I know enough about light to be dangerous. I play with it, lower it, brighten and diffuse it. Add color when color leaps from my waist, throat or third eye. Dreams suggest an existence I fight during waking hours. Light illumines this and goes out.
Epiphany, the light bulb of thought, paints my mental jungle, and like you perhaps, I swing on its concentric rings then fall to the ground exhausted. It’s kinda like a trip, although I wouldn’t really know since I don’t do trips.
But it feels like a trip of the biorhythmic sort, a sweaty pilgrimage through adrenal glands, hormones and partial psychosis. I don’t need the Amazon for this kind of trip.
Unlike Terrence McKenna who used botany for hallucinogenic voyages, and like so many shamanic traditions do, I haven’t seen the drug-dipped side of fantasy. The mind and all its power seems to possess passports that don’t require help form the outside.
Pharma could be a hoax. Ever think of this? All those pills, all those sad, sick souls who want to pop the pain out of their psyche. How powerful is the mind really? Is the drug Gestalt simply a seduction into deeper and darker rabbit holes?
Little white discs of mystery will take you there, faster and easier than a meditative trance. We drink coffee, tea, whiskey because we want to get there quick. There are so many things I can do to wander the halls of trance. Chocolate works wonders. Brandy. Sobered thoughts of reality.
Then there are multifarious elixirs, onions, herbs and fermentations. Alchemical fantasies. Stirs to the stars. When the lights come on brightly, I chase them. Epiphanies unravel my brainstorm. Colors play my aura like a cello. I am on fire with ideas.
Light bleeds the blinds like gilded lashes. A glass of wine would be great now. Tea first, it’s still morning.
