Where would the West be if the Eleusinian mysteries continued?
Quarter tab panic attack. ~~ Everything is nonsense. Only comedy makes sense. Art maybe, but less and less. Only art without a point, but isn’t that the point? Art always has a point. No, something else. Fuck. This has a point. These words are the epitome of a point. A failed attempt, at that. Nevermind. It’s not having a point that irks. It’s certain ones. Regurgitations. I’m not arguing for pointlessness, that too would be nonsense. Everything is both and simultaneously, and infinitely, pointed. Tapped, touched. Connected. Whether it wants to or not. Disregard desire. But what makes anything different? Not the ones I see more and more often. I guess that’s the problem with humans and everything: the more and more often. Maybe immoral to think these kinds of thoughts. Anti-humanist in a sense. It’s probably a good thing I’m not a bioethicist with a fancy Monash degree. Western-moralist-problem-seeking. I prefer to glance outside of us—afraid I’m inside far too much. When I drove by those two dead crows on the side of the road and looked up to see a city before me, I regret aspects of humanity. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. We fucked up. What can I do other than off myself? What’s left? Pinker says the numbers say we’re getting better at being together, but at what cost? Chessmaster, tell me, should I sacrifice myself for the game? One less white pawn in the way. So much art these days is about being of a certain way, but we all are. // Too separate. Too insane. Too alone. More than ever. Blowing up his Spam folder. Confessions of love, pathetic pleas, apologies. Wanting him to see. There’s no point. Ah! No point. No point. But there always is, even if it thinks it’s not. Nothing entirely pointless. Or could it? Maybe everything’s pointed. Even from afar, touching. Dancing around some center together. Both must be, so much relies on each. To dance, that must be it, all must… no—not must—that’s a bad word. Too sure of itself. But, then again, one without the other seems unlikely, even in spontaneous eruption. Could it be? Didn’t it form elsewhere before piercing through? That’s it, as it was. Not just an explosion. A drop out a hole. That was it. What’s the point? Now my mind’s just going to strange places. Haven’t been touched for seven months. Since Sam. I’m starting to go mad. I really am. This is it. You made it! Welcome! We’re here! Madness. Everything but all of it. How embarrassing. How selfish. We are! We are! Right? Even if an Ego is writing this, yours is reading it too, isn’t it? And able enough to think itself around words, how undesirably, how much they need it. To get somewhere. Going! That’s what it is. Always going. Never content. But see, I knew this. I’ve known all of this. Or thought I did. That’s the depression seeping in. The ever inward mirror. Looking down. Picking at it. Sad. Stupid. A girl who was both loved and unloved. She craved so much until she ripped it all out.
Selected search terms that lead people to my site. Disclaimer: I am not a scientist. These answers are based on years of experience dosing myself and dosing with other people.
Can you dose after microdosing? How much time should you space between doses?
Everyone is different. I’ve dosed the day after microdosing. I’ve microdosed the day after microdosing. I always felt the effects. It always went well. Some people report short-term tolerance and the need to take a little more to feel an equivalent effect the day after a (micro)dose, but I wouldn’t necessarily advise that here. Wait a few days if you can between doses. Or, figure out why you may feel the need to dose so often.
(The Fadiman microdosing regimen recommends one day on, three days off. So if you want to take a big trip within a microdosing regimen, try sticking to on/off days, whether the dose is micro or not.)
How long will it last and how quickly will I feel it?
Switching gears along the Yarra River, I pedal faster and faster, heading nowhere in particular. My face just crashed into a party of flies and now I’m swallowing wings. Sinking into my surroundings — the wind, ripples in the water, parrots overhead — with no thoughts of all the elses and elsewheres I could be, I’m tripping.
This microdose feels like a half tab. Which isn’t necessarily bad, except I can’t focus. I can’t sit still. I can’t read the lines of a book without being bombarded by my own. I can’t write. All I can do is keep going and going. Moving through. This is not what I anticipated for a Wednesday morning. Continue reading “Why I quit microdosing”
How do hormones impact psychedelic interaction and effect?