Nobody stopped thinking about those psychedelic experiences. Once you've been to some of those places, you think, How can I get back there again but make it a little easier on myself?
Someone said that my post fonts looks like i am whispering...it might be the size? But a hoarse, raspy whisper is so much more eloquent than a shrill, high pitched SCREAM.
Anyway, i am back home where time just seems to stand still and the unchanging mountainous landscape gives me a stability.. a sense of permanence, that i am unable to feel anywhere else. Call it my comfort pill.
The abundance of mushrooming hookah bars and freely available grass (pun intended) shakes me out of my reverie. How come my little sleepy hollow change into this? Anyway i am not complaining.
Once i went with my bestie cum bro, A, on a bike ride to the nearby hills. Tripping on beauty and the smell of wet grass, earth and tree bark, i was so close to ego death. I was on another mind plane for the rest of the day, coming to sense with a call from T, screaming that he hates me.
I believe that one becomes a different person when in the hills...a little dreamy, melancholic, a bit detached from everyone and everything around. i feel all that and more, a sense of hysteria that i am all alone and the Buddhist theory that says that everything is an illusion- happiness, sadness, anger and Jealousy (this one is for us, T), keeps hammering inside me.
Anyway, i always knew Himalayas were a bit of magic...and a little of that magic dust has been rubbed off on a few alternative souls, i believe. No matter how psychotic or detached or deranged i become, i guess i am happy to be here. This is where i truly belong. No Novocaine, give me some trippy Himalayan air any day.
" The monkeys sung sorrowfully to each other as they hunted for dry roots in the fern-draped trees, and the last puff of the day-wind brought from the unseen villages the scent of the damp wood smoke, hot cakes, dripping under growth, and rotting pine cones. That smell is the true smell of the Himalayas, and if it once gets into the blood of a man, he will, at last, forgetting everything else, return to the hills to die."
- wrote Rudyard Kipling, one of us who got a taste of the Himalayan magic dust.
Someone said that my post fonts looks like i am whispering...it might be the size? But a hoarse, raspy whisper is so much more eloquent than a shrill, high pitched SCREAM.
Anyway, i am back home where time just seems to stand still and the unchanging mountainous landscape gives me a stability.. a sense of permanence, that i am unable to feel anywhere else. Call it my comfort pill.
The abundance of mushrooming hookah bars and freely available grass (pun intended) shakes me out of my reverie. How come my little sleepy hollow change into this? Anyway i am not complaining.
Once i went with my bestie cum bro, A, on a bike ride to the nearby hills. Tripping on beauty and the smell of wet grass, earth and tree bark, i was so close to ego death. I was on another mind plane for the rest of the day, coming to sense with a call from T, screaming that he hates me.
I believe that one becomes a different person when in the hills...a little dreamy, melancholic, a bit detached from everyone and everything around. i feel all that and more, a sense of hysteria that i am all alone and the Buddhist theory that says that everything is an illusion- happiness, sadness, anger and Jealousy (this one is for us, T), keeps hammering inside me.
Anyway, i always knew Himalayas were a bit of magic...and a little of that magic dust has been rubbed off on a few alternative souls, i believe. No matter how psychotic or detached or deranged i become, i guess i am happy to be here. This is where i truly belong. No Novocaine, give me some trippy Himalayan air any day.
" The monkeys sung sorrowfully to each other as they hunted for dry roots in the fern-draped trees, and the last puff of the day-wind brought from the unseen villages the scent of the damp wood smoke, hot cakes, dripping under growth, and rotting pine cones. That smell is the true smell of the Himalayas, and if it once gets into the blood of a man, he will, at last, forgetting everything else, return to the hills to die."
- wrote Rudyard Kipling, one of us who got a taste of the Himalayan magic dust.
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