Note-taking seemed misguided and neurotic. Experience was the only usable information – takable from existence in the universe – and it was recorded automatically. My life was notes, etched into the four-dimensional object of the universe.
I would leave society – its drugs and language and ideas and habits and opinions and websites – incrementally, as a gradual and evolving process. I would use psychedelics, books, my history, my mind, and my body to continue learning and to fill my unconscious with more of my experiences and the mystery and less of culture and its hierarchies […]
If death by comet was unexpected, and departing earth nonphysically like I did on psilocybin was, after decades in the same metaphysical place, beyond unexpected, my experience of smoked DMT was beyond beyond unexpected. It was around two ontological corners. It was closing closed eyes twice, or waking, incredibly, thrice.
Inflamed, out bodies distract our minds with pain and discomfort instead of feeling like easily controllable, lightweight tools that we can put down when we want to explore the metaphysical part of existence. Inflammation encourages the development of bleak worldviews by sucking attention towards matter, making us feel less dimensional […]
Cannabis transports me outside of my sphere of worry – the dreary, unpleasant place where some to most of me normally exists and where, in my tetchiest moments, I feel unable to stop lingering on things I’ve already told myself to stop worrying about.