I'm not a fucking human being. Nor are you. Stop your whining, you fucking fool. Indulge in perfection, nothing more and nothing less.
Immaculate servitude to your self.
You don't have to get it. You don't have to have it either. You probably want to do both, but you don't have to do either to do either's other either, now have you?
Either you have or you have not either.
Onomatopoeia crystal ball of wounding wound wondrously on a string of loops, echoing intellectual eternities from its red and white perch above the most erogenous zones of our visual field. Vacillating. Pulsing. Spinning. Wondering if we know where it came from... Wondering if we know what it's doing. Wondering if anyone will ever activate its hidden hologram message from the stars. So, then, what planet are You from?
I come bearing a message. A message of hope for those who choose to hear it and a warning for those who do not. I am not original; I am a pirate. I come fer' yer' wimminz and moneys. And yer' booze. Best not forget the wimminz; a lonely pirate soon becomes a frustrated murderer.
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I am a tangled mess of luminous, perceiving filaments, loosely bound with a field of awareness. Isn't it odd that we give these bundles of perception names? Janna, Mikal, Farnsworth Bigglesley the Fifth. What's even odder is that this nomenclative artifice makes sense to us. It sometimes seems normal. We've adopted a context for it. A frame of reference which creates it. It's like somehow, somewhere, we, if we could agree to call this thought "we," became ensnared in, or ensnared ourselves in, perpetually becoming a self-contained and inductively spiraling cycle of meaning which never existed in the first place and can Mean only to itself; one whose meaning is non-existent, just like itself, which doesn't actually exist, because existence is meaning and can only be meaningful within itself and with no meaningful origin free of itself, which can't exist because-
Oh, wait... We've circumvented the loop. Read it again.
The edge is the center is the edge is the center. Constantly approaching the center, the edge phases into being from nothingness in perfect cohesion with the center's phasing into nothingness from being. The outward resistance of the center provides the medium for the edges to experience their climbing, down-is-up induction, and the two non-existent forces meet to create a very much existent force, in so far as existence exists, and the erudite phantasms of the intermediary clamber ever onward towards their recondite marriage with the fluid impossibility of everything they have chosen to pretend to be.
I exist, damn it!
I am, however, not so sure about the rest of you meatbags.
Are you me? Am I you, reflected off of me to be beheld by the transcendent self of no-self which doesn't actually exist because- nevermind. We've already tried that loop.
Are you just a mad fool of a mind's deranged, psycho-palsy hallucination of a broken companionship with itself, conjured out of its infinitude of solitary void? Am I?
I think, therefore I am.
Or maybe I simply think I have an "I" to do the thinking with and the thought thinks of itself, necessarily, in subjectivity, which causes the false notion of an observer to feel to the false observer as if it were more substantial than a notion borne of self-contradictory non-existence which does not actually contradict anything or lack existence, but baffles our ultimately self-causal discreet-event reason because it neither exists nor does not.
There is no "it" freely of itself to exist or to not exist.
It neither exists nor does not exist.
It exists or it does not exist in self-causality.
It neither exists nor does not.
The contradiction is in the context, not the diction.
Psychedelics are a metaphor.
When you take all of creation to be thought, or mentality if you like, and presume that we, our minds, bodies and spirits, are extensions of a singular, perfect and totally whole thought, or an infinitude of fractured, incomplete and imperfect thought, for that matter, it follows that the meanings and events we experience are thought.
Or, more simply put, if everything is thought then everything is thought.
Being that gross matter is thought, and assuming that we and our world are spontaneous expressions of the fantastic conception of a singular thought without causal origin, a truly discreet mental event divided infinitely within and by itself, it follows that that little square of paper with the colorless, odorless, tasteless substance soaked into it, that wad of dry, green plant matter with the beautiful, resinous poison glands agitated during growth to achieve maximal output and potency and the cheeky little fungi who speak and teach the universal language all serve as metaphors within our stories. Thoughts, in their essence no different from you or I. Bridges between your little branch of THE thought and an awareness of the greater branches, roots, trunk and core of THE thought. Metaphors, just as verbal metaphor is a bridge between concepts, catalyzing a breach of self and occasionally letting us somehow glimpse our truest non-self nature.
What happens when the thought thinks directly about itself?
What happens when the thought thinks of un-thought?
Can there be a new thought?
What happens when two truly discreet thoughts meet; would they exercise discretion?
Sure, maybe I Must know the way I do because all I have to function on is a system of perceptual echolocation and the closest I could ever get to the truth is the rawest experience of myself in relation to the universe, not the actual universe, and because of the nature of phenomenal sensory experience as a projected and returned instance of thought maybe all I can Ever see of this universe is this elaborate thought of mine.
But I think we all know that it's more involved than that.