In a European bar, in the heart of downtown Amsterdam, is where I discovered my love for smoke.
The bar was dark, with green and red Christmas lights as the only illumination. I sat on a bar stool with my torn up timberland boots and unwashed hair, and handed the bartender two Euros. She handed me a joint. I reached in my back pocket and took out a lighter, stolen from an Italian man I had met at the bar the night before. I lit the fat side and twirled the carefully rolled paper, letting it burn.
I brought it to my mango-chapstick covered lips and dragged in, slow and full. I let the smoke fill my mouth, and eventually my lungs- making them large and plump. My whole body buzzed. I exhaled.
And suddenly, everything changed. Smoke curled up and above my lips, releasing itself into the world. It was the first time I had really looked at smoke, the twirl and dance of its delicate arms, becoming more invisible with each turn. It reached its highest height, and eventually tickled the tiny lights above me and disappeared forever. It was beautiful and lonely all at the same time.
Smoke is exactly that – beautiful and lonely. It casts a veil over the room, making everyone feel unified in its hazy confusion. It has a quiet confidence; something you don’t even realize is there until you step out for a moment only to return again.
— I found this in my travel journal when I was backpacking through Europe - Isabel Klee (via travel-through-mountains)