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I apologize for posting so little, my friends. My computer broke, and I’ve been very busy with school and work. I promise though, I’ll be back soon x;
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i’ve been getting really weird lately

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I don’t know who I am.
(I think some might say that there is no “who.” I think some might say that the epitome of language is the phrase, “I am”).

I’ve been thinking a lot about an experience I had recently. A friend and I split a quad of magic mushrooms (their name is not misgiven). While intoxicated by their spell, I was lured into a spatial existence so dark I was suffocating on the air surrounding me. Air,  not only full of utter madness, but also utterly compelling.

I think I’ve reconciled with it (balance).

Really, it’s just that I was struck silent (slapped in the face by the stark diamonds of absurdity).

What is it Sartre calls it? “Throwness?” Maybe this is it (maybe I can never truly know). My trip propelled me-[no, it didn’t propel me (me?); it grabbed the edge of my foundational understanding of life (of existence), and yanked with ungodly force, ruffling  fibers infinitely interlacing together to become my perspective (my existence)].

Somewhere (on erowid, I’m sure) there is a list titled Effects; under which is the phrase, “difficulty reintegrating experiences.” 

(the truth exists in so many colors)

Existence was beautiful earlier [it still is (it always is)]. It was blanketed in pure, unadulterated clarity. 

(plot twist) Lauren and I were sitting in the smokers garden enjoying a stick of delicious cancer, and, as were the terms of our usual business, we were rather high. As we exchanged casual stoned conversation, I mused about our unfortunate adventure in which we toiled with some magic mushrooms that happened to make us rather mad.

(plot twist II: da real deal brotha) I had been thinking a lot lately about my first acid trip. It was so, fucking, magical. I told Lauren. I was altogether immersed (intoxicated) in the  murmurs lucy whispered into my ear. The tendrils of acid drifted, light as dust in the air, across my face; smothering my vision in a layer of life more fresh than an early morning breath taken just as the air turns cold. I looked on the world with reborn eyes [bright, curious; eyes thirsting for knowledge and experience (for life and existence)]. I think the shroom trip was a lot like that. But, instead of manifesting quaint curiosity (the kind emanated by a baby that holds a flower for the first time), I entered the hauntingly attractive realm of hallucinogens unprepared (full of Heideggerian anguish, even). 

I love that.

I asked Lauren about how the shroom trip was sitting with her now. She said it was still pretty dark. I nodded my head and took a drag.

I understood. 

(I think I’ve always understood)

She began talking, weaving a memory [memory weaving is an art (all things are art)], and told me a story about a morning she woke up with both of her pets with her in bed. Her dog slept next to her every night, she explained. But on this particular night (always on this particular night) a cat they adopted that lived outside snuck in and joined them. She leaned back, demonstrating her and her dog sprawled out, side by side, [(a goofy smile on their faces as they dreamt together (how absurd the dreams of other animals must be)] and the cat curled beside her head. “I don’t wanna go to school; I wanna stay in bed and watch movies with my animals.” she cooed. Clarity.

It was a wonderful story, I told her, she should write it down, and she laughed and we both took a drag and breathed.

She began to tell another story and I thought.

And I thought. And I wanted to say, “She grew up sleeping with dogs” (she grew up sleeping with the universe). But I thought most people would think of that with an undesirable connotation. 

It was beautiful to me though. It’s like, beings [life even (existence even)] are transparent just enough that through mere proximity their existences leak into one another; mixing, swirling, we are not static creatures. (dreams shared and swapped as they slept). I could see it. 

I saw the goofy smile of her dog in her, his wagging tail, his somber eyes. I saw that she soaked up his love; kept it alive.

If she were a different animal she would be a dog. Loyal. Genuine. Happy.

I don’t know what I would be.

I feel like I don’t belong to the animal world [(I think “animal world” should refer to both humans and the creatures from the land, sea, and sky) I think people define the word alive differently than me. Or maybe it’s the word conscious that we part ways on.

I don’t know what I think about those disparities though].

I think I belong to the plant world. I might be a vine stretching and weaving my way up and into a tree the way pcilosybin stretches and warps time.

I could see myself as a house plant; growing; existing in the space of a windowsill; but equally conscious of existence.
I could see myself as soft moss covering the ground; growing; breathing the atmosphere into the earth; and still equally conscious of existence.
I could see myself as a magic mushroom; growing; waiting patiently for a someone curious to caress me to life; still, equally conscious of existence.

(I could really see myself as that)

But mostly, I could see myself as a tree: reaching with my arms toward the sun, clinging to every ray of light (every ray of love) that drifts down and falls lightly on my leaves, and to every drop of rain (every drop of love) that drips as a gift from the sky and soaks into my pores.

[It’s like, analogous to waking up (on a sunny morning maybe) after a decent night of sleep (after taking some downers {after a bender that, for a moment, stretched infinitely into time; full of endless stimulants and a headspace so raised you fall in love [over and over]} maybe). And you wake up and roll out of bed. And you do that thing (you’re familiar with it maybe). That thing where you lean back and raise your arms towards the sky and stretch and yawn and breathe the atmosphere (breathe existence) into your lungs until you are so full of it that you might just become it and you stretch your arms (you stretch your whole existence) with such life that it embodies that universal striving described in a section titled Nietzsche and the Will to Power within the pages of an abandoned textbook on existentialism on the floor of some dusty classroom on Christmas day.

That is how I might live if I were to live as a tree].

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Heather: When you, Lauren, and I move in together, we're going to go utterly mad, because we're all very mad people individually. The insanity will increase exponentially, hahah.
Braden: Ya, I love it though.
Braden: James and the giant peach is utter madness.
Braden: But good obviously.


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My schedule next semester is nearly perfect :’33

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never sleeping because school. 

up and writing a paper on authenticity.

Heidegger and Guignon and what. 

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i ate an eighth of mushrooms today.

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  • cant
  • sleep
  • cant
  • focus
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