Citation: MFH. "Out of the Corner of My I: An Experience with DMT (exp62911)". Erowid.org. Dec 30, 2009. erowid.org/exp/62911
I'm sitting here. One feature of the consciousness I've developed as humans often do is the ability to infer the future, in an approximate way, from a similar past. As a result, I know right now that 'I'm sitting here' is an important sentence in this context. So is this knowledge, and so is the knowledge of the importance of this knowledge to me, and so is everything which contains 'I' implicitly or explicitly, because fuckfuckfuckohjesuscuntingchrist it's my toes and my chest and my arms and my legs are like wires on fire it's beyond my control ive fallen fuck im a snake fuckfuckfuck this is terror I cannot articulate my chest is exploding im pulled through every blood vessel the me is spread too thin and the me is winding up shit there it goes shot from a gun i can't see because my me is a projectile snake and it's pulled from the gun by a hand sosososo FAST the explosion cannot keep up fuck iii am not zoooom.....
If there were you or I, we would not see these things, but without a you or I, they can not be seen without the filter of perceptive interpretation that is in all of us: There is a plane of potential impossibilities. It is tessellated with identical radially symmetrical shapes, like leaves or fleurs-de-leuce, although these shapes tessellate no plane equipped with any notion of distance conceivable to the minds of men. They are every colour and no colour, for there is noone to impose a colour upon them, and there is noone to identify what reflects off of them as light. Although they interlock perfectly, occupying everything, they move as gears, each under the collective influence of the others. Though they defy every conceivable geometric and physical and aesthetic explanation I could impose were I here to see them, they are not chaotic or ugly or irrational. They occupy a supernewtonian landscape of parsimonious laws writ in some economical language not meant for my I or yours, and they are the 'visual' manifestation of the pure obedience of these laws. They are not all that there is, but they're the most easily exposed aspect of all there is, because my I is not there to observe them.
Around some metaphorical corner is the corner of my I, and I have an i, if only a small one. Now I can see shapes, but only approximately, and now I hear music. It is divine, Chopinesque and with no identifiable timbre, and with my new subjectivity, my I is ecstatic. I round more corners, and the world becomes one of perceptions to which my nascent, childish I may relate on a literal basis. The music swells, and by degrees my I is given a body where before it had only the sensory organs necessary to keep it fed. The lights still dance kaleidoscopically, but as they are seen they err from their order, and they can no longer to be seen to violate the intuitions about space with which my I is equipped. My I is in such a state of euphoria that it sees itself as a gift, but as it develops it will know itself as an item bought at a (fair) price.
My I begins to stir and run and jump on its own a bit, and, hungry for something new, bets some of its euphoria on a look into the outside world. My I is human, so it opens my eyes. The world is first the blue of a clear sky, but everything drips with brilliant light. Each piece of grass moves intricately in the cobweb breeze, awash in the clockwork laws from before my I, but seen by my I as a thing of nearly pure beauty.
My I has control of my fingers and toes and neck and face, and the whole world is my tactile playground. My body's clumsy communion with the grass and branches is far beyond my infant consciousness' power of explanatory metaphor, and I shriek and laugh with fearful euphoria as I claw the ground in desparate pleasure.
By degrees, I can sit, eyes open again in the beautiful world, and my I learns how to laugh, clumsily at first. I see him, and my I comes to know others. Brothers. He is laughing, and a huge slab of awareness of pleasant society of friends returns from whence it was shot, and I speak. My I has learnt about society faster than it has remembered how words work, so my initial attempts are clumsy and punctuated with laughter, but it doesn't matter and I touch his hair to tell him of the wonders of my infant sense-world.
Soon my I has grown to its normal size, but it is making positive aesthetic judgements at great speed. Then some vestige of the clock-world mysteriously endows it with prudence, and a considered skepticism creeps into its thought and speech, and soon the discussion turns objectively to the experience and mnemonically to books and meditation and rationality and mysticism and then to past and future as we walk across the plain to the car.
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