Potheads Don’t Believe in Time
I.
I’m in a dorm room. Or a car. Or a basement
lit only by a shitty lava lamp
someone’s older brother left behind.
I forget who,
but someone exhales, stares at the ceiling, and says:
“Dude, time isn’t real.”
And for a moment,
it makes perfect sense—
maybe because I just took a hit,
maybe because 1995 feels like five minutes ago
and also a past life
I barely remember living.
But it’s also still 1991.
But also, 1977 was yesterday.
Somewhere, right now, it’s 1989.
Somewhere, my 6-year-old self is watching The Jetsons
and believing in the year 2000.
I don’t know it yet,
but five years from now,
I’ll be in another basement—
different couch,
same smoke in the air.
Someone will pass me a joint.
I’ll take a hit without thinking,
the way people say “yeah sure” when they aren’t listening.
And then—
mid-inhale—
I’ll remember this exact night.
It’ll be like stepping into my own ghost.
I’ll sit back,
stare at the ceiling,
exhale slow,
and think: “shit, I’ve been here before.”
It doesn’t hit all at once.
It comes in pieces.
One second, you’re in a basement,
sitting on an old couch
that smells like someone else’s cigarettes,
listening to a CD burned on a computer
the size of a microwave.
The next second—
you’re not.
You’re still there,
but also a year ahead.
Or five.
Or forty.
Older.
Heavier in ways
you don’t have words for yet.
Listening to a song
that hasn’t been written,
but still reminds you of right now.
Or maybe you’re looking back at this moment
from some impossible future,
and it hits you:
this is already a rerun.
this exact night.
this exact conversation.
it’s already happened.
it’s happening.
it will keep happening.
II.
They say memory is linear.
A clean progression.
Moments like souvenirs,
arranged neatly on a shelf.
But that’s bullshit.
Memory is a scratched CD,
skipping backward,
repeating the same four seconds
until you forget what comes next.
Memory is flipping TV channels at 2am,
half-asleep,
catching a scene from a movie
you swear you’ve seen before.
You don’t remember when.
Maybe you dreamed it.
Maybe the dream was real.
Maybe this is just a bad copy.