  Written. 3. March. 2001 Acid Steel ( WARNING: This is pure fiction, scraped from the leftovers of my psyche. Part 2 to follow soon. ) The soft clink of steel against my teeth sounds natural amidst the back drop of raucous teens in various stages of rebellious rantings. Ski caps and wallet chains, and mohawks in abundance. I sit quiet, alone, dressed almost somberly in untucked button down shirt and jeans; I'm watching.
Occasionally someone will come up to me, someone I know, to see how I am- mingle- before moving on to more enjoyable company. I'm not very good company tonight, would rather watch than talk, feeling the ebb and flow of anger laced angst. I never did quite fit in here, though it was fun to pretend. But tonight is different somehow, things are vaguely distorted. I feel eyes on me even as I'm eyeing everyone else. And then I catch a glimpse of her at the corner of my vision, little snatches as people walk past. She's leaning against the wall on the far side of the room, a wallflower against a mural of clouds. I think at first she's not real She looks exactly as I'd always imagined someone like her might look. I think maybe the acid I took earlier is starting to kick in. She's tall but not lanky, tone and lithe- inhuman is the word that slips into my mind. Thinking her a figment of my hallucinogenically enhanced mind I don't bother to not stare. The crowd things and I have an unobstructed view of her; I'm drinking her in with my eyes.
She's pale, but so are most of the people here, under this lighting, would be Goths and creatures of the night, or simply malnourished. A heart shaped face, full lips, she reminds me of the actress Angelina Jolie. Her hair is dark and short, but in this light its hard to determine what color. High cheekbones, small ears; I'm avoiding looking at her eyes. Finally, I bring mine to hers, impossibly deep, impossibly green, impossibly alive.
Inhuman. There it is again, a warning? The floor drops out from under me and suddenly I'm falling, drowning in her eyes. I never knew what they meant by that until now. I can't be here. I must be starting to peak to feel this intensely, to dream up someone so real, so Alive. But I can't take my eyes from hers, can't stop this free fall, can't breathe even- and like that someone walks past, and I jerk my eyes away, the connection broken.
I stand, grabbing up my notebook and cigarettes. Keeping my head down I slip out the back door and into the cool autumnal evening air. Already I feel better. More grounded, though I can feel the acid coursing through me and I shake off my hallucination, a bad trip avoided. I hear again the clink of the tongue bar against my teeth as I walk away, down the street, letting the LSD skewed world tilt and tumble around me, getting lost in mundane sights and sounds turned hazy, abstract.
I've gone from Teen angst to being part of a Salvador Dali painting. I'm strolling down the sidewalk, notebook in one hand, lit cigarette in the other. I've always had a talent for acting perfectly sober in public, no matter my mental state. No one pays me any mind. There's an accident up ahead, squad cars everywhere, their flashing blue and reds drawing me like a moth to a flame. I look like all the other rubberneckers milling about, but its those lights I'm looking at. The colours are swirling and blending, exploding into prisms of trippy enlightenment. But I've gawked long enough, my interest is waning and I move on with a sigh. Nothing really holds my interest anymore. Such a wasted, jaded life is mine. She's following me. 
