Mushroom induced musings.

We are one. Sublime, beautiful, and completely unnecessary.

My existence is constantly getting in the way of my life.

To speculate on the fact that the ego does not exist is to conjure it.

I scream at reality "Wake Up!" and it can only answer "I am AWAKE!"

Don't trust your television.

story draft

Gregory took a hit of acid. It wasn't 1960's orange sunshine hippy acid. It wasn't dance party dubstep two free glowsticks acid. It wasn't a secret key to the center of the universe, it was just plain LSD-25 soaked into a square of all white blotter paper, odorless, with the alkaline taste of the aluminum foil it was kept in. He chewed it up into a paste, bits of it getting stuck between his teeth and in his molars. Jenny, who was also entertaining a hit in her mouth, passed him the joint. he moved the acid paper mache under his tongue and took one big hit, holding in a small cough as he felt the smoke alter his body chemistry, making him feel more relaxed. It wasn't enough to shake the nervousness, he had sweat beading up on his forehead, and he could feel the beginnings of perspiration stick his shirt to his skin. "I'm nervous," she said. He closed his eyes and exhaled the smoke through his nose, took a quick hit, and said while holding the smoke in, "relax, everything's gonna be all right." She turned to sit next to him on the bed, he handed her the joint and slid down so that their faces met.

But to understand the next thing he said to her, you need to understand what he was thinking at the time and that story began....

blah blah

Sometimes.

I think about you sometimes. On those humid mornings when people are waking up and I can't sleep. Or when I dig through the seat and find that stick of lip balm I should have thrown away two springs ago. I miss not having to say anything, or talking without worrying about much, or having regular sex. Maybe I knew it'd be over someday, but it never felt like the last time. Even when it was the last time, I remember the taste of beer and cigarettes and the smell of sheets and you. Sometimes between books or in boxes of old things I find you looking at me feverishly muttering into a glass of wine or playing your slightly out of tune guitar. Sometimes in convincing dreams my bed is not a cold crash landing, but a warm sanctuary from chaos. I don't miss you, and that scares me more than being alone.