You need the drugs, as it turns out. You need them to make the world shine, to show you it’s more than a three-dimensional dump.
You need them so you understand – truly understand – that the fourth dimension is you, your mind. It’s what brings everything to life. It’s what makes a pedestrian crossing into an altercation with your long dead grandmother, the smell of tarmac into a helicopter, a closed down video store into inspiration for the best story you’ll ever write. It’s what makes a tower block look like a streak of wet paint, transient, never finished. It’s what makes the blood in your veins pure magic.
You little time machine, you.
But what a mess we’re in now. We don’t know your elbow from mine. Whose trip is this?
One of us was obsessed with lines of flight. One of us with micro robotics and biology. Medicinal, they were, weren’t they? Tiny internal readers, turning us inside out. Monitoring our levels: hormones, brainwaves, grips on reality. Micro managers. Machines becoming drugs becoming gods. Measure the dose and detach the body from the organs just long enough to achieve the impossible.
I remember the impossible. Needles, spaceships, dying. But then, without objective anchors, perhaps memory is no different to fantasy.
Header image source: Pixabay.
C.R. Dudley 