word for
“being high”.
Incredible.
I would be the
modern messiah.

So I laughed again,
and spent the rest
of what you people call time
laughing until I slept
and it all started again.