23rd Street Chronicles

Okay, I may have some sort of imbalance. Chemical or animal or something.

To elaborate…

Somehow, I find myself walking down a public sort of street, but it seems underground a bit or in a warehouse… though it isn’t. It’s a bit dark…. gritty. But not in a dirty way… in a cool, semi-industrial blue way. The shadows a saturated black. And not sad at all. Not even moody. Refreshingly comfortable in a non-committal way. I wear a cool windbreaker or something of that sort and walk all self-contained like one walks around in New York. Definitely have a messenger bag. A sophisticated, refined but ultra true rapscallionism.

I pass a dock-worker sort of fellow (blue-collar). He is behind one of those large, wheeled, metallic devices… a very large hand-cart, I believe would be the best description. On this very large hand-cart very industrial-sized flour bag/ice bag-esque bags. They are the size of an industrial sized flour bag and sort of flat as well. But they are clear plastic and hold a crystalline substance inside. Just stacked upon each other. Maybe sixteen of these bags…

The dock-worker yells passed me to dock worker #2… something to the effect of “don’t take any of these”. A warning definitely. We all know they are a shipment of illegal drugs.

And I somehow know it is meth… or rather, the thing that I want. I don’t think my mind even differentiates what this substance is. It doesn’t need to because somehow it’s probably symbolic of something much larger than meth or even drugs. It is just “what I want”. The all elusive thing that I want.

I think, and though these are huge bags, and there is the impending doom of the consequence of taking one, I hesitate in my gait, my brain hiccups and I side-step back and sort of grab one with me. I run a bit, but know that I am seen.

By this time, the cops, on foot, have been chasing me. They haven’t seen me, however… I mean, specifically me, I’m sure of this. They just give chase to the individual who has swiped the bag. I don’t remember the sensation of running, but I appear to be sort of concealed by turning a corner. Then somehow, I am running toward them. A medium build to thin black woman (you know that if she wasn’t wearing the cop uniform, that she’d be attractive)… like a cop from a procedural on CBS or something, I think and cop #2 in the background. I drop the bag by some Indian kid and run passed. They never suspect a thing.

Then, I remember that I have some left somewhere. This doesn’t make sense, of course. I guess it just means that its meth.

My surroundings take on sort of a Möbius Strip existence at this point. The aforementioned jammed-packed action went down ‘underneath’ somewhere. A darker place, generally. When I remembered that I had a bit of this drug left, with me, in my possession, somewhere in a general home sort of place. I walked up the Möbius Strip and appeared into the fresh outdoors. Like an open skate park. This place was somehow “my place”. Not my home, in the literal sense because it wasn’t a structure. But I walked along the Möbius Strip and found myself at home in the sun shine.

I’m not sure where the crystalline substance in the bag came from. But I feel like it came from my bag… the bag that I had been carrying with me the entire time. I’m not sure why I needed to walk toward my home up the Möbius Strip. I know it was a left over portion of a gram of meth in a clear baggy. Or atleast that’s what it looked like. Very familiar anyway.

Maybe I all just made it the same thing. What, with the stuff on carts and all. Maybe my brain just needed to reconcile. And the cognitive miser I am… that’s what I do. Another strange thing about this… I remember having no desire to actually do the substance in the bags on the carts. I suppose I always have a general notion that having drugs is better than not. Whatever sense that makes.

In any event, somewhere along the line… I suppose that I do the drug. I don’t remember actually ingesting it… I know that I don’t shoot it. That would be another dream altogether. ha! I mean, I guess this part is maybe irrelevant. I end up in this place that maybe further down the Möbius Strip possibly again, where the place starts to bend and twist. It’s darker again, but an open-ish place. There are possibly 16 people or so sitting in nice columns/rows. Indian-style. A nice accepting pseudo hippy sort of vibe.

They are all high some how… but in a hallucinogenic psychonaut way wherein they are searching for meaning or something. The way I determined they were high is that, in front of each person, there was a sort of computerized square. A seismographic cube of sorts. One could tell how high or not they were or how far they had gone to reach answers or be enlightened or whatever one is supposed to do by the movement in and around the box. Some pulsated some contained pulsating waves… always some color changing. Strange stuff. But at the time, nice and comfortable.

I realized that this was what I was on. And again, it seemed familiar though I didn’t have a definition for it. …only the, “oh, okay… I know what this is. I’ve done this before”. I suppose that I didn’t need a definition for it.

Upon waking (not that I woke then… ohhh, there is still soooo much more, my friend), the closest thing I could liken it to was a non-typical hallucinogen: K. But, again, this is probably irrelevant.

But, at this point, I wasn’t even high… feeling anything, what have you.

And FUUUUUCKKK… seriously?! that is when the real games begin…

…to be continued.