In reality I am on a couch,
Melting into its cushions
In the heights of an acid trip.
With my consciousness phasing
In and out of my corporeal being,
I lose grip, and project:
There is an ambulance,
Somewhere,
Backside down in a sinkhole
In some street,
And in the back is a dying man.
Each wavelength of perception pulls me into him;
I meld with his soul --
We become one:
Our face is pressed against the shattered glass
Of the left rear window,
Strewn in a suspension of blood,
Oil,
Dirt,
And pitch black asphalt.
We are not moving.
We cannot move.
We are crumpled into a position unnatural.
I see us from third-person and first-person
Simultaneously:
This ruined human form, broken and doomed.
Our heart is slowing.
The blood pools against our left cheek.
Each beat is slower than the last,
Each pump more shallow.
We're slipping away.
And then, at once,
No more beats,
Our eyes glaze over,
And I dissipate;
Melt into the folds of unknown realms:
I sink away.
There is no "Human" here;
There is no identity.
Nothing but pure wavelengths,
About me drift celestial ribbons,
Alight with infinitely brilliant reds and ultraviolets:
Pure mathematics,
Metaphysical, immaterial --
I do not ask where I am.
I am no longer "I".
My conscious spirit, my soul, my being,
Dissolves into the primordial frequencies
Of this sublime realm.
I touch infinity.
I become one with the source from which
All organic matter receives energy,
Where all life is recycled,
Where I am led to believe we go when we die:
The Conduit of Consciousness.
Yet, I am awoken,
Face down in a gravel driveway
Outside the house with the couch.
Much of my inside lip is missing.
My mouth tastes of dirt, grime, and blood.
It is five in the afternoon.
I'm on Earth.
My name is Forrest.
It seems that I am alive.
People, humans, ones that I know,
Are around me,
And they bring me up.
By: Forrest Jorgensen