DPT (55mg) - Experienced - Turning Back the Second Seconds

[azzazza !?]

I can't empty my mind of thought because the echo is, itself, thought.

spot on. the internal monologue, thought is exactly the echo. but the echo of what? (its also closely connected to Derridas concept of 'la trace' (a trail or track) there is only the trail, but one never really gets a hold of that of which there is a trace. so the thought, by means of its existence and its finality, 'finalizes' or better 'de-fines' (comes from latin 'fines' which means border,boundary,limit) the experience. the piont is that a division occurs but at the same time its an identity, because this division (différance) by means of language constitutes the experience in its being an echo of it. the experience is always immediatly named, and only then does it become the experience; differentiated from the infinite unity that is 'now'. it is exactly the thought-echo that always 'taints' the full or fulfilling presence by de-fining ('carving') it out of this infinity. problem is that the infinity that is present is never actually experienced because of this. it is only by means of the thought-echo (the trail) that one returns to the 'original', only to transform it at that very moment into what the echo was, yet giving life/birth to it. so structurally speaking; your first/original 'thought' is actually constituted by the second one, strange as that may sound. the formation of thought/word out of the 'now' happens in this iterinary structure. in normal, baseline consciousness, this happens so fast and unconscious that it is never noticed. we naturally divide the world up in 'bed','tree','bird'; we don't even notice the words anymore we once as a child learned "that is this, this is that". strangest structure it is; "that is this", yes sir!

[wanders off into the distance humming a song]

 

[Rectify]

Was this a hellish experience?
It reads like one to me, but idk.

 

[psood0nym]

^For a part of it, certainly. I was experiencing something that had no precedent in memory--not my own memory, not the memory of others as related in text or voice. So there was a fundamental uncertainty to it. The repetition struck me as the kind of thing that should be brief, but it wasn't. My understanding is that, at a very general level, DPT amplifies and distorts the signals traversing my experiential neural network as an imitator and elaborator of serotonin. To maintain a signal that is capable of threading any pattern I think through, feel, or encounter with my senses, at a regular interval of two seconds, seems a bizarrely consistent property for a quickly metabolizing psychedelic to achieve for any length of time.

An extended period of confusion, or amplified, far-reaching thoughts is what is expected of DPT in such an interpretation, not impartial and persistent iteration of diverse experiences. The repetition seemed like something my brain was doing in error, and that didn't require the presence of DPT to continue. Its consistency implied perpetuity. There was uncertainty about it and a reason to think it could continue. Irrational fear tends to inspire curiosity and intellectualizing in me. A fear like this, for a reason, is hellish, yes.

However, later it was glorious. Experiencing a fundamental restructuring of consciousness is exactly the kind of thing I'm in this for. Realizing it, and that I had achieved it, was heaven.

 

[golden1]

To understand the nature of what I'll be describing more clearly imagine walking into a quiet empty room at 1 pm. A cuckoo clock whirs to life, startling you, and you twist your head to see it. It gives one quick “cuckoo.” Giggling at yourself, you watch as the tiny bird snaps back behind the doors of the clock. At 1 pm. and two seconds the clock's doors have just shut, yet suddenly you're struck with the same sense of surprise you had when you heard the mechanism first start 2 seconds ago. Less than half a second later the sensation of twisting your head to see the clock recurs. You experience vertigo because in truth you haven't physically moved a bit. Still standing there looking at the cuckoo clock’s closed doors you can almost see the bird pop out and almost hear it's chime. It's more than a vivid memory. What you're experiencing is so transporting that you feel at a far distance from the image of the clock that is actually present an arm's length before you now, like you're a step behind yourself and trailing in time. Expressionless, you feel a mild sense of relief followed by a short spike of elation and a blush spread across your face. This is what that laugh you had at yourself a moment ago would have felt like if you hadn't smiled. You're getting the first hints that something's seriously wrong. Now the muffled echo of that 2 second old laughter is mixed with brand new confusion, which will soon mount to dread. You turn to leave at 1 pm. and 4 seconds, yet as you take your first step you feel a part of you is still standing still, looking at the just closed doors of the clock... This is what's just happened to me.

I've gotten this exact effect from salvia, certainly a strange feeling. at first I didn't realize what
I was feeling then I realized it was emotion echos from the past

 

[psood0nym]

^Fascinating, especially considering that salvinorin A works via a fundamentally different mechanism at the receptor level. Perhaps this effect is more ubiquitous and easy to produce than I've realized. That would make some sense of the fact that I've re-experienced a less distinct version of the phenomenon 3 times since the events of the report: during a lower dose of DPT, the height of an ayahuasca trip, and last during the apogee of LSD a few weeks ago.

During all these latter trips the effect was not nearly as pronounced or well defined as the "second seconds." Rather the echos of memory are softer, irregular in frequency, and more distorted. They're also pulled from a longer tract of time -- the stuttered kinesthetic sense of turning my head from 4 seconds ago, followed by a diffracted re-imaging of a closed eye visual from 11 seconds past, then the yellowed edges of my confusion in response to the first replay of turning my head might blink once more in my mind's eye, and on and on ...

Perhaps these re-runs are playing unconsciously during every incident of ego dissolution I have, and it is only because the episode detailed in this report was so well drawn that allusions to its editing style during other trips have since come into focus for me.