The first actual visual anomaly was a pattern against the oppressively squared drop ceiling. "Not to go all interior decorator on you." A flight (flock? school?) of sea turtles, not moving individually, but simply gliding as a whole, like wallpaper in motion.
Constant laughter. The striking impact of feeling the physical influences. To experience some sensation and know it is the drug, was an additional sensation in itself. When I opened my mouth to explain why I was laughing it felt like pushing Play-Doh through one of those shape-makers. Words too thick to work my mouth around them. Everything became 3-D: sounds, movements, thoughts..
"I'm having these thoughts and I don't know if I'm having them or if you are."
In the very beginning I would have preferred tv over the random winamp setup, but the immersion into the songs became irresistible after some time. Songs that normally would have been skipped without consideration became miniature worlds.. an environment to set up camp within. Pushing your mind and dragging it through the sound. To love every song, move through it, experience it holistically. Surface in the middle to the memory of knowing the drug is holding you.
At various times we felt like reptiles, or like fish.. the feeling of our skin moving against each other as we twisted and twined in ways that seemed unreal. When I'd look at our hands, our fingers meshed together, I was afraid to open my eyes much. They teared constantly but I was too happy to cry.
"I was wrong, I thought I was chasing you."
Bodily functions felt like a weight dragging me down in the most unpleasant way. The real does not mix well with the surreal.
Every time another piece of clothing was being removed was a surprise. I couldn't comprehend that I was still wearing them, anything at all.
Words recirculated through my consciousness, recognizing the enactment of so many descriptions I'd heard. It's not something that can be communicated, but it's something that can be forewarned against, I suppose. Feeling some element of it, and recognizing how it fits into someone's description of their own experiences, and understanding that their words alone couldn't have conveyed the actuality of it.
In my own mind, for far too long, every thought played out to the vision of little white mice, running the maze. Sad punctuation to feelings of knowing or understanding.
After a while the repetition became very much a burden. When every thought has been worked over ad-infinitum, every word has been said and re-said and "Did I actually say this? Yes, 10 times or more.".
My fake nails seemed so short, a repeated theme. Something else that made me close my eyes. A memory of scraping them against the wall, at one point late in the drink, and wanting to write something about it. PJ Harvey and fake nails and guts, in the organ sense.
"When I touch you it feels like I'm stealing."
He was a shape in my arms, that when he left the room or got up an empty space remained in that shape, against my chest. It was so hard not to get up when he'd leave, and when he remained in the room I begged relentlessly for him to come back into bed, into my arms, such was the emptiness, the feeling of a hole where he wasn't.
The repeated theme of filters, in shapes. The idea of things entering the senses through shapes. Similar to yet remarkably not like colored glasses.