Lost Echoes

Same room, same lighter, same routine. A puff, another, the smoke burns my lungs. The second inhale feels exactly like the first. I hesitate for a moment, but a second later, take another one. The room starts to spin — no, it's my head — no, something spins. It feels so familiar, as if I've been here a million times already. Of course I’ve been here; it’s my room. I find myself here, every day. I light another joint; I feel the taste just like the last time. I exhale, watch it drift — drift in the same twirls as before. The ceiling drops lower; I remember, I do, how it slipped the same way just a couple of days ago. I find myself thinking, thinking I know. I know it all — everything that’s happened, everything to come. A whisper weaves through the smoke, telling me something, something I can't understand, nor recall. I'm trying to focus, but the words melt away in the smoke. I start to play tag with the voice, chasing, until I finally catch. It says, “Do you remember?” and again, “Do you remember?” Yes, I do. It says, “You can't escape.” It says, “You can't escape.” I shout — I shout at the voice, telling it it's wrong. “Do you? You can't escape. Remember? Again… again.” The smoke hits my face, making me cough. I cough, I choke, I fall. Again! I cough, I choke. “You can't escape!” I fall. “Do you? You can't! Remember? Escape!” I grab the air, trying to chase the annoying voices away. “Do you remember?” I shout. “Yes, I remember! I know! You will fuck off!” And the voices fell silent. I breathe. I am here. I’m myself — I take another puff; this one feels unique, quiet, almost real.