An Arrow to the Face

I am sitting in the station. At this hour the trains only come once every 30 minutes. Fine by me. I rock back and forth on a bench. All of the awful symptoms are subsiding. The general discomfort in my limbs and face lingers, but the nausea and pain fades. The visuals are beginning to really pick up as patterns of various interlocking parallel lines begin to form on every surface, flashing in lime green and magenta. Oddly enough there are fewer visuals when I close my eyes. The patterns dance and morph on every surface, structured to fit the forms of everything as defined by shifts in value. Its as though the contrast of the world was raised, casting every form into zones of gradation, and the patterns molded to the shape of each zone. People join me on the platform, the odd late night crew of people who ride the subway at 3 AM. They seem so strange, I feel like I deconstruct their existence by staring at them, I wonder what story has brought them to this place in this moment. I wonder how I look, rocking back and forth on the bench and staring aimlessly at blank surfaces.

The subway comes. I climb into a seat and curl up into a ball with my head tucked between my knees. Anyone who rides it this late is probably not perturbed by someone being obviously and heavily intoxicated. And not like I wasn’t in control, but I felt safe enough to close my eyes and sink into the trip as well as I could. Closed eye visuals ended up not being interesting though, so I simply zoned out and took in the world with a thousand-yard stare. Patterns resembling the organized scribbling of graffiti (especially the ‘wicked’ style originating from and prominent in this city) appeared on every surface, giving the subway the appearance of one of those subway cars from New York in the late 70’s, the insides completely saturated with scrawlings. It felt like I had unlocked a hidden world, that the encoded messages of the spirits etched on every surface, normally beyond or below our perception, had been illuminated. It was as if they were basic notes and commentary guiding every object, or the source code underlying existence. I entertained this idea for a bit, letting it chew on my mind and enter the territory of full delusion that normally only arises from dissociatives. The sounds of the train shooting through the tunnels are spectacular and entertaining, further adding to the cyberpunk surreality I have subjected myself to. It definitely feels worth it now.

I arrive at a station where I transfer trains. By sheer chance I encounter one of my friends here. I haven’t talked to him in a long time but we used to be pretty close. He hangs out on the platform with me for a while, his company is warm and reassuring and the sheer randomness of our encounter feels like an embrace from entropy. After he leaves I find myself staring at the walls and floors, watching them like TV screens, the patterns the characters in some absurd geometric sitcom or documentary or something. I look and feel really out of it, though I am also feeling a strong sense of euphoria. The next train comes and I board. The ride was more spacing out and being surrounded by imaginary graffiti.

I get off at the stop closest to my house. I am still tripping pretty hard. I smoke a joint walking home and come into the house with it still hanging from my lips. It’s been a long night. I collapse on the couch of our living room and smoke the rest of the joint down to nothing. It feels immaculately relaxing, I feel so good. It feels so nice to have a house where I can just walk in smoking a joint and throw myself onto a couch without anyone telling me not to. It feels so nice to be on semi-obscure drugs. It feels so nice to be finally back home, warm, familiar, and safe. I go to my room and read stuff on facebook, finding everything more interesting and stimulating and profound than they really are.