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Visuals are usually where we first notice the change. Colors become brighter, or perhaps more pronounced. Maybe it’s not the colors, but something’s different. The world feels warmer, richer. The sun was never brighter; the night was never darker. When we’re sober, life looks like a digital photo. When we smoke, life looks like a Polaroid. Lines and borders become more defined; things stand out against their background, almost cartoonish in their definition. The world looks cel-shaded.

Time ceases to be a fluid event, and rather divides into instances unrelated to each other. We find it hard to link events or place them into context. As we walk up the stairs, we cease to remember how we got there, or why. Events are independent; we are what we’re doing. In a sense, we’re “in the moment.” At higher doses, time stutters and lags. When we look around, it seems like we’re skipping frames. Memories bubble up to the surface; we experience the sensation of being somewhere we’ve been, feeling a way we once felt. We’re reminded of places from our childhood, experiences from our past.

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Jesse was very high. He told her so; “I’m very high,” he said. Eva nodded her head. Eva was very high, too. Sometimes the leaves held to the trees until the start of November. Not this year; a dry spell had sent them down weeks early, and they lined the roadsides, oak-brown, spinning behind the car as Jesse drove past.  It was windy, and dry leaves skittered across the road with every gust.

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It’s not that you actually think you’re 7 years old. You’re not seeing things; you’re not hallucinating that the wall in front of you is the one from your old bedroom. It’s very subtle. I’ll circle around it with a story.

I’ll be sitting outside on a summer day, and for a brief moment, almost too brief to notice, I’ll feel like I was back in Germany, five years old, walking on a sun-baked dirt path with vineyards on either side of me. Maybe it was the color of the sun as it moved out from behind a cloud; maybe it was the warm air against my skin. I’ll never know what it was, but something brought back that memory, and for an instant it was as vivid as though I was there. But just as quickly it’s gone. Trying to get the feeling back is like trying to recapture a dream upon waking.

That memory – that’s what it’s like. It’s nothing you can describe in any concrete terms; it’s a  deep feeling that you instantly recognize. You get the feeling that you’re in your grandmother’s house, or your 2nd-grade classroom, or the baseball game with your uncle, and you can’t describe it but it just feels like you’re back there. You feel like you felt when it was happening. It’s a sublimely comfortable and softly euphoric feeling, and if it happened to me every time I smoked, I’d probably smoke a lot more than I do.


Fat Freddy’s Drop – Flashback || 2005/Based on a True Story


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