Plastic gods and chemical promises

The bag.

Holy relic. Sacred pouch of chaos. The glowing chalice of the modern dance floor prophet. Every

raver’s totem, their rainbow passport to the pot of gold where reason dissolves into laser beams

and the gods of BPM whisper secrets of the infinite.

And oh, believe me, I’d been riding that rainbow. Bareback, barefoot, brain-bent and slobbering

on the edge of transcendence. But the thing about rainbows is, sometimes they bite back.

Sometimes the bag decides it’s sick of being used, sick of being poked and prodded by sweaty

fingers, it declares war.

That’s the nightmare. The war of man vs. bag. The chemical rebellion. The coup d’état of

consciousness. The drugs rallying behind enemy lines, taking your motor functions hostage while

your eyes stare lovingly into the cosmic abyss, whispering, “You did this to yourself, you beautiful

idiot.”

I’ve always had that disease… Curiosity. The kind that makes you want to stick your head through

the bars of reality just to see what kind of monsters are chewing on the other side. Insanity and

experience. They’re twins, really. Born of the same mad mother.

Tonight’s conjuring substance: Ketamine. The Trickster. The slippery bastard of the chemical

family. No two bags alike. Every trip a roulette spin on the spectrum between transcendence and

rolling around on the floor, looking like a fool Sometimes you become a philosopher, gently

unraveling the philosophy of the universe. Sometimes you become a slab of pink meat with Pink

Floyd echoing in your skull while you melt through the floorboards.

A K-hole, when it hits right, is an Escher staircase of the soul, you keep looping back to the same

spot, screaming into the same eternal hallway of your own thoughts. It’s a Mobius strip of

madness that laughs while you try to describe it.

So there I am, deep in my pocket, fishing past the relics of normality. Wallet, phone, keys,

mortality. Searching for that precious baggy. My fingertips go spelunking, desperate and

trembling. Nothing.

Gone. Vanished. The Bag! My heart drops through my shoes. I retrace steps, replay memories,

calculate karmic debt. The raver’s primal panic: I’ve lost the key to the kingdom. Pockets are now

wormholes, sleeves become dimensional gateways, and just when despair begins to hum in my

veins… There it is.

The plastic skin of salvation. Cold. Smooth. Holy. My pulse bows in gratitude.

But the story doesn’t end there. Oh no. The mushrooms had staged their own coup d’état, and

now opening the damn bag was like wrestling a live eel in a see-saw. Sweat. Shaky fingers. I try

every known technique: the two-finger pincer, the three-finger hook, the legendary German

Friction Method. All failures. The bag mocks me. It breathes. It laughs.

And so, in my chemically liberated wisdom, I turn to the nearest human.

“Excuse me, mate?” I croak to some poor soul who’s just trying to stay upright in the galaxy of

lasers.

He looks at me, blinking in four dimensions.

“Yes, mate?”

For a moment I forget why I spoke. My brain is like a TV that just plays static.

“Errrrr” spoken with drool down my chin...

“Oh yeah, the bag,” I mutter, half to him, half to the pillar infant of me that keeps looking at me

weird. But then I start slipping, melting between K-holes like a jazz note falling off the sheet. His

words stretch like chuddy. My thoughts float off on little balloons.I bolt. Can’t stand the human gaze. What must he think? Some sweat-soaked lunatic babbling

about plastic and enlightenment. I hope he forgets me. I hope he doesn’t.

But the bag remains. It’s there, glistening, mocking. My nemesis. My lover. I need help, but the

crowd is a hallucination. A swirling stew of disembodied heads, eyes, and mouths, all dancing to

music that seems to come from inside my skull. Reality and illusion are tangoing drunk across the

dance floor.

Time slips. Thought fractals. I’m Dorothy, running down the yellow brick road made of glowsticks.

The flying monkeys are my brain cells, screaming nonsense and philosophy in the same breath.

Then, salvation. A tap on the shoulder.

The light hits his face like a halo. My mate. My savior. My divine locksmith.

“Where’ve you been, man?”

I laugh. 

“Been on a journey, brother. A long, strange crawl.”

“Can you open my bag?” I ask like a man begging for mercy.

He looks. He laughs. He tells everyone.

Now I’m surrounded, familiar faces spinning in psychedelic orbits around me. The laughter ripples

through them like waves through water. With one swift flick, my friend opens the bag.

The bag opens.

And from within, glory. A blinding rainbow of hexagonal psychedelic light shoots upward like a

Vegas fountain of madness. I scream “YEEEEEES!” at the top of my lungs, possessed by the spirit

of Hunter Thompson and God Himself. Every eye turns. Every soul stares.

Oh no. Did I say that out loud? Can they hear my thoughts?

I lower my head, clutching my cosmic contraband like a sacred relic.

This is it. The mission complete. The bag surrenders. The night is mine.

I dip in with trembling reverence, as if I’m carving my name on the moon.

Euphoria. Relief. Cosmic justice.

Mission accomplished.

Epilogue: The bag later betrayed me. Split in my pocket like a cheap promise.

A formal letter of outrage is currently being drafted to the manufacturer… Preferably while sober.

Until next time,

Yours in the chemical dance we share