Suppose we change the subject
On the hidden mysteries and why bother to initiate as a psychonaut
Things get a bit exhilarating after one deep-dives into the darkness of inner space through a sea of fractals and shooting stars only to end up being ASMR-triggered by a sexy Jenny reciting, with otherworldly confidence and an insanely beautiful form of alternating rhythms in something resembling old Aramaic, what could easily be the more obscure secrets of existence, all while being menacingly pointed at with a strap-on shiny pink plastic dildo.
As far as I am concerned, after bewitching, unique occurrences like that, one is forgiven -if not expected- to consider, maybe in a string of giggling thoughts, the real possibility that the universe is indeed run on an ill-maintained fork of the most humble yet somehow awe-inspiring flavor of "Human68k” we have come to know and love; the “ilk amazes”, without working repositories.
* * * * * * *
It’s indeed turtles all the way down, and a grand band of marching machine-elves may come to remind you so with great fanfare if you are in for a wild-ride.
Just don’t wish it for it to happen too hard just yet. It may be wiser to abide by the rules and forget about the damn mushrooms already, to go burn the whole entheogenic pharmacopoeia. Hold your holotropic breath until you pass away, if it comes to that.
Remember, those little bitchy goblins in exquisite attire won’t do much to protect you once the thought-police comes charging in. If there is a sofa around, chances are they will all run to hide under. If not, one may very well materialize for a second at that point, so they can escape through a cosmic portal to the far away mystical land of woo woo. Expect to hear their high-pitched voices screaming with excitement, their tiny lungs hyperventilating and still gasping for air while you are being handcuffed.
Just obey, you fucking retard. Massive libraries fully stacked with law books printed with the blood of savages, heretics, dissidents and sacrificial lambs by the mighty power of the state edifice are here to save you from yourself and the underworld.
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Oh, the glorious fun and excitement. The trepidation of all epistemological fieldwork expeditions ever conducted. The gorgeousness of all the ethnographic treatises on the bizarre customs and family structures of newly discovered tulpa villages living in the rain forests of the unseen. The astonishing and fearless magnificence of it all!
With so many enticing perks and career incentives provided by industry and government alike to foster such high-paying lines of cutting-edge research on the matrix of reality itself, who could be crazy enough not to engage?
Unrefusable invitations to holiday at crowbar hotel or the loony bay resort, long-nights in padded suits with amazing views to the sea of tears and despair, unlimited prescriptions of state-approved corporate neuroleptic drugs for the life-long condition of being such useless idiots and dangerous fools…
Oh, the massive set of swinging cojones it takes to do it all and more. Let’s toast for the freedom of consciousness and experimentation we all hold dear and enjoy.
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And then again, the question arises. Almost as if whispered by the goddess Durga herself, maybe as you flush down your stack of recently classified research chemicals: for how long can we, or anyone for that matter, ride on the back of a wild beast?
And why, for the sake of us all, should we charge through the Ragnarök battlefield of common sense wielding the torch of unleashed reason on the back of a fierce and indomitable being, if after all it may be even raining outside, and there is a cup of warm tea waiting to be enjoyed in peaceful solitude?