Citation: Xorkoth. "Soliloquy In Blue: An Experience with 2C-T-2 & 3-MeO-PCP (exp109252)". Erowid.org. Oct 9, 2016. erowid.org/exp/109252
||(powder / crystals)
||(powder / crystals)
It's eleven-o-clock in the morning. Reaching out to a friend, I find that he is otherwise occupied. On a whim I decide to snort around 5 milligrams of 3-methoxy-phencyclidine, and then, on a further whim, around 6mg of 4-ethylthio-2,5-dimethoxyphenethylamine, bracing myself for the pain to come.
In truth, it is less intense than I had expected. I steel myself to it, the insistent burning feeling like a kick in the face, but a muted kick, a kick of soft leather, halfhearted but solid. The pain merges with my overall contemplative and listless state of mind. It seems at home. My thoughts begin to muddle pleasantly, in counterpoint to the physical sensations. Momentarily my vision becomes scrambled. What is right before me is clear, but beyond the colors blur together, shapes becoming indistinct, leaves of the trees through my open doors rustling disconsolately and indistinctly in the breeze, mirroring an inner disquiet, a stillness pregnant with barely restrained action.
I find myself at home alone with nothing to do for the first time in a long while, and under the effects of two powerful modulators of cognition. I am so used to always being busy with things or spending time with friends, I find this a bit disconcerting. At first I spend perhaps two hours reading a book, The Way of Kings by Brandon Sanderson. An engrossing tale, though after having just read both of the Kingkiller Chronicle books, it can't quite compare. Not that it's really fair to make the comparison, as both are great. But my thoughts are too spinning, circular and flighty for being truly subsumed by linguistic wizardry. A bit towards brooding. Why did I let my friend borrow my keyboard? What I really want to do right now is play. It's all I can think of. I go outside and smoke a cigarette, but it feels harsh in my lungs. I breathe in the air and feel a stillness. Something is poised inside, but there is nowhere for it go. But it needs to go somewhere.
Coming inside, my eyes fall on my ex-wife's electric piano. I have not plugged it in or played it since she left almost three years ago. Feelings of disgust well up in me, mostly at myself for how I let myself become with her, but also at her for her treatment of me. How could a person be like that towards someone they love? Or towards someone at all? It was sick. It makes me feel dirty for having been a part of it. All the lies, most of all to myself. Covering it up, rationalizing. Allowing her opinions to cut me, the slow loss of grip on myself, the destruction of personality, this was my opinion of myself all along, I just hadn't realized it until she showed me. Cowering, quivering, cowardly. The pain of remembrance, so much pain, quivers on my face for long moments as I stare at the piano.
And then, I plug it in. Mere moments of jostling and dust-brushing reveal its inner light come to life again, a magnificent instrument, once so vibrant and resounding. I find its speakers, ever descending into disrepair, are at last passed, and so I bring out my headphones, which are in fact her headphones. I have been using them all along. I plug them in and begin to play. The notes call out in a poignant soliloquy as my brooding thoughts merge with my hands, and both with the piano's soul. I move through progressions tragic and triumphant, sad and joyous, playful and somber, losing myself for an hour or more. I remember her playing this same instrument, her instrument, her brilliant renditions of Bach and Liszt staggering me with their beauty and raw emotion. I remember the love I felt for her then. I feel her pain, the deep, deep pain that has proven too much for her. I remember the poor, sweet, innocent creature that was also her, and my music weeps for the monster that pain unleashed. The piano weeps at the crushing madness that pulled her from it, that squashed such a delicate talent against the rocks of life, against the insatiable beast of expectation, and the cruel teeth of unconfronted trauma. An unbending limb is bound to break. Its fall is tragic to behold, and those in its way are battered and lacerated by its passing.
Eventually, I stop playing and words tumble around in my head, wanting to be let out. I oblige them, and sit back down to read some more.
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