Backseat Drivers

A Glimpse Into Sean Kiersey's Mind

I used to envy astronauts. They're the only people who can truly escape earth - they don't need metaphorical freedom. Imagine being able to look down on the blue smudge in the darkness and laugh at the mundanity you know is consuming it - an outsider to reality. Of course earth isn't all bad, but the inkling of goodness within it like the glaciers and the Amur leopards are all being destroyed by the fucking 9-5 industries with their mass production of shitty corporate products that trick generations into materialistic ideals. Pollution, smoke, litter, fast-food, greed, self-absorption as if we're the only species that matter on the whole goddamn planet. Yeah, I used to envy the hell out of astronauts. But astronauts are confined to strict regulations - their diets, their workouts, their education, drug testing. If I'd realised I had to do all that just to get in a rocket I'd have spent a lot less time researching how to go about it and a lot more time looking for my next solution. Regardless, my ambition of shrooms on the moon would forever be a fantasy - it's not exactly like smuggling them into Amsterdam, is it?

Roy told me earlier that I'm dragging Aika into a delusional reality, and that in the real world hearing colours is the first stage of madness. I told him if anyone here will willingly walk into a delusional reality of their own accord it would be Aika. She understands - as much as she can anyway. It's occurred to me that his mindset has altered drastically since the beginning of the trip; I mean he's the one who bought the goddamn shrooms in the first place. Jesus, I'm just floating or something, I don't know. What he said about going mad though, I think for a man to truly go mad, that insanity would have to be based on internal conditions only - separate from the mind on drugs. As long as I'm on shrooms I'm in the clear for all that shit. They're fuelling me anyway. 

There's planes - virtual planes, let's call them one, two, and three. One is reality. Calum and Cindy live on plane one. Two is experimental folk, surrealist artists and writers who may or may not consume drugs for a further understanding of the world. They happily live in day to day life - but they're curious as to something more. I'd say Roy sits comfortably in this category. Plane three is for those who need something more, who would go mad if they realised they'd been coaxed into the shitty version of the American Dream. Conversations frustrate them and magical substances place them back into a familiar place rather than a new one. 

We don't talk about plane four and five. 

If anyone asked me, I wouldn't know what spurred me to call everyone up. My 'excuse' was the new car. My 'excuse' was catching up with people - my 'excuse' was a new experience. But it was just impulse to call up people who were quickly becoming strangers to me. Originally I just planned to call Calum. We hadn't spoken since the fight - I was even thinking of driving down to River Medallion for a good old blast-from-the-past. I hadn't expected him to say yes, and so when he did I became engulfed in a rush of nostalgia, and found myself texting the girl I used to work with in the cinema. I'd only known her for four or five months before she got fired, and even then she'd come back every Friday for Fright Night. In the months we'd worked together I quickly realised she had that freshness of someone swimming in a different state of mind to other people. Then - after Aika agreed - I was on a roll. My old friend from art college who I used to smoke weed with, and then, remembering the place, Cindy who'd dropped out to pursue her environmental studies. I had to stop there; my new car only had five seats.

They're concerned. Roy's concerned for me and Aika, and so's Cindy. So's Calum, beneath all that bravado. I don't see why they should be though. We're opening our eyes. 

Our metaphorical eyes. Our pineal-gland-would-be-third-eye eyes. 

I can feel my thoughts beginning to rationalise a little as I try to pinpoint whether or not my eyes are closed or open, and at the motion feeling of the road running beneath us I start to panic. 

I am the driver of this car. I have always been the driver - so I must be driving now. The car is moving, and all I can think about is astronauts and Fright Night and virtual planes, Jesus Christ. I could kill us all - there's four other people in this car relying on a wavering, neon-brained maniac to navigate them around Amsterdam. This is bad, this is very very bad, and I need to stop the car immediately. Hopefully if I can find a nice bit of road to stop on, no one will notice we were even moving. I just need to stop the car.

Upon reaching for the break, my fingers brush against a cool glass surface. It's convex: Roy's fish-tank. Then comes the twisting realisation that I'm in the backseat. The patterns start to clear from my vision, shimmering away in broken dance movements and the back of Calum's head becomes distinguishable to me. I'm not driving. Now I'm caught between slumping in relief and laughing at my mistake - what made me think I was driving? Flashes of blurred neon slip through the windows of the car, reflected from the nightlife outside. Relax. 

I'm feeling funky neon.