I’d learnt how to let go of the negative self-talk, finally take over my own life and pick up the courage to get myself involved by then - which meant I didn’t look back once when I invited myself to one of his acid parties. He’d humoured me with his nonchalant friendliness, and had me daydreaming of his memories of his last parties. We were Friends of friends; Friends with a capital F - I was a sucker for boundaries, and I was done with crushes. We’d hang out at a small pub after work most Mondays, winning jugs from playing free trivia and convincing our friends to drink another beer.

Thinking about coming to his place that night, I kept running through my head a scenario where someone else would open the front door for me and there I’d be; on my own in work clothes with a pathetic six-pack, as if I had someone to share it with; and walking through an endless entrance hallway lined with friends of his - strangers to me - deep in conversation with each other, belonging there, not making eye contact.

I’d gone anyway, trying to avoid any rational judgement; trying to not think about if going meant anything about my feelings for him. At the very least I knew I could get reasonably fuckeyed and tune out with whoever would be the token party zenmasters. But fuck, between sobriety and the obliteration of polite distance could be a dirty jarring wait. I was glad I had an excuse to be late so I could assume that not everyone would be coldly sober and would be past most of the polite ‘catch-ups’ by then. This is the tricky thing at parties: most girls tend to stick to their own kind and have their own private bonding sessions, or blithely watch their boyfriends talk; and guys tend to assume you’re making moves if you’re fresh meat - especially if you hang around for too long or smile the wrong way.

I’d tried to wrangle a mutual friend into coming but of course he was running later than I was. So I came to his door alone, and not only did he answer the door himself but also his house was quiet, and his handful (!) of friends were spread around his loungeroom, all welcoming me and introducing themselves. Compared to how alienating I was building up the night to be like, I was still nervous but almost shameful for how welcome I felt. I loved his friends for their immediate laid-back warmth.

Everyone had already dropped like I’d hoped so I could nix the small talk pretty soon after arriving and get amongst it. I’d trusted the group straight up but nonetheless I was glad our mutual friend had come and was staying sober and leaving before sunrise. It was when we were walking to the park that I felt my first wave wash over me - billowing energy and power flowing through me, walking like I was swimming with flippers. And looking up at the stars was such an overwhelmingly pure and beautiful experience - swirling fractals of colours and stars, a carousel of lights, and recurring images of cats (even I had to laugh at that - I really was turning into a crazy cat lady).
A constant irritation of mine had always been that the most beautiful things that humans had mastered at capturing were always so…human. All great art was based on expressing existing perceptions of our world, instead of creating something new - like a new colour, or an unheard sound. With acid, I felt like I’d finally experienced something outside of the realm of human expectation; something that I hadn’t already seen expressed in nature. It was so inexplicable and yet, inexplicably accessible.

When I was a kid, I kept in mind that if I ever lost my senses my most treasured sensory experience was an empty beach, and my mother. Sitting there under the stars that night with his friends, and none of us in a rush to get anywhere, I added another experience to my list of ideal penultimate sensory experiences.

suddenglory:

lets share friends and families and gum

Last night I finally dreamt in your language. Now I understand the symbology you talked about; I have a definition in my own words.
I’m trying not to be scared and I don’t know if holding back is for the better or if sensibility is just my scapegoat for closing myself off.
I only wanted you to trust in love but through you, I’ve seen that maybe I’m the one who isn’t trusting enough. It’s not the pain or shame that I’m worried about so much; it’s more that I’m scared of missing an opportunity for enlightenment. For either of us.
For all of my past impatience at others’ needs to feel like they were actively ‘engineering’ their lives, I could definitely learn to lose the facade of control a lot more.
I need to trust in you. And in that, I need to trust in myself - to go against gut instincts, to self-sabotage, to throw myself to the wind and find what remains. I’m almost ready to open the door to you :)

Sometimes I feel like just even writing is too overt. Every word is so stark; so English. Sometimes I just wish a long stream of vowels and syllables, or dots and dashes would suffice. Words become too intellectual and distracting. Irrelevant, even.
When I find a way to speak as powerful as holding hands, I’ll be able to finally start praying.