At The Opium Den

At The Opium Den

It was the perfect place to be seen and unseen.  To exist, yet be dead to those who loved you, especially yourself.  The lighting was dim flickering candles against the walls, the voices barely above a whisper; one could hear many different languages there.  I recall that there was always a singer and instrumentalists playing tunes of the oriental variety.  The singers face was painted a stark white and when he moved on the small platform that served as a stage; his robes were the distinct rustle of silk.  The whole spectacle made the feeling even more enjoyable.  I’d lie on the tatami mats, listening: everything around me felt lovely, sounded lovely, smelled lovely and tasted lovely.  It was perfect.  The sweet euphoria enveloped my body like a mother’s embrace.  The opium was like a glass of warm milk on a freezing night only sweeter.  The singer kept singing, he was always singing as the smoke made me forget all my troubles.