You know you've done dissociative anaesthesic drugs when unbelievably complex Rorschach-like patterns creep out of the screen, and they are trying to tell you some ominous secret with their frantic dance, the dance of the channel 126, one of those snowy channels you don't pay for. Your fingers have joined them in their frenzy and they dig, oh how they dig in the sofa arms; you can watch them digging, clawing, scratching, but not stop them, for they are of pale yellow clay and they mock you, as they are not yours anymore... How did you get in that sofa? Were you not trashing around outside to the beat of music, trying to hold this joint with your frozen fingers and drag a toke from it, waiting for the sun to set or to rise? You must have thrown your short-term memory to the vibrant wolves lurking in the corners of your room in the meantime... Anyway, you are not dead and reborn since, and that's for sure, because you are listening to the same music as you were, except that now nothing matters, since your mind is miles away from your body, alone in the void where no other concepts exists than the music on your ears, the music is everywhere and everything as if the inside of your skull was hollowed out and covered in loudspeakers. Not knowing if your eyelids are open or closed, you pull yourself back to reality to make the conscious effort of raising them, and at the third pair of eyelids you rise you finally succeed and open your eyes, and if you gaze down you can see your legs jerking in a random direction at every beat of the music... Gods, why have all your members forsaken you? You don't need the ungrateful bastards! They can die for all you care!
You wake up. Were you asleep? No, that state of mind is beyond the realm of sleep; but you must have tried to sleep, since you are in your bed... Yes, you are in your bed because you wanted to be awake for 6:00 in the morning... But it is now 7:00, and the class and the bus are leaving at 7:30 for your gym class hike. You see your house, dimly lit by the raising sun, the walls zoom around you, you see your fingers fumbling for granola bars and extra socks, you hear your voice asking your father to get you to school, because you have to be there or you fail the class, your voice is a croaky whisper but it's not quite yours anyway. You are still quite far away from what's happening, how could they not see how big your pupils are, before you know you are getting out of the car, almost trip and fall down, realise the bus is late... You'll have time to go to the toilet, but your bladder won't cooperate with your urethra, one is pushing and the other one pulling, which one is which you can't tell, you won't have time, the bus is here now. Oh well, you climb in, avoiding the looks of the others, they are looking at you with every cell of their bloated bodies, even though you know they are not... The hike is incredibly long, your breath is always short but your legs never hurt no matter how far ahead you are, and time starts passing in a more linear way as you approach the summit. You finally crash on a chair, while everyone is in line for hot chocolate, and you remain there in the stupor that is a DXM hangover, gathering your scattered memories of last night, regaining your sense of touch, swearing that you'll never do this again but knowing you will, thankful that you survived that day but eager to defy death once more, maybe this time you'll know you've done psychedelics drugs when...