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“Ahhhh…”

I wake up in a cold sweat, head pounding like a bass drum in a tunnel. Vision’s shot—no glasses, no contacts. I’m blind, confused, and feel trapped in my basement apartment, two very different worlds pressing in.

The more that I got into the arts, the more I felt at peace. It felt right.
The deeper I got into black market cannabis, the more I felt stuck. It's not like I didn't like it, I did. Just stuck feeling the need to do one to have the other. 

And in the middle of it all, I asked myself:
Why do I have to choose?
Why is what I’m doing so wrong?
Why can’t I have both—the freedom of creation and the grind of the hustle? My mind often races and hurts from overthinking. Like loud noises I can't seem to quiet, and at this moment it's a cloudy chaotic thunderstorm.

I stumble into the kitchen, grab a glass of water, stand but holding the counter for balance, trying to retrace the night.

It started at Greene’s place. He lived a few blocks away—same neighborhood, different kind of vibe. Greene’s one of my best friends. We met while rushing a fraternity at the University of Louisville.

He’s got that natural chaos energy—a tornado in human form.
Athlete.
Lover of women and the hunt.
Lover of the high.
Didn’t sell cannabis, but he smoked like it was oxygen, and he lived like I did—hard and loud.

And that summer?

It was the Summer of Shrooms.

Since I was already the plug for weed, it only made sense I became the plug for shrooms too.

Not because of the money—shrooms didn’t flip like cannabis—but of course I started selling them. A little extra pocket change, more product options for my people, and a ticket to take the ride for free. Worth it. 

And man, what a ride.

We ate nearly a pound of shrooms between us that summer. Like kids in a candy store tasting something new for the first time. No paitence. Just consumption.
It was like that all summer:
Trips on trips.
Reality melting.
Walls breathing.
Laughter and fear swirling into one.

I got to Greene’s.
Ronald—his roommate and my childhood friend—was already tripping face.

I felt like I needed to catch up. You know FOMO. So I did.
A couple caps and stems down the hatch.

And then?
The world tilted.

We walked around the Highlands, the streets buzzing with bodies spilling out of bars, street lights blending into each other. Here we are. 

I didn’t want to go inside.
Didn’t want to mingle.

But we did. Why? Why not? To feel something different I suppose. 

We stepped into the club, packed and pulsing.

Beams of red, blue, and white sliced through the air.
Greene was already on the dance floor, moving like a man possessed.
People were aliens.
Walls bent and shifted.
Drinks flowed.
Voices echoed.
The whole place felt like a hall of mirrors inside a kaleidoscope.

Back at the sink. Another glass of water.
The sun’s bleeding through the basement window, making it impossible to sleep, but I lay down anyway.

Just staring at the ceiling.

Mind spinning.
Body still buzzing.

Trying to come down. Trying to remember how the night ended.

And then it hits me.

Tonight is the start of tech week.
For The Time I Was Kidnapped By The Church.

And for the first time in my life, I’m about to step onto a real theatre stage.

Still high.
Still spinning.
Still searching.

But alive.