al clark

"36. Chicken Chow Brain"

a simple, small, inoffensive capsule.

like a liquorice torpedo.

brown.  a muddy brown. a weak brown.

 

pop the capsule and all will be good.

like an obedient puppy, i do.

and i believe.

and i leave.

without realising.

 

for six years.

 

it’s only the sense of returning that suggests there was ever a departure.

i start to sense more awareness.  more connection.  

even as i type i feel as if i’m amongst the letters appearing on the screen,

moving around them, swinging from the arms of a ‘t’ like a kid on a lamppost.

 

the thing is, we don’t really know what this medication does to us.

 

now that i have rid myself of the shackles of listening to anyone’s point of view as fact,

i have entered a new world.

it’s an uncertain world as well as a world with more freedom,

because i am traveling through a space where nothing is true.

there is no comfort to be had in anything.

there is no security.

and perhaps that’s why we believe all this stuff.

perhaps that’s why we are fed it.

perhaps this is what really controls the masses.

the insistence on right or wrong, truth or lie, fact or fiction.

 

this is a pill which will stop you feeling ill.

for i am a doctor and my word is gold,

i’m here to tell,

and you are here to be told.

 

and my concern with every sentence,

with every piece of great language i manage to put down on the screen,

is that i will lose the thread.

i feel that i am programmed to remind myself that i have no ability.  that i will forget.  

that i will not be able to keep this momentum going, this belief going, this sentence

carrying on to the end.

the demons will appear and convince me that i’ll lose the thread, and guess what......

 

western fact. controlling the masses.  let me explain that.  western fact.  this is a fact.  

it is set in stone.  no doubting its truth, its validity.  it happened.  it is written down.  it is gospel.  i feel fine.  i feel strong.  i can believe in something.  whether it be god or an animal spirit, or that i’ll drown if i can’t swim,

or that there is no pickle left.

 

i can feel my tension ease.  

 

is this another element of the drug?  has it created tension?  i have no idea. we have no idea.  we take the truth and we run with it because to not do so would leave us floundering.  to question everything would give us no stability.  leave us floating.  but that is exactly where i am now.

 

and by scratching a hole, i have created an opening in the scenery through which i can step.

but once i have stepped through it,

if i return,

there will never be anything but a blank canvas.

 

and maybe that’s what happens.

that all the processing which has happened during the time under the influence of the drug has subliminally become part of me, but because of the sense of detachment, i haven’t been able to recognise it.  perhaps when i stop taking the drug it will be like traveling forward in time, like becoming someone 6 years older overnight.

 

6 years of lessons learnt, of reconditioning, of maturing, or rebuilding, will be revealed.

 

but dare i lift the carpet to see what’s been swept under it?

 

those of us who feel more threaten those who make.

the dissenters need to be silenced.

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