Tar Feather

I’ve always wanted to go to outer space.

A desire that partly led to trying DMT for the first time. The other reason was that I was chronically depressed. Outer space seemed like a great place to explore since it was outside of the space I currently occupied. Unbound from the earth I would fly through neon trailing shapes and patterns. Exploring new mechanisms for existence. A fragmented man’s search for the meaning behind all of the darker things in and around. What is the purpose for all this poison? 

The first time I participated in a group ceremony I was asked to set an intention and then during the journey I was asked to remember who I was. I found that to be a curious question. How would I remember something like that? A better question would have been, who do you want to become? Also, the plastic shaman in the designer Nike SBs had hijacked my chosen intention. Who does he want me to remember? That is what I thought while in a liquid psychic state. There was a power and influence that this guy radiated that exceeded his material gains. I continued further down the ceremony road, perhaps this confident designer shaman unlocked some greater meaning to existence by flooding his system with remerging ancient spirit medicines. Widely used by an apex species that existed in a grand and forgotten epoch. 

He did not.

He did however think he did. He might have struck an agreement with a dimensional entity that had hitched a ride or he may have just flipped so many switches that a latent gene for madness hit 2nd gear. No longer was this Nike SB-wearing former-coke-dealer a human, he had become some elder nihilist god. I remember he tried playing the video game Skyrim. He would throw the controller screaming how the universe that he was from didn’t have so many bugs. Strange things happened all around this odd ceremony group. Which was even more curious. The depression didn’t go away from the ceremonies. It transformed into something, a presence, or a disassociated body. It channeled itself into interpreted stories. Lost and sad souls weaving absurd stories and when some obstacle would present in the real world, an edit would accommodate. A new myth would emerge, a construct of avoidance. Every obstacle became fictional props for a stage. 

Social media is a substance without a body. 

It’s source of power drawn from our critical chemical responses that evolved in an untamed world. We reached this moment because we evolved with each other, a communal composition.

A kaleidoscope of feeling, sensation and response. 

If written language is the first man authored matrix then maybe the internet is the last. Bodiless connecting with imaginary tribes is burning out the pathways for bonding. 

With endless myths, spectacle and reactions, a million constructs deploy for every obstacle we’d like to avoid. The resiliency of family and tribe is unknown. Forgotten like the power inside of plants and fungi that remind us of who we are when we are together. 

Not who we were. 

Wings of silicon covered in tar and our feet skimming solid ground. 
Tech lord shamans in Nike SBs who low key read Twilight and thought they were gods. 
I wonder if the pharaohs that drank fermented belladonna dreamed of vampires too. 

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