Cannabliss
How cannabis became my sanctuary, my sword, and the flame I walk through to survive cancer and see beauty sharper than pain.
I have been high for weeks. Floating, rooted, rising. Not lost, found. This isn’t an escape. This is entrance. A door swung open to a brighter room.
Yesterday, on the way to a doctor’s appointment, I laughed out loud for no reason at all. The clouds were dancing across the sky like they knew I was watching. The air wrapped around me like a warm blanket, thick with light. I didn’t walk, I slid across the pavement like the world had softened just for me. Helped an old woman find her car. Showed up ten minutes late. Didn’t care.
The RSO protocol: cannabis as communion. I smear it on my gums, daily sacrament. A pact with the plant. No prayer, just promise: heal me, and I’ll carry your fire.
Since then, every day has shimmered.
Food makes my mouth tingle. The world hums like a tuning fork struck by the gods. Clouds don’t drift, they perform. Baroque. Glorious. The air feels newly invented. Colors flirt with the edge of psychedelia. I see the joke in everything. The world’s a clown car, and I’m the only one laughing. Out loud, alone, and unashamed. Not because I’m broken, but because I’m awake.
Meanwhile, I bleed. Cancer eats in silence.
But I wake up with a grin, the kind you earn in fire. Pain’s there, sure, but it’s background noise. My body’s a war zone. But I treat it like a temple. Pain is the price of entry. Ketosis is the prayer. Each breath a vow. Each meal, a ritual.
And when this thing dies, when I’ve outlived the demon, I won’t come down.
Why would I? The view from here is divine.
I’ll stay in the highlands of thought, above the noise. Cannabis doesn’t dull, it hones. It carves my mind into a cathedral of calm. A sanctuary lit with stained glass: comets streaking, clouds blooming, galaxies of giggles.
They call it being stoned. I call it being aligned.
The world dulls itself to sleep. I stay lit to see. To feel the tremble beneath the silence. To hear the heartbeat under the chaos. To trace the spiral inward, where memory becomes myth, and pain becomes pattern.
Cannabis isn’t a crutch. It’s a compass. So no, I will not come down. I will stay lit. Stay tuned. Stay awake. And when they ask how I survived, I’ll tell them.
I let the plant carry me home.
