Psychedelic use, for most users, is part of a cycle of persistent grief. The grandeur of the neon sea of fractals and the ability to self-smash the infinite wonder button in the brain is, in fact, a sad consolation prize for having lost the ability to make meaning of the small, mundane circumstances of life.
Wild weekend swings between the light fantastic and its faltering, depleted aftermath recapitulate the broader oscillation between narcissism and nihilsm that characterizes contemporary life. The psychedelic trip, like all psychoses, promises a revelation that never quite comes, or insinuates a transmission that is never quite remembered. You know it's special. You know it's meaningful. It's completely, 100% yours. This time you'll find it for real. This time you'll be able to bring it back.
"I have come to know the deepest secrets of the universe," he thinks, bleary eyed in bed at 12:30 pm on a Sunday afternoon. "I have glimpsed the mind of God" she thinks, scrolling her stories, avoiding the certain overwhelm of reading an e-mail from a once beloved college roommate.
In the meantime, dust accumulates, calls go unanswered, dinner invitations go unsent, loved ones slowly disappear from life, one mild disappointment at a time. The chores that maintain half-decency become too boring, too meaningless, too immediately unrewarding to be worth the effort. And in that thorough and terrible neglect, the desert of honesty and care at the center of postmodern subjectivity yawns. The blistering infinite sacred, on-demand, and all it costs you is your will to show up for your mundane world, to keep trying to love your frustrating family, to try something, anything to rise above the infinite guilt of your unlived life.
@BrettErickson28@MalcolmNance Everything is a negotiation. The deal is on the table, just a few blanks to be filled in. Either advantage US or Iran in every blank spot, depending on eagerness to strike a deal