Sign ‘O’ The Times Nearly Killed Me

A weekday, like any other, about nine years ago. A grey oppressive sky. An Edinburgh sky. Neither of us is at work. He’s a proper stoner. My intake not as great. Prodigious nonetheless. What else is there to do.

He gets his gear. Grinder, lighter, bong.

“look at these crystals”, he says. “That’s the good shit.”

He goes through the process. It’s like a ritual. Finally he lights it, inhales and passes to me. I do the same.

I feel the cool burn, like fire made of air. I’m underwater. I sit back on the couch and slide inward. My head is made of static. A constant ephemeral movement.

On the DVD player, Sign ‘O’ The Times. Prince jumps. Spins. Falsetto, basso, everywhere in between. Guitar, piano. He writhes like he’s possessed. How does he move like that? People shouldn’t be able to move like that. It’s not right. Prince’s legs blur. So does the wall behind the TV. It’s alright I think. I’m just high. Really high. I smile. I’m really high. Pinned to the sofa, my mouth dries and my top lip sticks to my gum.

“I’m wasted” I mumble.

The TV is sliding away from me. Like I’m looking through binoculars from the wrong end. Prince is on his back, convulsing, squirming. His guitar screams.

I need a drink. I stand. A second later my body follows. Like sand. I walk to the sink. It’s only ten steps, but the floor is uneven. Swelling. My legs can’t navigate it. It’s too far away. Yet somehow I manage to turn the tap on. Fill a cup and drink. Try to drink. The lip of the cup is too thick. Water dribbles down my face.

“I need to lie down”

“You’re just high, man. Ride it out”

I stumble back to the sofa and stumble on to it. I’m falling into myself.

“I really have to lie down.”

Prince and his band are locked in, the groove attacking me. A gleeful violence, mocking, taunting. Prince’s playful smirk feels like a threat.

I make it to my room. I’ll be fine in five minutes. I lie on the bed, and it immediately starts to spin and fall. Nothing but a pinprick of light. I’m hurtling down, inward. Always inward.

I crawl under the covers. I’ll be fine in five minutes. Falling. Darkness. Inward.

Images begin to flash past my eyes. A hut. Children. A woman crying. A pig having its throat cut. People fucking. Hospital wards. Prince. They change and disappear so quickly, but I see and comprehend them all.

I take my clothes off. Naked under the covers. I fall faster. I’ve fallen inside myself. I can’t get out. I fall further, faster. Images appear and disappear. Never the same. Faster

Piles of money.

Faster.

Piles of bodies.

Faster.

A man with no head.

Faster.

Prince screams.

Faster.

A baby with an ice-cream.

Faster.

Prince drops into the splits. Bounces back. Pushes the mic stand away.

Faster.

The mic comes back. Prince grabs it without missing a beat.

Faster.

Faster.

Faster.

I’m dying. I realise this without panic. I’m dying and I’m not frightened. The images were answers. The answers. I know everything. I am everything. I am the universe and I am the key to the universe. I have the answers. But I’m dying. With the answers in my head. This doesn’t make me sad. I am beyond emotion. This is what dying feels like. You are given the answers and you die in true contentment. I am the universe. Everyone is the universe. We hold a piece of the answer within ourselves. At this revelation I realise I have stopped falling. I am within myself. I am within the universe. It is silent. There is no pain. There is no fear. There is only this.

A thrumming noise. It changes, becomes a tapping. Wood being tapped. My flatmate knocking my door.

“Phone for you”

“Are you coming to the pub quiz?” My girlfriend.

Fucking Prince. Nearly fucking killed me.