trip

Twenty minutes in and my muscles were twitching like the kind of spasms you get when you’re trying to sleep under a bush on a hillside on in the middle of a frosty November. Nothing to do with the ambient temperature, just the familiar tryptamine rigors. I tried to sit down and watch something but I couldn’t follow the conversation – tried to lie down and listen to music but couldn’t stop shaking, couldn’t get comfortable, couldn’t settle. I lit a cigarette and seemed to have an extra hand. Couldn’t settle. Wondered what I was going to do to occupy myself for the next eight hours. Slight visual distortion – the grimy kitchen floor seemed to be covered with a thin film of luminescent fluid. Eyes closed, a slow tumble of evolving fractals. I grabbed a duvet and tried to get comfortable on the sofa. Everything was Halloween goblins and a greasy carnival procession of fast food, garishly wrapped, marching hotdogs with lunatic grins on their sweaty, idiot faces. I asked why I was seeing such a lot of uninspiring, vaguely horrible shit and the answer was that this was all I could expect – this was all I was fuelling the furnace with, grim and sinister entertainment and wretched dietary junk. I saw the fields I used to walk in as a child, snow covered, beneath a vast, star drilled sky and felt a pang of loss for all of this. Sadness at this strange life. A tear. You’re not feeling anything, I was told, because you don’t allow yourself to feel. You’re obsessed with time, constantly checking your watch, always hoping everything will just hurry up and end so you can flip the timer and begin the next sub panicky countdown to the end of the next thing. You’re never in the moment – apart from this one, which – with its rolling nausea and tremors and sluggish river of dreary, tawdry images to wade through – is going to go on forever. Only half an hour since the come up and already it’s been going on for days. I lay shivering and stretching, somewhere between sleep and sickness, sometimes laughing, sometimes listening quietly to the voice in my head, my own voice, telling me what I already know. It’s no kind of fun, to be watching your mind unravel in such a frankly boring fashion – there’s not even any fear to season the experience. It’s all good, I tell myself – it wasn’t fun that I was looking for, so I’m quite satisfied to have found no fun whatsoever. I’m still grateful. It tells me – in my own voice, in my head – to stop expecting it to do all the work for me and come back in two weeks once I’ve sorted myself out a bit.