The second(and last) time I ever took LSD it was intense.
I literally spent 8 in a living room with some friends not saying much, just thinking about how everything was nothing and nothing was everything. And life & death & mortality and how infinite the universe was.
Acid is a very exhausting drug, it feels like your mind is going 1000 MPH and it never slows until you start coming down.
ugly boyz on the comeup.
DAT BOY JAY Z OPENED THE DOORS!
IT’S OUR YEAR!
the takeover is upon us
we out here man
Each one is so sure of their realness, that their sensory experience constituted a unique individual with purpose, meaning… so certain that they were more than a biological puppet. Well, the truth wills out, and everybody sees once the strings are cut all fall down. Each stilled body so certain that they were more than the sum of their urges, all the useless spinning, tired mind, collision of desire and ignorance.
This is what I mean when I’m talking about time and death and futility.
There are broader ideas at work, mainly what is owed between us as a society for our mutual illusions. 14 straight hours of staring at DBs, these are the things you think of. You look in their eyes, even in a picture. Doesn’t matter if they’re dead or alive. You can still read them, and you know what you see? They welcomed it, mm-hmm, not at first, but right there in the last instant. It’s an unmistakable relief, see, because they were afraid and now they saw for the very first time how easy it was to just let go, and they saw… in that last nanosecond, they saw what they were.
That you, yourself, this whole big drama, it was never anything but a Jerry-rig of presumption and dumb will, and you could just let go. Finally now that you didn’t have to hold on so tight… to realize that all your life…
you know, all your love, all your hate, all your memory, all your pain… it was all the same thing. It was all the same dream, a dream that you had inside a locked room, a dream about being a person… and like a lot of dreams… there’s a monster at the end of it.
n. the realization that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own—populated with their own ambitions, friends, routines, worries and inherited craziness—an epic story that continues invisibly around you like an anthill sprawling deep underground, with elaborate passageways to thousands of other lives that you’ll never know existed, in which you might appear only once, as an extra sipping coffee in the background, as a blur of traffic passing on the highway, as a lighted window at dusk.
A ship is safe in the harbor.
But that’s not what ships are built for.
I think couples taking pictures of themselves kissing is one of the weirder things our generation considers “normal”.