“You take my hand,
I'll take your hand
Together we may get away
This much madness
is too much sorrow
It's impossible
to make it today.”

I was awakened by the words from ‘Down By the River’ and thrashing guitar of Neil Young, echoing down the hard plastered walls and linoleum corridor of the Student Hall of Residence.

I stirred from my sweat sheet bed. There was no one else in my bed. Just me, and a pool of piss, sperm, and sweat. I checked my bedside clock. 8.30.

8.30 what?

It was December. England, and dark outside.

I was thirsty, but not hungry for anything but self-realization.

I slewed my aching limbs over the edge of the bed.

I didn’t feel any sense of peace. I felt deserted.

I leaned over the sink and studied my face in the mirror. A week ago I had seen Stanley Kubrick’s film ‘’2001’’.

That night I had lived it.

I had been through the StarGate and survived.

My face was ashen. I blinked and the Eye of Japetus blinked back at me. It was the face of my Grandfather. Ashen, understated. Blinking me a warning from beyond the grave.

I pissed down the sink. Dragged on my kecks. Stumbled down the corridor.

I bumbled into Shep, the source of the over-amplified Neil Young. We threw each other a peace sign and a high5.

‘Shep, my MainMan’ I drawled semi-coherent.

‘Hi Dude’ came the annoyingly pseudo-hippie but welcome predictable reply.

‘Just answer me one question brother’

‘Is it 8.30 in the morning. Or 8.30 in the evening?’

‘Errr my man, like its evening time, OK?’ He scratched his ginger goatee. ‘that must be some serious shit you smoking in there. Any chance of a toke?’

I shook my head and smiled.

Somewhere maybe 24 hours before I had ingested Triptizol, on prescription from the campus Sick-iatrist. Cheaper than counselling.

Triptizol. The wonder drug. Like Champion, the Wonder Horse. Maybe like Prozac today.

Two years later my upper middle class version of myself, the singer Nick Drake was to die of an overdose of Triptizol. Inconclusive whether he meant to take his own life. If he felt anything like me you wouldn’t even know whether you had taken the Motherfucker or not.

I reported these events to my trick-cyclist. She said, ‘I think you should continue your course of therapy’.

Back in my room, I studied the face of my Grandfather in the mirror. I emptied the rest of the pills into the sink and pissed them away down the bowl.

I’m, still here. Nick isn’t. Thanks Gramps.

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