Psychadelic Sundays

The light from the sun cascades along the empty lake bed. Cows are foraging the arid and yellowed fields. The foreground’s music stages, Ferris wheel, and tents appear like an illusory village. In each reflected ray, I see the entirety of the visual spectrum. Roy-G-Biv vibrates in all instances. I listen and hear an undulating mix of music from the various stages. Writhing, creeping, and flipping.

My senses are overloaded. I lie down and close my eyes. I hear a conversation nearby with a young girl’s voice saying, “My grandmother taught me Japanese when I was young. I didn’t practice so all I remember is how to count numbers.”

My ears tune into another voice, “In the 40’s, people didn’t know about the consequences of smoking. That’s why they continued to be beautiful for the rest of their lives.”

I look up and see webs of fabric stretched to meet the wooden poles surrounding the hill. Winged insects dart through the air. I feel as though I am sinking amongst the pillows, into the soil.

I sit up to watch the setting sun. A bevy of onlookers begin applauding. Howls and cries fill the air. I draw upon the veins of my savagery to join them. All I can produce, however, is a calm and weathered sigh. A deep breath in and another sigh out.

Breathtaking.