This summer -- the one between my Junior and Senior year -- I had taken it upon myself to expand my explorations into the world of drugs. I have tried a few substances in my short (16 year) existence: marijuana, ecstasy, nitrous oxide, salvia, pharmaceuticals (Vicodin, Zoloft, Ritalin, etc.) and ketamine, but what I have experienced this night with DXM is unlike any other drug that preceded it.

At 3:40 AM I made the whimsical decision to raid my medicine cabinet. I know not what exactly prompted this desparate foray into the realm of weak pharmaceuticals, but an I felt quite adventurous. Spotting a bottle of Vicks, I decided for the second time to attempt to 'Robo.' My first try had been rather unsuccessful, with a terrible offbrand known as Tussin whose taste was so bad that a glass of Vicks afterwards would have been a relief.

I downed approximately three fourths of a bottle, all that there was, and decided that would be enough, as I was absolutely NOT going near the Tussin again. A few minutes afterwards, I sat down to watch a bad movie on television.

A half an hour of TV proved to be one of the most unrewarding experiences of my life. It was so boring I spaced out most of the time, and ended up with my thoughts wandering more than they did during a poor lecture in school. After a bit of this I could bear no more, and moved into my room somewhat disappointed with the effects of Roboing so far.

Let me be frank, the physical effects were minor. Perhaps it was the fact that I only had three fourths a bottle at my disposal, or perhaps it was that all of the drugs I have tried thus far have been very physical and barely psychedelic.

I decided to entertain myself by reading about other DXM experiences, and to see if there was anything I could draw from them. I tried listening to music, petting my animals, speaking aloud, and concentrating on thoughts, and was relatively disappointed. At this point, I would have rather taken four shots of good alcohol than four shots of Vicks.

Then, I made the best decision of the night: to look at my writing. For the next hour, I pored over my random musings from the past few years, and found it a very enjoyable and self-gratifying experience. At this point, I decided to write something, and found I had the DXM to be a fountain of inspiration.

Here is what I wrote, regardless of whether the reader likes it or not, these are my thoughts:

Writing is a pursuit unlike any other. Others who work with their hands – craftsman, agrarian workers, and the like, can simply wake up in the morning and go to their work. The longer they work at it, the better they become, and the better their products are. But woe to the writer, as the most seasoned veteran can find himself seated and staring aimlessly at a blank page for hours, being mocked by it the whole time.

I constantly live in fear. I live in fear that today I will lower my bucket into my well of inspiration, and it will come up as dry as before I arrived. This is not an uncommon occurrence; all too often I find myself leaving empty-handed. And, unlike the others who work with their hands, it does not seem to get better with time.

Indeed, after years of chasing the fleeting dragon of inspiration, I find myself often leaving pages as white as I found them, and then I myself curling up into a little ball of vapid thoughts and letting my creative energies seep out of me like worthless ichor. It is so frustrating to find that I can't remedy this situation, sometimes I simply can't write.

There are those who have defeated this dragon, and who can simply create beauty from nothingness, who have found some eternal spring of inspiration in which they bask and thrive.

Well, to be quite frank, damn them, and damn inspiration. I want to be able to sit down and transcribe my thoughts and feelings whenever I damn well please, I don't want to be a thrall to this inimical beast, I want to be freed of it, I want to be a wayward spirit who can transmute his deepest emotions into marvels for others to see.

But, I suppose if it were so simple, everyone would be a writer and there would be nothing left to say. A paradox, but as long as inspiration safeguards my right to be original, I suppose I shall go on chasing the dragon.

Then this:

I'm sitting in my room as I write this. It is my sensory deprivation chamber, a place where I can live freed from concerns that I will have an epiphanic moment or even a deep thought. Tonight I challenge myself to remember what the night sky looks like, while my blinds are rolled up and my fluorescent lights give off eternal daylight.

When I think of that night sky, I see a superimposed image of swirling stars. But is this a night sky I saw? Is this a night sky that has ever existed? Or is it merely a figment of my imagination, my mind feebly trying to produce an image that bears some semblance to the original?

I think that is it; I think I know not what the night sky looks like. Examining my 'recollection,' I see no noticeable constellations, nor any of the planets which so often festoon the evening sky. No, this is merely a black canvas with little white dots, something my room has drudged up in an attempt to keep me from experiencing nature.

Or perhaps I am looking at this in the wrong light. Perhaps this night sky is actually a thing of beauty, something my mind's eye has created. Maybe it outshines all other night skies, and it is a culmination of all the beauty I have experienced while laying on my back and peering into that endless expanse of blackness sprawled above me. Maybe this night sky is something no other human can or will ever experience, something uniquely mine.

Or maybe, just maybe, that's my room speaking to me, fooling myself into staying beneath this fluorescent sun for just a few more hours.

I found writing to be a most rewarding experience! All my life I have loved writing, but what a mercurial pursuit it is! I have to be in the right mood, have creative energies, be inspired, and have time to myself. So many conditions have to meet in order for my work to be acceptable, and not for me to close Document 1 without saving changes.

But DXM, the lovely mistress she is, gave me free reign to write as I please. Even now I can still find myself able to craft works, as it is but a couple hours after that one bottle.

After that, I saw the bottle in a whole new light; no longer is DXM some cough syrup, or a poor man's high, but inspiration in a bottle. It lessens my inhibitions, impedes my thoughts in no way (at least on paper, the thought of a conversation right now is most daunting). I find myself with nearly my whole vocabulary at my disposal, I can focus in on but a single thought and expand it into a whole document.

After I finished those works, I noticed it was light out, and made the decision to go for a walk around the block. Outside was beautiful, as always, and before I knew it I was a quarter of the way around the block. Ahead I spied a person doing their morning powerwalk, and the thought occurred to me that I must be a sight: a disenfranchised youth chewing a stick of gum (to lessen the aftertaste), reeking of cheap cigarettes (that I had pilfered from my parents and partaken in that night), walking down the street gawking at everying and wearing one dirty sock (which I had neglected to take off before the walk). I said hello to her, as if to lessen the surprise and not try to seem discreet, and she replied with 'good morning.'

Oh how right she was! It was a good morning, a beautiful morning, a morning streaked with Vicks 44 and abound with inspiration! To make matters even more odd, I ran into her on the other side of the block. This time, instead of reaffirming what a great morning it was, she simply laughed at the sight of me.

I then returned to submit this humble report. Part of the importance of it, I believe, is that it is written while I am still under the influence of DXM (which is why I chose to preface the report with that). I find it most interesting I can write uninhibited while under the influence of this substance.

I by no means profess to be a writer, nor do I plan to pursue that career (as now it seems that would require vast amounts of DXM). Instead, I merely wish to assert that I am what I am, a sixteen year old caught up in the swirling mists of his fantasies, thoughts, and fancies.

I simply cannot believe what this nectar has released in me, I knew not I had such creative energies abound. I normally can only write a tad when the circumstances are correct, but now I seem to be able to create these circumstances at my will! I sincerely hope that this is not some fleeting change that will disappear as the effects of Vicks 44 wear off, but somehow that seems all too feasable.

Exp Year: 2001	ExpID: 7494
Gender: Male
Age at time of experience: Not Given
Published: Jun 19, 2003	Views: 14,998
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