As I leave my house and its stress filed environment I think about the release and calm atmosphere of my field. As I pass the sports hall I see people almost crying because they just lost a game of football, I walk on past Tosco and see men and women struggling with bags of shopping. I hurry to get away from the commotion of life and in to the quiet streets of high light park. This part of my journey cools me and prepares me for the sanctuary I find within the field.
I arrive and collapse on the light grass the strong sweet smell of fresh cut grass throws it self at my face and up my nose. The sound floats around; birds singing and trees swaying as if in slow motion. The sun belts down on to my face and all over my body, it feels like I’m lying in a warm bath. So relaxed. So peaceful. I can feel all my care and worries floating up, floating around, floating away. No-one to disturb me no-one to push me, prod me, kick me or annoy me.
As I look up I see the woods that are attached to the field, I think back to the summer of 2002 when almost every day with out fail Dave, Carl, and Matt and I would spend all day and some times all night in there, just smoking. Talking about life with its good points, and its bad. Just to remember the few magical moments of getting high with my best buddies, I still think that those times were the best of my life. Someone asked me before what I found so relaxing about the woods and field, but I couldn’t answer them and I still can’t explain it, its just a special warm fuzzy feeling that I get even in the coldest of weathers.
For some reason we would never collect firewood during the day so someone would have to attempt the mammoth obstacle course of the treacherous terrain, that is the woods, using there cigarette lighters to find there way.
I take a new box of twenty lambut and butler out of my pocket and start to unwrap the cellophane rapper. The smells waft out of the cardboard packet, the sent of tobacco excites my senses. I take a fresh straight white stick and put the end in between my lips, and then with my free hand I take my slightly low on gas clipper out of my breast pocket and strike the small flint. The chain reaction between the spark and the gas courses a magical flame, which lights the end of my cigarette.
Its smoke, in clouds of white and cream rise around my face, its embers burning away the leaves of tobacco.
The grass fells like a big fluffy cushion under my back I feel so free and so calm and so peaceful. The air tastes fresh and moist against the harsh cigarette. I see a kestrel hovering around the bottom end of my field; it aims its body like a dart and dives to the ground like a heavy weight, then back up to the sky with a mouse in its powerful claws. Beyond that I see a plain flying across and through the clouds and I realise that. there is still life out there and that the time has come for me to go and join it.