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The silence is peaceful. Too much can be uncomfortable. The quiet pressure on my eardrums scares away the demons inhabiting my mind. These are the questions stacked on top of riddles, wrapped in the foil of my subconscious. Curled in a tightly made ball in the corner of the room, I watch as the conversation begins to take shape. But you will never get me to talk. Not one word passed my lips. The silence is all I have to offer to the revolving dialogue and I am at peace.

Eleven of us sit in a room lit by the Christmas lights hung early. Posters of famous musicians cover the wall where the dull white paint once was. Engulfed in the individual conversations going on simultaneously, I sit quietly, observing all around me, taking in the energies of my company. Then, unexpectedly, there is shift in the conversation and it has suddenly focused on my place in the room. Multiple sets of eyes look upon me as if I was responsible for the dead silence in the room. I could expect what each one wanted from me without an utter.

For this moment, my life will take on a whole new meaning. Everything being passed from friend to acquaintance to stranger and back to me; each adding a piece of history to a long line of sessions to come. With all that has happened in the past couple of minutes, paying attention is not a top priority for me or anyone else. I almost missed my turn at baking in the rays of my sunshine, my euphoria. Hold that thought while I erase mine... The room fills with an aroma of incense and a special ingredient only found in the dark places of society. I exhale a sigh of relief. Cloud and ring trail in my silent words. It was no longer my responsibility to decide what to do with my piece of mind. All I can do is hope for the best
and pass to the left.

I try to fight the sensation taking over my mind and body. Staying sober is something that has been long forgotten. There is no turning back now. My everything has been taken over. This present state-of-mind has driven me to the depths of my own unconscious. Leaning against the hard wood of a nearby closet door, I can feel my body slowly merging with the grain of the structure. I must be spinning on the inside. This is not how I envisioned my experience to develop: an illusory of slow moving thoughts and delayed reactions. A repetition of emotions circle my clouded mind for an
answer that never could exist.

All this controversy on a topic so inocent circles my mind with confusing questions and riddles. I wait for the day when everyone can sit down in a circle, despite differences and propaganda, and share in the glory of feeling your inner self come alive. Take a hit and wait. Breathe it all in. It won't be long now. That day will come, when we will be able look back on our youth and say that we may have smoked ourselves retarded, but it never took control of our lives.

Open and read the pages of my DarkerMind
where one's style of writing comes from deep within.
I don't plan to change the world; just trying to leave my mark.

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The following comments are for "Passing to the Left"
by KingDon

What an interesting sliver of story. It felt rapid, clausterphobic, as though the reader partook along with the protagonist. I read it twice, and enjoyed it even more the second time. I'd like to read a full-fledged story by you -- perhaps I'll see whether you've posted some.

You've piqued my curiosity, anyway!

( Posted by: Viper9 [Member] On: April 6, 2005 )

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