by Terk Follos

My first account here was from a time when I was lonely. My discoveries at the time had not yet meshed with the actuality of my environment and I, thus, had not embodied the essence of what I was thinking. It wasn’t until later that I realized it was the embodiment of my environment I had to become aware of in order to escort the discoveries into physical manifestation. Of course by then I’d already stumbled upon that conclusion haphazardly and not without a good deal of growing pains. I feel this tid bit here was representational of that time for me, and the discoveries I’d made up to then are weaved throughout it.

Just over the hill there is where it happened. by Terk Follos

In this place of familiarity he’d walked where he’d walked numerous times before. He’d passed through doorways that stirred distant memories, shadows of a departed past dancing in his subconscious. The location had been explored, the people had been met, friendships had been built and time had been spent in this fortress of shadows.

Yet, nothing was the same. It all seemed alien in its dimension. As if he had not actually been here. As if it had all been a dream long forgotten, or a mirage on his journey through the last time ’round. The people were strange now. Consciously they knew him, but in the depths of their minds they were unnerved by his presence. Had the world he was revisiting changed? Impossible. It was he who had changed. He was different. The others here, in this place, this nexus of past pathways, were quite the same. It was he who had shifted. He who was alien. He who had seen things, done things, been places so existence altering that it felt as though his elemental frequency no longer harmonized with the space he occupied.

He stared straight ahead, eyes relaxed and focused on a far off point, beyond the nearest structure, or person, or shadow. He lifted his heavy hand, momentarily feeling a weakness derived from stagnant muscles lacking proper blood saturation. His arm brought the lit cigarette to his lips and he pulled a long, deep, energizing cloud into his lungs, held it momentarily, then released it into freedom. It’s spiraling wisps no longer trapped in the confines of matter, it danced like a phantom as it dissipated upwards into the atmosphere.

Another strong pull. In an attempt to conserve energy on this treacherous path through his thoughts, his hand fell limply to his side. He could faintly feel the cigarette pressed between his thumb and pointer finger. The heat from the glowing tip rose, gently caressing the underside of his thumb. His gaze was infinite though little visual stimuli found home in his memory. His thoughts seemed to fly by at the speed of–and danced among–the particles of light manipulated by his consciousness. His perspective felt like a black hole for all reason, sincerity and reality. None of these commonly sought out perspectives were available to his churning synapses who were eager, hungry, and terrified of concluding the truth. He was going insane.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have taken so much acid in his years of exploration. Perhaps it would’ve been better to leave the crack pipe alone, to leave the shrooms where they grew and to allow the leaves of the cannabis plant to continue to recycle carbon dioxide, but somehow it seemed these things, or the lack of them, would have changed this moment. This moment was a certainty on his spiraling path towards death. This stream of conclusions felt inevitable–only stumbled upon before his time due to broken hinges and cracked locks left behind as hallucinogens served as the the battering ram for doorways in his mind he’d never known existed.

His hand drew up again, but his self-rolled cigarette had extinguished. He must have been sitting in a trance for longer than his dazed thoughts allowed him to judge accurately. He strained to pull himself erect in the lawn chair he’d been slouching in. Bones and joints creaked as he sat up. As much as he despised the idea, age was upon him.

“This was the day,” he spoke to himself in his own created language (to any hidden observer it would have sounded like mumbling). He knew it. He had dreamt of it. All the doors had been rocked off their frames; smashed through allowing the demons, ghouls, phantoms, and angels out of their confinement. He felt suddenly aware. He was not here. Really. He was not here, in this place. The sheet had been pulled over his eyes for his entire life, but now it had lifted, revealing truth. Revealing actuality.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Terk Follos is a writer, traveler, from Montana who finds himself inspired daily in this beautiful country with all the beautiful people and things in it. Along his journeys he dealt with, was preyed upon, and encountered many new things which together have altered his perception of this life and this universe. He loves to share.