The bag. A necessity for any raver. That beautiful bag lets you ride the rainbow to the leprechaun's pot of gold. And believe me. I'd be riding that rainbow all night. But what do you do when your bag starts a war with you? Every raver's worst nightmare. The drugs send you in total disarray. The loss of all motor functions is imminent. Looking at the bag dreaming of where it might take you and the limitless expanse of knowledge and experience that it holds within. However dangerous and seditious the process of taking drugs might be, I've always been curious. Wanting to explore the realms of insanity and experience. After all, insanity and experience are close relatives in this world.
Ketamine was the substance in the bag. I've often found personally; no two bags are the same. Every experience range dramatically. Sometimes it can create an almost euphoric, conversational feeling. Sometimes it makes you just want to put Pink Floyd on and fall unconscious. Effects on the body can entail confusion, a Detached state of mind and euphoria. Ket-holes can cause extreme self-evaluation and retrospective thinking, sometimes leading to what I like to call 'the loop'. This is a strange experience which is hard to describe. It visually takes you on a journey that ultimately leads you back to the exact point your in. Hard to describe, but I hope anyone with similar experiences will understand my gibberish.
I reached into my pocket, working my way past the wallet and phone, on the hunt for my 'baggy'. Scouring around each pocket frantically… Nothing. The bag was gone. "Shit", my heart sank. Had I really lost it?! That awful feeling consumed me. So, I started frantically remembering every place I'd had it out. Any clue that might be able to indicate the location. Pockets start appearing in places you never knew existed. Then inside a pocket, the bag had no reason to be in, my fingers suddenly felt the smooth skin of the plastic bag. Relieved, I can finally relax. Perfect.
On to the next task, opening it. The mushrooms take full effect, and the task becomes almost daunting. This has been a problem in the past. Fingers sweating. It's time. Tackling the bag at every angle. Like I was wrestling with a snake almost. Throwing my figures back and forth, but the bag has a mind of its own. Laughing at me, the bag is untouched and ready for anything I can throw at it. My patience and endurance were dwindling. I'm not getting anywhere. Every technique I'd been taught throughout my life came to mind. The 'two-fingered pincers method', 'the three-fingered hook technique', and the 'German friction method'. Nothing is working.
I had no option. In a drug-fuelled haze, I turned to the person next to me, "excuse me, mate?". The poor, poor stranger. He had no idea what he was getting himself into. As the drugs were having a bigger and more significant effect on my insanity and mindset, I felt myself slipping away from the conversation, even though I was in the middle of it. My mind was miles away... "Yes, mate?" he replied. I snapped back into reality, and I was back in the conversation. "But why did I need him? I have no idea", I pondered inside my head. The ketamine was sending me into a trance. Slipping in and out of ket-holes, the likes of which I'd never felt before. The confusion was thick and unmovable. I left sharply and as quickly as I could. But what must he have thought? I wonder if this little encounter left a lasting impression of me. A scarring memory, maybe? Or, hopefully, like the memory of a leaf in the wind, the encounter might just float away.
However, my mission wasn't over. The bag was now laughing at me, staring at me. I had to ask someone to get it open for me, or the night was certainly over. But who? I didn't want to chance it. A familiar face was poking out the top of the crowd, and I knew I was saved. But the psychedelic wave was making it extremely hard for me to see which direction his almost levitating head was in. The picture in Infront of me looked like millions of floating heads. In every direction. Floating heads, all participating in a ritualistic dance to… I wasn't quite sure. The music felt like it was miles away, and my head was inside a cartoon fishbowl. I couldn't diverge now, or I would certainly become side-tracked. The beautiful shapes and patterns rushed to my eyes, coming so quick that I couldn't process what they looked like… It could have been the light show inducing this visual phenomenon; now I've pondered the memory. But who could know? The reality between what the drugs are making me see and what I actually see are intertwined. A twisting, turning dance of reality.
How long will it take for me to open this bag? Will I ever be able to get into the bag? What if I never get back into the bag? What will happen if I sober up? All these thoughts flying around my brain like the flying monkeys on the Wizard of Oz, and I was Dorothy just trying to get down the yellow brick road.
All of a sudden, a light tap on my shoulder. The lights shone behind his head like a halo. An angel has appeared before me, sent by the ketamine gods themselves to fulfil my mission. "How you doing, mate? Where've you been?", He uttered. In total amazement, I took a minute. "Mate, I've been on a journey, to say the least," laughing as I responded. The intensity had calmed down, and I knew what my purpose was "could you open my bag for me?" I jumped to ask. He took one look at me and laughed. Before answering, he turned around and told everyone around us everyone laughed at the situation. Suddenly familiar faces were standing around me. I was obliviously standing right in the middle of my mates. We laughed at the situation, and with obvious ease, he opened the bag. Shaking my head in disbelief about how I simply couldn't get this bag open.
Finally, as the bag opened. As sure as I see the sky in front of me. A sort of rainbow of hexagonal-shaped psychedelic pattern shot out of the bag, and I knew I was in 'the business'. I screamed "yeeeeess" out of pure excitement, but everyone around me stared. I felt every eye gaze upon me. I kept my head down. "I'm trippin'," I thought. "Oh, wait, did I say that out loud? Am I speaking out loud? Can they hear me? A sort of silence fell upon me, and all I could think about were the fixated eyes glued to my bag. But this was my mission; this was my bag…With a glazed look in my eyes, I took my keys out and lunged at my bag. As if it was my last meal on death row. The feeling was surreal. My mission was complete. I can finally relax.
I hope anyone who has been in a similar situation can relate.
Extra info: The bag later split and spilt in my pocket. A formal letter is being written to the manufacturer. Useless.
I hope you've enjoyed. This has been story-time.
Signing off, yours truly, Justified Passion.
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