Trip
This is fictional. I've never been high, and I don't intend to be. Drugs consume. Anyways, sort of stream of consciousness status...
---
I'm sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall.
Jeb's on the couch,
sprawled.
We're sweating.
We're shivering.
We're
losing our minds.
There used to be candles on the windowsill.
Now there are rainbows, pulsing, breathing, living demons.
They're crouched there, ready to pounce.
Outside the window, there's lightbulb. And inside,
there's a moth, trying to get it.
It keeps knocking its feathery head against the glass,
shuddering,
trying again.
Failing.
It's not gonna get through. Something about that makes me want to
cry.
Suddenly, Jeb's pointing at the lamp, saying, "Look! Look at the lamp! Quick! You see it!"
I look at the lamp and it's been splashed with water and it's dripping off the canvas.
Just before it hits the floor, the cord pulls it back up and it flops back into place.
Looking at it makes me sick.
The rug is made of a million red blades of grass and they're blowing in the wind,
but we're inside and the window's not
open.
I point at it, at the rug, trying to get Jeb to look at it, to see what's wrong with it.
He's not paying attention.
On either side of me, drums are going off. One beat lasts a good
fifteen minutes which is equivalent to
a split-second in here.
Or maybe a year.
In a year, they'll discover we're gone and maybe they'll be sad, maybe not. They were going to
ship me off, anyway. That's what she told me. I don't really know.
In a year, they may forget about us and have more children, or if they don't want children,
they'll get a fish, but Father doesn't like fish, and Mother likes cats so maybe they'll get a
cat.
The door's exploding and quivering and shrieking.
Jeb looks up and says, "Jacki, the lamp!"
She storms in, my sister Jacki, and she screams and screams,
"What have you done to him? You bastard! What have you done to him!"
And I look back at the moth and it's still hitting it's furry head over and over and Jacki's still screaming at Jeb
and I start to cry.
Now the room that was swimming is dissolving and everything is one big ugly canvas
with a dripping lamp
in the corner.
In a year, they could redo the bathroom. They could get rid of the tub with the claws on it's feet.
I think of that and cry harder.
"What have you done to him! If you hurt him, I'll kill you! I'll kill you!"
I try to tell Jacki not to kill Jeb because I like Jeb.
I've always liked Jeb. He's the kind of person you want to trust,
you want to help.
I try to tell her, but she's not paying attention.
"You're a no good junkie, that's what you are!
I'll kill you! I'll
kill you for this!"
I envision myself smashing the glass,
flesh covered in blood and shards of moonlight.
I envision the moth flying free, kissing the light with it's feathery wings.
I'm heaved up, off the floor, but this time it's real.
Jacki's dragging me out into the corridor, but I want to stay with Jeb.
My feet and leaden and filled with helium.
In a year, they could buy a Cadillac.
She's easing me down the hall, and while I was in the room,
some monster ripped out the stairs and replaced it with a corkscrew of thorns.
Ghosts and devils are at the bottom, shrieking and wailing.
I shake my head violently and resist her with everything in me.
I'm free and I try to make it back to the room with Jeb.
I've decided I'm going to free the moth.
I get in the room and before I can locate the moth, Jeb says,
"Look at the lamp! Look!"
And I look and I feel faint.
I sort of slump down onto my knees and my face lands in the couch.
So let us pray.
I stay like that until I can't breath and I try to turn my head to see if Jeb's still on the couch, and he is.
I exhale and the room quivers again like the it's having an orgasm because the colors are touching it.
Dragging my hand across my face, I try to get the watercolors out of my eyes, but there are only tears.
I bet we've all got piece of the ocean inside us. They told me we've all got God in us,
so many the ocean is God.
Later, I'll tell Jeb and Jacki.
But right now, I'm at the end of a tunnel and I can see the room on the other side but I can't run to catch it.
And Jacki's back and she's crouching over me, and Jeb keeps saying sorry, he's sorry for everything,
he's sorry he was born, he's sorry he ran away, he's sorry this broken down house exists
and that the cold should have killed him instead and I want to take his hand and tell him no, but I'm numb.
And I'm moving backwards from the entrance of the tunnel.
It's like standing in the ocean up to your ankles when the water rushes back out to sea.
Standing in God.
And I look up at the moth.
It's grown wearier, hitting it's feathery head more and more softly against the glass.
I want to tell Jacki and Jeb to break the glass for me, to let the moth go free.
I close my eyes and exhale.
In a year, they might do something great, something grand.
In a year, there are four seasons and 365 days.
In a year, they might change their minds.
In a year, I'll wake up.
---
I'm sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall.
Jeb's on the couch,
sprawled.
We're sweating.
We're shivering.
We're
losing our minds.
There used to be candles on the windowsill.
Now there are rainbows, pulsing, breathing, living demons.
They're crouched there, ready to pounce.
Outside the window, there's lightbulb. And inside,
there's a moth, trying to get it.
It keeps knocking its feathery head against the glass,
shuddering,
trying again.
Failing.
It's not gonna get through. Something about that makes me want to
cry.
Suddenly, Jeb's pointing at the lamp, saying, "Look! Look at the lamp! Quick! You see it!"
I look at the lamp and it's been splashed with water and it's dripping off the canvas.
Just before it hits the floor, the cord pulls it back up and it flops back into place.
Looking at it makes me sick.
The rug is made of a million red blades of grass and they're blowing in the wind,
but we're inside and the window's not
open.
I point at it, at the rug, trying to get Jeb to look at it, to see what's wrong with it.
He's not paying attention.
On either side of me, drums are going off. One beat lasts a good
fifteen minutes which is equivalent to
a split-second in here.
Or maybe a year.
In a year, they'll discover we're gone and maybe they'll be sad, maybe not. They were going to
ship me off, anyway. That's what she told me. I don't really know.
In a year, they may forget about us and have more children, or if they don't want children,
they'll get a fish, but Father doesn't like fish, and Mother likes cats so maybe they'll get a
cat.
The door's exploding and quivering and shrieking.
Jeb looks up and says, "Jacki, the lamp!"
She storms in, my sister Jacki, and she screams and screams,
"What have you done to him? You bastard! What have you done to him!"
And I look back at the moth and it's still hitting it's furry head over and over and Jacki's still screaming at Jeb
and I start to cry.
Now the room that was swimming is dissolving and everything is one big ugly canvas
with a dripping lamp
in the corner.
In a year, they could redo the bathroom. They could get rid of the tub with the claws on it's feet.
I think of that and cry harder.
"What have you done to him! If you hurt him, I'll kill you! I'll kill you!"
I try to tell Jacki not to kill Jeb because I like Jeb.
I've always liked Jeb. He's the kind of person you want to trust,
you want to help.
I try to tell her, but she's not paying attention.
"You're a no good junkie, that's what you are!
I'll kill you! I'll
kill you for this!"
I envision myself smashing the glass,
flesh covered in blood and shards of moonlight.
I envision the moth flying free, kissing the light with it's feathery wings.
I'm heaved up, off the floor, but this time it's real.
Jacki's dragging me out into the corridor, but I want to stay with Jeb.
My feet and leaden and filled with helium.
In a year, they could buy a Cadillac.
She's easing me down the hall, and while I was in the room,
some monster ripped out the stairs and replaced it with a corkscrew of thorns.
Ghosts and devils are at the bottom, shrieking and wailing.
I shake my head violently and resist her with everything in me.
I'm free and I try to make it back to the room with Jeb.
I've decided I'm going to free the moth.
I get in the room and before I can locate the moth, Jeb says,
"Look at the lamp! Look!"
And I look and I feel faint.
I sort of slump down onto my knees and my face lands in the couch.
So let us pray.
I stay like that until I can't breath and I try to turn my head to see if Jeb's still on the couch, and he is.
I exhale and the room quivers again like the it's having an orgasm because the colors are touching it.
Dragging my hand across my face, I try to get the watercolors out of my eyes, but there are only tears.
I bet we've all got piece of the ocean inside us. They told me we've all got God in us,
so many the ocean is God.
Later, I'll tell Jeb and Jacki.
But right now, I'm at the end of a tunnel and I can see the room on the other side but I can't run to catch it.
And Jacki's back and she's crouching over me, and Jeb keeps saying sorry, he's sorry for everything,
he's sorry he was born, he's sorry he ran away, he's sorry this broken down house exists
and that the cold should have killed him instead and I want to take his hand and tell him no, but I'm numb.
And I'm moving backwards from the entrance of the tunnel.
It's like standing in the ocean up to your ankles when the water rushes back out to sea.
Standing in God.
And I look up at the moth.
It's grown wearier, hitting it's feathery head more and more softly against the glass.
I want to tell Jacki and Jeb to break the glass for me, to let the moth go free.
I close my eyes and exhale.
In a year, they might do something great, something grand.
In a year, there are four seasons and 365 days.
In a year, they might change their minds.
In a year, I'll wake up.