Northern Lights and Creativity
Ever smoked Northern Lights and just sat there, blinking at the wall, thinking—wait, is this genius or am I just really, really high? That’s the thing. This strain doesn’t scream creativity like some buzzy sativa with a name like “Electric Mango Brainstorm” or whatever. It creeps in. Soft. Heavy. Like a weighted blanket on your skull. But then—bam—your brain’s off building weird little castles in the fog.
It’s not a thinking strain. Not in the linear, connect-the-dots way. It’s more like... you forget what you were doing, then suddenly you’re halfway through a poem about moths and regret. Or you’re sketching a haunted toaster. Or you’re just staring at your guitar like it’s a puzzle from another dimension, and somehow, your fingers figure out a riff you’ve never played before. That’s Northern Lights. It doesn’t push you forward—it dissolves the floor.
And yeah, it’s an indica. So technically, it’s supposed to be for chilling, for sleep, for melting into your couch like a forgotten grilled cheese. But that’s the trick. When your body’s so relaxed it forgets to be self-conscious, your brain gets weirdly brave. It stops trying to impress anyone. It just plays. That’s where the good stuff lives.
I’ve written some of my strangest, most honest stuff on Northern Lights. Not always good. Sometimes just... raw. Like, “I can’t believe I wrote that” raw. But there’s value in that. In letting the filter drop. In letting the weird in. Creativity doesn’t always need a Red Bull and a whiteboard—it sometimes needs silence, stillness, and a little bit of cosmic fog.
Also—let’s be real—it’s not for everyone. Some folks get too sleepy. Or paranoid. Or just end up watching three hours of aquarium videos and forget they were supposed to be painting. That’s fine. Not every strain is your muse. But if you’re the kind of person who finds inspiration in slow motion, in shadows, in the space between thoughts—Northern Lights might just be your jam.
And the high? It’s like someone turned the volume down on the world. Not off. Just... down. Enough to hear yourself think. Or dream. Or whatever it is that happens when your brain gets quiet enough to surprise you.
Anyway. Try it. Or don’t. But if you do—have a pen nearby. Or a paintbrush. Or a voice memo app. You might not remember what you were trying to say, but you’ll say something. And it might be beautiful. Or terrifying. Or just really, really weird.