Twenty Minutes
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Have you ever stared at a word for so long it lost all meaning? Have you ever forgotten how to do something simple, something you do every day? Have you ever forgotten the drive to work, the walk to the bus stop, the name of that one actor who is in that one film and also that one other film?

Then maybe you’ve touched the edges of our world and it’s only by chance your mind didn’t dissolve into darkness like an aspirin in water or like an amazing, adulterated, scientifically-manufactured pill that’ll make you forget

forget e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g

forgetwithhistongueforgetwithhiscockforgetwithyourneedforgetwithyourlust

Staring down into the alcoholic, dark purple drink, you felt yourself slip. Saw yourself as a tiny creature on the edge of the glass, quickly losing grip, your breath hot and fogging up the glass.

A hand on your hand. Concern. Furrowed brow. What was the guy’s name? What was your name?

Led out of the pub, alleyway, darkness, spiralling. See colours. See a doorway to another alleyway that wasn’t really there. See graffiti that sparkles and shimmers and begs and whines to be read. Letters as alive as you. Maybe more alive than you.

The writer can only write what they know and then the words come alive and they come alive and they come alive and they come alive

Someone alive made them and they pulse with every beat of your heart. A heart too big for your chest, a heart that has room for everyone, but doors bolted shut, protecting against the zombie apocalypse of emotion and trust and exposure and vulnerability.

Hand in unloveable hand, lyrics float, find their place, and you’re humming. He’s begging you to say you’re okay and all you can think all you can see is everything humans don’t normally see.

A thumb threatening to press down on the city. Rain in a colour you can’t begin to explain because it’s more of a feeling. More than a feeling Graffiti that moves and preys on people who see it so you look away and stare at your feet. It feels like a while since you’ve done anything human.

Do that thing

that thing that thing that thing

b r e a thing

thing

Maybe you were always a robot pretending to be human. Maybe everyone is a robot. You sneak a glance at your companion. He looks relieved. He looks human. Maybe he’s the only human. You’re the robot.

You can’t feel your face and your lips feel ten times sizer than they should be. You wish for a mirror but at the same time you don’t want to see your new face of metal and bolts which you are sure is there.

“I’ve n-e-v-e-r seen seen this before.”

Your companion is talking and you wonder if your ears are broken or if it only your brain. It’s snapped in two. Goodbye old you. Friends, family, siblings, children, past mistakes, future hopes, fading in and out, jostling to wave their farewell. New brain, new part of the brain, sees colours, smells emotions, ignore facts and run on emotions.

Would you believe twenty minutes? Would you believe twenty minutes to lose all your old self and come out new, like a butterfly from a cocoon? A particularly normal, boring cocoon revealing a particularly ugly butterfly moth that will flirt around near flame, enticed and reckless.

Twenty-odd years making you.

Twenty-odd minutes deleting it all.

One little pill.

Not your fault.

N o t y o u r f a u l t

His.

Remember this part.

It’ll be important later on.

There’ll be a quiz.

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