F.I.R.S.T.

It all seemed familiar, like I've seen it all before, like even if it was only a VHS recording playing inside my head of things I created it was real. I feel like I created those images a long time ago to visualize something I felt but did not understand. I feel like wanting to remember having played it again, for the first ride; wanting to remember  how it felt natural to translate it into those visuals, those colors, in order to understand it.

My dreams are never surreal, they're day to day happenings mixed with a little adrenaline, like me and my friends, the drama, and some zombies for the extra something now and then. But the things I visualize then, boy, are they something. It used to be colors, shape shifting fleshy, yellow and pink lunchboxes, fleshy cartoons in grey and pink, like looney-toons but with melted off fleshy faces. Fleshy, eye-shaped birthmarks like the one on my foot with my hair and my arms, but now, now it's old ladies stretching their eyes into threads to sew with, yellow fields of tall grass, pieces of wood clanking together, turning softer with each clank, a stub rubbing off on loose vandages, all sorts of crooked things of sensations that I try to understand by translating into these, these lysergic images.