ForEverAfter
Ex-Bluelighter
9:00 pm
I consumed five gel caps containing an average of 0.5 grams of mushrooms, each.
9:30 pm
I saw this retarded kid at the bus stop, wearing a hat with the word champion printed across it; champion of what exactly, I don’t know. This kid, his whole life, people have told him he’s special; he’s brave; he’s a champion. But same goes for everyone, more or less. You rarely get the truth out of people when it’s bad news. They’re more likely to compliment than insult; more likely to praise than criticize. When you scribble something down on a piece of paper, your parents put it on the fridge even if it’s a piece of shit. As a result, we think more of ourselves then we should. Everybody has an ego. Even the worst men and women throughout history had someone to focus on their strong points: a lover; a mother; a minion. We seek them out; someone who sees the all good in us and none of the bad. We seek them out so we feel special; brave; so we feel like champions…
…we are all retarded kids with ironic hats.
9:40 pm
I’ve been thinking about why I write these trip reports. They are mostly positive accounts of substance abuse, so there is little to be said for them in terms of harm reduction. If anything they might encourage people to do drugs, rather than the other way round. But I don’t really care about that. At the risk of having this edited by a moderator, given the supposed nature of this website, I do encourage people to take drugs. I don’t want to discourage others from experiencing the wonderful things I have, nor do I want to contribute to the wealth of nightmarish accounts selectively collected by the anti-drug propaganda Nazi super squad. If used responsibly, drugs don’t fuck up your life.
There I go again, attempting to justify drug use to myself. Maybe I write these reports for that very reason. This indulgence, disguised as a mock-experiment; brain cells, giving their lives in the name of science-bullshit. Maybe I take drugs and write, so I have an excuse to take drugs. Just like how I take drugs and dance, so I have an excuse to take drugs. Maybe it’s all about being high. I honestly don’t know. I can’t see through the trickery that I have created to deceive myself; I have had more practice incarcerating sections of my consciousness than I have liberating them.
10:10 pm
It seems cruel that I want a different life than the one I pursue. I have this tendency towards recreational self-destruction. I treat my body like shit. This is the life I pursue, not the one I want.
It feels like I’m constantly battling against this other, stronger, me; the, larger, sub-conscious part of me. I wish I was him, completely; not this horrified witness to his actions. This is why I have to stop taking drugs. Not because I am concerned about my body, so much; instead, because of how my concern ruins the trip. I wish I didn’t care about my health. There’s no point having masochistic tendencies if you can’t enjoy them; schizophrenic sadomasochists have only one happy side, at best, and – in this case – it’s not me. I am the shmuck personality; the victim; the weak one. I am the underdog; the good side forever fighting a losing battle against the evil.
Or maybe I’m both; God wearing a hat that says Satan and Satan wearing a hat that says God; the sadist and the masochist; the drug-abused and the drug-abuser. Maybe it’s just easier to admit to being a victim than a villain. People tend to plead innocent before they confess. They’re both victims and villains. Everybody has this duality. I’m sure Hitler felt bad for what he did. Some small, highly-repressed, part of him; the child part: it was crying.
Typically, serial killers have little quality of life. This idea that someone can be absolutely sociopathic, completely beyond caring: I don’t believe it. People who eat and fuck dead bodies, they aren’t content. Whatever they inflict upon their prey is inflicted upon them; the victim part of them. It experiences pain vicariously. Even if they aren’t consciously aware of it, it’s there.
I envy serial killers, though; I envy people who smother their victims; I envy the villain.
That’s why everyone likes the Emperor over Luke Skywalker. The Emperor doesn’t give a fuck. He does whatever the hell he wants and he never has any human reaction to it whatsoever. He fucking cackles when he’s killing people. He gets off on that shit. When you’re pure evil, everything you do is fucking awesome. Guilt doesn’t exist. You can fuck your best friend’s daughter; kill your boss; steal money from charity. No consequences; no moral dilemmas; nothing. No pesky conscience to haunt you. The Emperor doesn’t need a conscience; he’s not going to change, and neither am I. I wish I could have it removed, my conscience, the part of my brain responsible for my actions; a moral lobotomy, so I can get on with being a junky and stop feeling conflicted about it.
11:00 pm
I go outside and pick some passionflower buds from the balcony vine, crumbling them over the top tray of my evaporator. I set it on 55 degrees Celsius. 45 minutes later, I grind the semi-dry material in a coffee grinder then sprinkle it back onto the evaporator. Another 45 and it’s ready.
12:30 am
For some reason the mushroom caps haven’t kicked in properly. It’s been three and a half hours. The trip is much weaker than anticipated. I swallow another four gel caps, containing roughly 0.5 grams dried mushrooms each. Make a joint with a ratio of 3:2, passionflower to marijuana. I turn on a 1960s science fiction flick called ‘Seconds’. As I smoke, the mushrooms kick in – hard.
The hallucinations are different from normal mushrooms visuals. Typically I get patterns made of predominant colours. Green and purple are common. Yellow is uncommon. The combination of harman and psilocybin ensured that the colours were distributed evenly; a random arrangement of colours, in equal proportion to each other. They form stylized letterings. The patterns look like South American art; tribal graffiti; the sort of thing you expect to see painted on the walls of primitive houses in the middle of a rainforest. The film is in black and white; these bold patterns, they are printed across monochromatic faces.
The film blows my mind. It is absolutely fantastic. It is Gilliam before Gilliam, Coen Brothers before Coen Brothers. The cinematography is stunning. The narrative builds up to a climax with a bunch of naked hippies crushing grapes. I am hooked to the screen. I can hardly move; can hardly blink. It is like watching Brazil for the first time. In fact, it’s better than Brazil. Seconds is an absolute masterpiece; one of my new favourite films.
2:30 am
After the movie ends I am tripping so hard that I can’t get out of bed. Not that I can’t move or anything. I can, I just don’t want to. Walking around and doing physical things no longer concerns me. I have been swept up by the tornado in my head.
I realize that I am finite. My personality is a constraint; a self-imposed blinder. Preferences can be translated into binary code; zero for no, one for yes. Say I like jazz music and classical. What that really means is that, to some extent, I dislike all the alternatives; there are more zeros than ones.
The things in this world that I like – the things I am open to – they are outweighed by the things I dislike. The things I do; these are a small fraction of the things I can do. My personality is a filter that drastically reduces my potential for happiness; it is more a list of things that I am not, than it is a list of things that I am. I decide to open up; to try and remove my personality so that I can be free to indulge in everything that life has to offer.
3:45 am
I haven’t moved for hours. Maybe it’s the sedative part of the Harman that makes me inanimate. The hallucinations are still going strong. They are much more intense, still, than typical mushroom visuals. Waves of euphoria; I feel liberated by my revelations, as I drift off to sleep.
I consumed five gel caps containing an average of 0.5 grams of mushrooms, each.
9:30 pm
I saw this retarded kid at the bus stop, wearing a hat with the word champion printed across it; champion of what exactly, I don’t know. This kid, his whole life, people have told him he’s special; he’s brave; he’s a champion. But same goes for everyone, more or less. You rarely get the truth out of people when it’s bad news. They’re more likely to compliment than insult; more likely to praise than criticize. When you scribble something down on a piece of paper, your parents put it on the fridge even if it’s a piece of shit. As a result, we think more of ourselves then we should. Everybody has an ego. Even the worst men and women throughout history had someone to focus on their strong points: a lover; a mother; a minion. We seek them out; someone who sees the all good in us and none of the bad. We seek them out so we feel special; brave; so we feel like champions…
…we are all retarded kids with ironic hats.
9:40 pm
I’ve been thinking about why I write these trip reports. They are mostly positive accounts of substance abuse, so there is little to be said for them in terms of harm reduction. If anything they might encourage people to do drugs, rather than the other way round. But I don’t really care about that. At the risk of having this edited by a moderator, given the supposed nature of this website, I do encourage people to take drugs. I don’t want to discourage others from experiencing the wonderful things I have, nor do I want to contribute to the wealth of nightmarish accounts selectively collected by the anti-drug propaganda Nazi super squad. If used responsibly, drugs don’t fuck up your life.
There I go again, attempting to justify drug use to myself. Maybe I write these reports for that very reason. This indulgence, disguised as a mock-experiment; brain cells, giving their lives in the name of science-bullshit. Maybe I take drugs and write, so I have an excuse to take drugs. Just like how I take drugs and dance, so I have an excuse to take drugs. Maybe it’s all about being high. I honestly don’t know. I can’t see through the trickery that I have created to deceive myself; I have had more practice incarcerating sections of my consciousness than I have liberating them.
10:10 pm
It seems cruel that I want a different life than the one I pursue. I have this tendency towards recreational self-destruction. I treat my body like shit. This is the life I pursue, not the one I want.
It feels like I’m constantly battling against this other, stronger, me; the, larger, sub-conscious part of me. I wish I was him, completely; not this horrified witness to his actions. This is why I have to stop taking drugs. Not because I am concerned about my body, so much; instead, because of how my concern ruins the trip. I wish I didn’t care about my health. There’s no point having masochistic tendencies if you can’t enjoy them; schizophrenic sadomasochists have only one happy side, at best, and – in this case – it’s not me. I am the shmuck personality; the victim; the weak one. I am the underdog; the good side forever fighting a losing battle against the evil.
Or maybe I’m both; God wearing a hat that says Satan and Satan wearing a hat that says God; the sadist and the masochist; the drug-abused and the drug-abuser. Maybe it’s just easier to admit to being a victim than a villain. People tend to plead innocent before they confess. They’re both victims and villains. Everybody has this duality. I’m sure Hitler felt bad for what he did. Some small, highly-repressed, part of him; the child part: it was crying.
Typically, serial killers have little quality of life. This idea that someone can be absolutely sociopathic, completely beyond caring: I don’t believe it. People who eat and fuck dead bodies, they aren’t content. Whatever they inflict upon their prey is inflicted upon them; the victim part of them. It experiences pain vicariously. Even if they aren’t consciously aware of it, it’s there.
I envy serial killers, though; I envy people who smother their victims; I envy the villain.
That’s why everyone likes the Emperor over Luke Skywalker. The Emperor doesn’t give a fuck. He does whatever the hell he wants and he never has any human reaction to it whatsoever. He fucking cackles when he’s killing people. He gets off on that shit. When you’re pure evil, everything you do is fucking awesome. Guilt doesn’t exist. You can fuck your best friend’s daughter; kill your boss; steal money from charity. No consequences; no moral dilemmas; nothing. No pesky conscience to haunt you. The Emperor doesn’t need a conscience; he’s not going to change, and neither am I. I wish I could have it removed, my conscience, the part of my brain responsible for my actions; a moral lobotomy, so I can get on with being a junky and stop feeling conflicted about it.
11:00 pm
I go outside and pick some passionflower buds from the balcony vine, crumbling them over the top tray of my evaporator. I set it on 55 degrees Celsius. 45 minutes later, I grind the semi-dry material in a coffee grinder then sprinkle it back onto the evaporator. Another 45 and it’s ready.
12:30 am
For some reason the mushroom caps haven’t kicked in properly. It’s been three and a half hours. The trip is much weaker than anticipated. I swallow another four gel caps, containing roughly 0.5 grams dried mushrooms each. Make a joint with a ratio of 3:2, passionflower to marijuana. I turn on a 1960s science fiction flick called ‘Seconds’. As I smoke, the mushrooms kick in – hard.
The hallucinations are different from normal mushrooms visuals. Typically I get patterns made of predominant colours. Green and purple are common. Yellow is uncommon. The combination of harman and psilocybin ensured that the colours were distributed evenly; a random arrangement of colours, in equal proportion to each other. They form stylized letterings. The patterns look like South American art; tribal graffiti; the sort of thing you expect to see painted on the walls of primitive houses in the middle of a rainforest. The film is in black and white; these bold patterns, they are printed across monochromatic faces.
The film blows my mind. It is absolutely fantastic. It is Gilliam before Gilliam, Coen Brothers before Coen Brothers. The cinematography is stunning. The narrative builds up to a climax with a bunch of naked hippies crushing grapes. I am hooked to the screen. I can hardly move; can hardly blink. It is like watching Brazil for the first time. In fact, it’s better than Brazil. Seconds is an absolute masterpiece; one of my new favourite films.
2:30 am
After the movie ends I am tripping so hard that I can’t get out of bed. Not that I can’t move or anything. I can, I just don’t want to. Walking around and doing physical things no longer concerns me. I have been swept up by the tornado in my head.
I realize that I am finite. My personality is a constraint; a self-imposed blinder. Preferences can be translated into binary code; zero for no, one for yes. Say I like jazz music and classical. What that really means is that, to some extent, I dislike all the alternatives; there are more zeros than ones.
The things in this world that I like – the things I am open to – they are outweighed by the things I dislike. The things I do; these are a small fraction of the things I can do. My personality is a filter that drastically reduces my potential for happiness; it is more a list of things that I am not, than it is a list of things that I am. I decide to open up; to try and remove my personality so that I can be free to indulge in everything that life has to offer.
3:45 am
I haven’t moved for hours. Maybe it’s the sedative part of the Harman that makes me inanimate. The hallucinations are still going strong. They are much more intense, still, than typical mushroom visuals. Waves of euphoria; I feel liberated by my revelations, as I drift off to sleep.
