I was sitting in my friend’s dimly lit basement, surrounded by a few friends who assured me they’d “keep an eye on me.” The air was thick with the scent of incense and the faint hum of a playlist in the background. I took a deep hit, held it in, and exhaled slowly.
Almost immediately, reality began to fold in on itself. The edges of my vision became pixelated, like the static of an old TV. Suddenly, I wasn’t in the basement anymore—I was in a never-ending field of sunflowers, but these sunflowers were alive, humming in unison and leaning toward me as if to whisper secrets.
Then, the ground beneath me began to roll like a conveyor belt. I was pulled toward a massive carnival in the distance. The rides and booths weren’t made of metal and wood—they were made of my childhood memories, all stitched together in a kaleidoscopic patchwork. The Ferris wheel was turning slowly, and as I got closer, I realized each seat was occupied by a past version of myself: a baby, a teenager, a college student. They all waved at me in perfect synchronization, their movements eerily mechanical.
The sensation of my body disappeared completely. I was no longer a person but a fragment of a giant spinning wheel, part of an intricate cosmic machine. Everything—me, the sunflowers, the carnival—was connected by glowing threads that pulsed like veins.
Out of nowhere, a booming voice echoed, “You’ve been here before, haven’t you?” I couldn’t respond because I no longer had a mouth, but I felt the answer was yes, though I didn’t know why.
In an instant, I snapped back to the basement. My friends were staring at me, laughing nervously. Only a few minutes had passed, but I felt like I had lived lifetimes. For the next hour, I tried to explain what I had experienced, but every word felt inadequate, like describing a dream you only half-remembered.
Even now, years later, I sometimes see a sunflower and feel an odd sense of déjà vu, as if the trip never really ended.