Citation: Zubey. "I Never Asked for Comfort, Only Insight: An Experience with Mushrooms (exp94210)". Erowid.org. Sep 5, 2012. erowid.org/exp/94210
How to start this? I want to leave some semblance of permanency of the events of Thursday night before they too flee from my memory. These days my memory isn't what it used to be, you see. I find myself forgetting days and weeks at a time. More disturbingly, I've found myself forgetting skills I took as infallible. My typing has gotten worse, and I'm a distracted and reckless driver unless I concentrate. Whether this is part of getting old, the depression or the drugs I don't suppose I'll ever know. But at least I possess enough of my mental faculties to have moments of striking clarity and brilliance.
I'm convinced I had such a moment Thursday night when I was under the influence of psylocibin. No, there were no paradigm shifting discoveries or get rich quick schemes to be found. What I decided to explore that night was the inner realm of my psyche. As such, this post will be selfish. I will be writing entirely about myself and the specific struggles of my own life. There are no grand overarching lessons to be learned - unless you create them for yourself - and there are no immutable truths to be found - unless you can see clearer than I.
How to start? I suppose I'll start with the mushrooms themselves. I had two grams and ate them in the bathroom of my parents' house where I currently reside. The taste was nothing enjoyable but wasn't particularly unpalatable either. Eating them was simply an obstacle to go through in order to achieve my goal of altered perception. This was at 11:37. With a portable music player in my ears, a book of Rumi under my jacket and a scarf around my neck I left my parents' house and began walking towards the park. The night was chilly and the air bit at my hands. I was wearing a couple layers though and was not too bothered by it as I ambled along down 20th Street. On the way, I decided to start the night off with Canned Heat by Jamiroquai. I keep trying to tell myself that song is my anthem since I relate so well to the lyrics, but it rarely provokes a strong emotional response. Tonight was no exception. It was a good song, but nothing special. So I switched over to Jimmy Eat World, the band that played the soundtrack to my late teens.
I entered Granada Park through the corner entrance that snaked in between the trees. In the wan light provided by the streetlights, everything took on an otherworldly glow and I briefly entertained the thought of how wonderfully terrifying it would be to be lost in the trees when the mushrooms took effect. I was still sober at this point although I was becoming obsessively focused on making sure my headphones were correctly arranged inside of my scarf. I carried on and laid down on a picnic table to stare up at the stars and then the nausea hit me. I remember having to take the book of poetry out from underneath my jacket because the weight of it was exacerbating my upset stomach. This was when I noticed my first visuals. Every breath I was taking, the starry night sky above me was repeating. It would expand and contract in rhythm with my diaphragm.
The nausea was reaching a point where it was becoming physically painful rather than mildly annoying so I sat up in an attempt to alleviate it. This helped slightly so I got off the table and began walking. While walking I was staring down at the grass because it seemed to me to be arranging itself in geometric patterns as I moved. When I stopped to examine the patterns more closely though, they would disappear. The visuals were transitory at this point in the trip. I do not remember exactly what I was thinking about, but I do remember that Jimmy Eat World was still playing, specifically Gotta Be Somebody's Blues. The music was starting to become fascinatingly enjoyable to the point where I was having trouble recognizing songs. I was noticing sounds that normally my brain filtered out. The patterns in the grass were also becoming more organized and more permanent. Additionally, the fuzzy edge of my scarf was visible at the periphery of my vision and while I was walking it seemed to me to be a large white spider ambling along just to my left. Although this scared me at first, I reminded myself that it was a hallucination and told myself to welcome any and all figments of imagination that my brain would throw at me. I'd actually read someone else's trip report where they imagined the world as a gigantic spider with all of us people as billions of eyes on the backs of its head. This thought crossed my mind and I wondered if on the course of this trip, the mushrooms would take me to meet some sort of imaginary spider deity.
The original plan had been to lay on a table looking at the stars while I listed to the Dangerous album. I wanted the feelings that those songs evoked to wash over me while I was peaking. I'd already forgotten that that was the plan. However, I remembered that I wanted to listen to the Dangerous album so I was waiting for the perfect time to switch over. Luckily the next song on my list was Electable, which I've never had a liking for, so I decided to switch as soon as it started. While trying to navigate my music player and add songs to the now playing playlist, I inadvertently ended up spinning around a few times and managed to get myself lost when I looked back up. The familiar landmarks I was used to, such as the lake and the playground, were still there, but they were in the wrong places. It took me perhaps ten or fifteen seconds to reorient myself and figure out exactly where I was. The ease with which I'd managed to get lost surprised me and made me reconsider walking any further, but I kept going.
Jam was playing and I remember looking at my shadow and dancing using him as a guide. In fact, ever since I'd started walking, I'd been having fun moving my legs in rhythmic patterns. I had been doing a dancer's walk across the entire park. I had to stop my little dance very quickly though because the nausea returned. I reminded myself that I'd had no experience dancing or even moving around on psylocibin before, so I should avoid sudden movements. I had walked to another table and remembered that I wanted to lay down on it to watch the stars and listen to music, but just then I got a call from my mother.
I answered without thinking even though that probably wasn't the best idea. She asked where I was and what I was doing. So I told her that I was going out for a walk because I enjoyed it. She told me to come back home because it was cold and I refused. And then I looked up and saw a bright blue galaxy with yellow Mario stars transposed over the night sky in between two palm trees. I'd never seen such strong visuals and I sill recoil a little when I remember this one. I told my mother I had to go, even though she wanted to keep talking. This gave me a huge surge of confidence and put in a good mood to start off my trip. I was an adult - my own person free from the desires of others - and I had the power to stop talking when I wanted to. I began walking again and I passed the playground. I contemplated walking out into the dark bushes beyond the park where it was easy to get lost even while sober. I hesitated at first, but then I reminded myself that I come from a long line of explorers, poets and adventurers. My ancestors sailed unknown seas, climbed peaks they considered impassable and wandered beyond the edge of the map. They created kingdoms, stole knowledge from the inscrutable grasp of this strange reality and laid out the foundations for everything we have today. I come from a long line of being human and am heir to thousands of years of accumulated knowledge, cleverness and imagination. The spectre of being lost simply could not compete with the potential I held inside me.
So I ventured out into the cold. It was around this point that Why You Wanna Trip on Me began playing and I discovered I had a mean side. At first I tried to apply the lyrics of the song towards my parents, but then the cold began to get to me. It was painful, especially since my senses were heightened. But rather than recoiling at the discomfort, I relished in it. I think I may have actually snarled at the cold. After all, it was never comfort that I asked for in taking psychedelics, only enlightenment. I would repeat that to myself sporadically over the next few hours.
At this point in the night it must have been ten degrees above freezing and I was wearing a dress shirt, a flimsy jacket, and a scarf. I was ill-prepared to spend the night out in the elements but I kept pushing myself to be out there and to walk further. Why? The pain reaffirmed my existence. Since childhood, and even more so since I gave up on my dreams, I've had a nagging belief in the back of my mind that my life is less valuable because of the privilege I enjoy. I've never had to trek across the globe to destroy a ring in the fires of a volcano. I've never gone to a deserted mountain cave to meditate for forty days and nights. My life was superficial and I was soft compared to the heroes of my youth. Pushing myself to my physical limits and subjecting myself to pain were my ways of proving that I matter. That I'm not just some pompous dandy. Even though it hurts, I feel so strong when I force myself to bear the agony of physicality. Perhaps this also ties in to why I constantly cause myself emotional pain by interpreting other's actions as rejection. Pain is my validation.
This train of thought continued for awhile until the song ended and In the Closet began. My first instinct was to skip the song because it reminds me of a few times when I felt like Justina (the girl I'm in love with) was trying to make something physical happen between the two of us. But since my mood was still forceful and confrontational, I instead decided to play the song and embrace the sexuality of its message. After all, I also come from a long string of lovers. Every one of my ancestors managed to procreate, so it stands to reason that somewhere down the line there were romantics, lovers and hopeless fools caught up in the ebb and flow of love. Telling myself this, I threw down my book of poetry and I began to dance. I imagined Justina in front of me and I danced my heart out. I was aggressive, sexual and caught up in the nature of my desire. At one point I looked at the city skyline and saw a Jaguar's eyes staring back at me from the horizon. I remember how sexual mushrooms had been in past trips and so I named him the Sexual Jaguar. I almost picked up my book and started walking away during a lull in the music, but then the song started back up. So I threw my book down once again and decided to give all my attention to dancing. The song did end eventually and I did pick my book back up, but with a smile on my face in lieu of a snarl. I'd reassured myself that I could feel the playfulness and aggression that are so integral to sexuality and are so absent from my relationship with Justina.
I then kept on walking. The effect of the mushrooms was only getting stronger and I was already tripping about as hard as I was comfortable with. I don't remember much of the next song. I'm not sure if this is possible with psylocibin but I felt like I was so high that I was blacking out of consciousness every few minutes. I do remember standing still in the middle of some bushes and staring at Squaw Peak and seeing the outlines of spiders on both peaks. The images of the spiders transfixed me to my spot and I felt a strange sort of vibration rumbling all throughout my body to culminate at my hands. I would have stopped to enjoy the feeling, but I was afraid that I'd freeze if I stayed still too long. I think it was at this point I decided to head to my truck to stay warm, so I kept the spider mountains to my right and started navigating my way back to the park.
I wonder what it is about spiders that produces such a primal reaction of fear. Is it because they are so alien to us? Or is it because they've been so deadly to us in the past that our ancestors developed an instinctual repulsion to them? Either way, they are beautiful creatures. I would have never said so before, but experiencing so many spider motifs during my trip changed my opinion. They are beautiful because they produce such a strong response in us. Very few creatures can cause grown men to run in panic. Very few creatures can successfully coexist with humans in our cities and yet still be a danger to us. Spiders are terrifying. Spiders are beautiful. I'd never want a spider near me except in ink.
I was having difficulty finding my way back to any landmarks I recognized. As I said earlier, it was easy to get lost sober in this area and I was as far from sobriety as I'd ventured in years. I nearly ended up in someone backyard at one point, but somehow I managed to orient myself towards the park's streetlights and start walking in their general direction. I remember considering if I wanted to stay out the entire night, just to prove if I could. But the fact that I'd already done that once discouraged me from that idea. If I hadn't remembered my past experience I probably would have spent the night out in the cold just to prove that I could. And I probably would have frozen to death. It was far colder than I'm used to and I was not at all dressed appropriately.
So I headed to warmth and felt a twinging regret in the back of my mind that I was giving up on facing pain. I was seeking warmth. That thought nearly brought me to tears. Because I honestly desire warmth, both physically and emotionally from those close to me. But I don't receive any, emotionally at least. I put up a front of being cold and callous, of enjoying the pain of windswept bitterness, of scorning the vulnerability that comes with love and yet I still pursue it whenever I'm given the chance. I'm living my life seeking warmth and pretending I enjoy the cold.
So I made it to the park and walked at least one circle around the playground before I realized what I was doing. I was absolutely freezing at this point and Remember the Time had come on. I decided to cut across the 'wilderness' between the park and my neighborhood in an effort to get to my car quicker. And I repeated to myself, do you remember when you used to run? Do you remember when you'd spend your nights out in the cold without a shirt running till your lungs burned and your legs yowled in pain? Those moments were quintessentially defining for me. Through running, I gained a chance to be alone with my pain and the core of who I was, free from the influences of friends, love interests, or family. I'd get to picture myself in my mind as I wanted to be and not who I needed to be to get others to like me. Running myself into exhaustion was a process that brought me into touch with a part of Zubair that I usually relegate to the nether regions of my mind. It brings out the Zubair that is quiet, reserved and carries a silent pain with him wherever he goes. A somber Zubair who wonders about life, hopes for love and feels the pain of missed chances.
After I got out of the park, my memory left me until the middle of Black or White. That's means there are at least 11 minutes that I just don't remember. My memory kicks again again with me looking at my black nails and thinking that I am Michael Jackson. Not the hurt Michael of the later years or the innocent child, but the exuberant Michael of the Thriller and early Bad era. So I danced along the street and I thought I was Michael Jackson. That may not sound special, but it's a memory I will treasure for years to come.
I almost stopped to consider the implications of what my desire to be like Michael Jackson entailed, but then the song ended and Who Is It began to play. At this point, the trip took a turn for the worse. I knew it would, but I reminded myself that if Michael could get through these feelings, I could too. I immediately began to think of Justina as the song started playing, but the lyrics don't correlate exactly. In the song, the girl promises they'll live forever as one. I never got such a promise from her. I almost stopped the song because I was frustrated that it wasn't addressing my scenario specifically and that was what I so desperately wanted right then - someone to examine and distill the details of my relationship with Justina for me.
But the thoughts of her came regardless of what Michael sang about. I wondered if I ever really loved her. After all, I never really pressed the issue. I never made any eternal declarations of love and now certainly wasn't the time for them considering she's in a relationship. I wondered if all the things I did, from the stream of gifts to the trips to the almost servile behaviour I displayed around her, was to prove to myself that I really was in love with her. Because that question almost never really had an answer for me. What is love after all? I know what lust is because it's a direct emotion I can feel. I don't know what love is because no one's ever told me that they're in love with me. And I'm not sure if unreciprocated love is the real thing. But there are those moments. Those moments when I've stared at her sleeping next to me - I've always been too afraid to look while she's awake - that I get overwhelmed in this emotion that I don't know the name for. It's like I want to just stay by her side and protect her from everything - from banalites like sunburn, from the men that'll break her heart, from the drugs she escapes into, from the cruelty that she focuses on, from everything and anything. I want to just be there and keep her safe and stare into her face as I fall asleep with her by my side. Those moments bring me an almost otherworldly sense of calm and joy. Maybe that's what love is, but I sure as hell don't know
So as I was doubting my love for Justina, I noticed that even though I was feeling pain, there were no tears in my eyes. I took this as further sign that my love for her was never really real and I shouted at myself, 'Where are the damn tears?' I took mushrooms partly so that I could feel the emotions that had been building up inside me for the past couple of weeks. And here I was with all the tools that I knew of to provoke a response, from drugs to music to memories, and I wasn't feeling anything strong enough to bring even a single tear. I started crying shortly after though. I stood in front of my neighbor's house by their truck and the tears just poured out of me.
And then I wondered why it never worked out with Justina. Was it because we were both scared of how real the love between us would be? Maybe that was true for me, it's too long ago for me to remember accurately, but it couldn't have been true for her. She loved and lost and played games with her heart repeatedly after she rejected me. And that was part of what hurt so bad. I never fell out of love with her, but she moved on to other men while I was still by her side in a role I didn't know how to play. But I kept trying. I tried my hardest with that trip to California. I let myself be in love with her when I went on that trip. There was little hesitation on my part. I still didn't have the words to tell her how I felt, or know how to make things physical between us but I tried as hard as I could with my actions to show her that I was head over heels for her. And it plain didn't work. That's what happened. She was distant after that first day and the little confidence I had was whittled down at every little rejection.
I don't remember what else I thought about, but eventually at some point I moved from besides that van and kept walking towards home. I remember seeing cars on the street and wondering what time it was. I checked my phone, but can't remember what time I saw on it. As I neared my parents' house, I told myself I was not going to go inside because they'd be able to see I was tripping. And because I wanted to be separate from them. I felt ashamed and belittled that I didn't even have a place I could call my own, a place where I could feel free to do drugs or whatever else I desired. I made it into my car and almost turned on the heat twice, but turned it right back off both times. To have the heat on, the truck's headlights would have to be on and I was worried about being caught. I briefly considered driving the truck to a secluded spot, but abandoned that idea. I was in no condition to drive. As soon as that thought hit my mind, I chafed at it and said to myself, 'What, I'm not responsible enough to drive on shrooms? I'm not a good enough driver?' My constant need to prove myself manifested itself that night in me trying to do normal actions despite the state of mind I was in. However, other people's lives are just as sacred as mine. I have no right to endanger them just because my parents have instilled me with this inferiority complex. So I didn't drive. I did listen to Will You Be There in the car, or parts of it at least. I don't remember much except saying at the end, 'How could you say that to me?' This is in reference to the last lines of the song, 'I'll never let you part, for you're always in my heart.' Justina had given me a pocketwatch with those words engraved on it. I didn't realize why I took objection to that at the time, but I do now. No one is allowed to put a claim on me like that unless they are my spouse. I will give friendship and love freely. I'll even make promises of lifelong camaraderie but you are not allowed to make a claim on me. No one is.
I decided to leave the truck and head inside because it was warmer. As I was walking towards the house, I wondered if perhaps the immaturity that living with my parents represented was part of the reason it never worked with Justina. While that may have some validity, I was careful not to blame that failure on this sole factor. There are many reasons why me and Justina never got together. I almost drove myself crazy trying to figure them all out, so I just don't think about it these days. It never progressed to anything sexual and that's that.
So I went inside very nervously, headed straight to my room. Then headed back to the front door to make sure I'd locked it properly. Then headed back to my room. And I started taking my clothes off. My mom knocked on the door and I don't know how I managed to get her to leave me alone because I was barely able to make coherent sentences. But I did, and she left. My foot knocked against a basket of clean laundry that she must have placed in my room that day and I immediately felt ashamed. I was (and still am) living like a 23-year old man child. I have other people do my laundry for me. I have them cook for me. I don't pay rent. I don't pay any bills actually. In fact, I demand money of my parents and don't contribute one iota to the family business or anything else. Feeling this way was so diametrically opposed from how I'd felt when I was out on my own in the cold. I was proud of myself and could hold my head up high then. Now I was disgusted by myself and wondered how other people could stand to be around me without recoiling. These feelings are caused partly by the fact that my dad throws these things into my face all the time. He tells me my sleep cycle is fucked up and right then I couldn't remember when the last time I'd gone to sleep was so his words were coming back to haunt me. But it is unfair of them to call me childish and selfish and at the same time not allow me to leave. It's unfair, controlling, and contradictory. I'm making efforts to move out right now. The main idea that I'm going to take from this trip is that I need to leave my parents. They're an obstacle in the path of my self-growth and if I want to blossom I need to be on my own away from their judgmental, manipulative actions.
Before I retreated underneath my blankets but after I'd taken off my clothes, I stared at myself in the mirror. I'd come back to looking at my reflection a couple more times throughout the night, but the first thing that I said right then was, 'This is how I look' and asked myself if I was happy with it. I wasn't. My upper chest is too small, there's too much fat around my abdomen, I have wrinkles across my face and my eyes look dead and unfocused. Several people have told me that I'm movie-star gorgeous but I don't really believe that. I do believe that I can change my appearance drastically and that brought me solace. It doesn't really matter what I look like or whether I'm happy with it if I can become another person at the slightest whim. Rather than focusing on my appearance, what I have to do is accept myself as a whole. I am so much more than my body. There are ideas, actions, and ways of being that all belong to me and combine to create Zubair. I don't know exactly where the boundaries of self are located but I know they extend beyond my fluctuating six-pack.
Although I've extended my sense of identity and learned to accept a small part of it (my appearance), there's still the problem that I am nebulously defined. I don't mean that in a philosophical sense, but in a very practical one. I am a different person to different people. I have almost no preferences and yet I don't like to be associated with the passivity that that implies. So I arbitrarily pick quirks and interests whenever I meet a new group of people. I redefine myself constantly, but it happens so gradually that very rarely do people notice. It's akin to my writing style throughout this whole piece. I've switched from present tense to past tense, my prose has varied from verbose to simplistically direct, and I may have even switched from third person to first a few times. My written voice is broken and disjointed, variegated as if shining through a broken mirror. I'm not defending it for it is plain and simple bad writing. But it makes sense considering my multi-faceted identity. I actually screamed in my head at one point, 'Who am I?'
So I finally did retreat underneath the covers, but I immediately realized how cold I was. I started violently shivering and for I don't know how long I kept telling myself, 'Just breath. Just breath.' over and over again. After a while I added to that, 'Stay awake.' I was afraid that I was going to fall unconscious into sleep in an effort to escape from the pain. I'm still not sure if the pain was caused by being out in near freezing weather for over an hour or if it was just a byproduct of the drug. Regardless, I began telling myself vehemently to stay awake. I retreat to sleep in order to escape from every other discomfort life throws at me. I was not going to waste this trip - which I expected so much from - by pissing it away on a dream.
After a while, I got up in an effort to warm myself up by moving and to escape from the seductive call of my mattress. I was repeating to myself, 'You didn't ask for comfort, only enlightenment. Well here's your enlightenment. So fucking face it.' You see, the problems in my life were all coming to the forefront of my thoughts, but I was shutting down rather than thinking through any of them. When I stood up though, I decided to stop trying to force the trip into something it wasn't. Even if the mental acuity to work through my problems was there, the drive was not. It was simply too overwhelming to deal with. So I asked myself if I've ever let myself just be. Now I know that sounds like New-Age nonsense, but what followed was a very relaxing and rewarding experience. I pushed every thought out of my head and listened to what my body was telling me. Then I danced.
This wasn't an aggressive, energetic dance, like from earlier. Rather I was just exploring what my body could do. I snaked my arms through space and whispered across the floor step by step. I should mention that my room was pitch black except for the light of my smoke detector. I danced across my room and when I looked up, I saw the green light of the smoke detector making a peace sign. It brought a smile to my face. I wish this moment had lasted longer because it brought out a side of me I didn't know existed. But alas, nature called and I had to go to the bathroom.
I really don't want to defile my trip report with a description of what came out of me, but I do remember thinking that shitting your bowels out is just as much a part of life as dancing in ecstasy. While in the bathroom, I stared at myself in the mirror some more and thought about Yang (my dealer). She's facing her own problems, which are worlds away from mine, but I can still relate to the malaise she's going through. It's different, but it's having similar effects on her life. She has a destructive relationship with sleep and she's also searching for escape. I don't want to sound presumptuous because I don't know her, but I feel like she also struggles with the issues of identity and self-acceptance that are at the root of so many of my ills.
Thinking about larger issues than my own personal struggle reminded me that in response to a Reddit comment, someone had replied, 'I'm sad you're an Excel monkey. Your words could change the world.' It was uplifting and after washing my hands I set out to go read the comment and reassure myself that it really happened. At that moment (and in so many others) I felt a need to know that I was much more than my individual struggle. I wanted to know that I could affect people the world over despite my own difficulties with love and the struggles with my parents. Knowing that you're contributing to something beyond yourself helps alleviate the little deaths of heartbreak and loneliness that so pervade my waking moments.
So I struggled back to my bed, worried that my parents would see my leaning against the hallway wall to keep my balance. When I got to my computer, I had a difficult time reading because the words were moving across the screen. While interesting, it wasn't helpful towards what I was trying to do at the moment. I saw that I had new replies on my Reddit account and with great difficulty managed to read parts of them. I remember one guy saying that he didn't think boys and girls could be friends because that's not how the world works. I'm not sure if it was in reply to that statement or something else altogether, but I remember saying that I don't care what the world is like. I'm going to change it all to suit my liking for the brief time I spend here.
This led me to a tangent about how I feel about luxury, but before I talk about that I want to discuss the popularity of my Reddit posts. Their upvotes are capricious and relate in no way to the amount of effort I put into them. Rather their popularity is a function of timeliness and pandering to the audience. I imagine it works the same way in Hollywood, just on a larger scale. So I wonder then, is it worth it for me to be true to my own artistic vision even if it most likely won't bring me fame or fortune? I think the answer is to strike a balance between writing what I want and what will sell. But I'm still at a point where the question is moot. I do not believe - okay, well part of me does, but he's often shut up by my self doubt - that I could write a wildly successful tale, and I truly do not believe I've developed enough insight to write something genuinely good.
After writing for a little while on my blog, I reminded myself that I wanted to listen to Someone Put Your Hand Out because I relate so well to it. So I put in my earphones and went under my blanket to get lost in my sadness. I began crying at some point because the song brought up memories of Justina. And I felt a sense of loss because right then I realized that never again would I trust someone so unquestioningly. I trusted her with my personality, with my feelings and with my dreams. I'm not saying that she betrayed my trust or did anything mean in the slightest. But I gave her my all and she never reciprocated. That hurts. Like a motherfucker. I know now to never give someone my love without asking for theirs in return. That's the minimum it'll take for me to let someone in again. I have walls that are much more stringent than that,, but this rule I'll never break. And it's a shame, because that behaviour was beautiful in its own way.
Speaking of which, my memory is a shame. This was the peak of my trip and the point when my head was chock full of ideas. But it seems I've waited too long and it's all slipped away. Let this be a lesson for next time to begin writing earlier, perhaps even during the comedown. So what did I learn? That psylocibin is powerful and next time I'll ask for both comfort and insight. Because the alternative can be quite painful. My respect for the drug is too strong to risk another bad trip. I've also gained a sense of calm since the trip. It's humbled me and I don't see myself posturing for attention as much anymore. I really do wish I had started writing sooner, because I sat on my bed for hours in the dark just thinking. And those thoughts are lost. Perhaps it's as well. Brooding on the past has brought me too much pain for me to continue doing it. It's time to plant myself firmly in the present. But I can't. A part of me is still anticipating my next psychedelic adventure. I can't wait.
COPYRIGHTS: All reports are copyright Erowid.
Experience Reports are the writings and opinions of the individual authors who submit them.
Some of the activities described are dangerous and/or illegal and none are recommended by Erowid Center.