“The Gaian mind is what we’re calling the psychedelic experience. It’s an experience of the living fact of the entelechy of the planet—and without that experience we wander in a desert of bogus ideologies. But with that experience the compass of the self can be set.”
I’m just empty space. I’m the eyes, filmy and muddled behind glass. Grainy and pixelated. I’m the word you say over and over until I don’t make sense anymore. I’m consenents after consenents where there ought to be vowels. And this afternoon, when we sat there, barely clothed, and barely awake in beautiful confusion, I wondered why you’d taken on the task of exploring my continent. I’m not wearing anything on my lips because I know you hate barriers. I’ve given you unadulterated access, I know this, but all you can do is stare at the cracks, anyway. Smudges and traces of color left behind. It puts the silliest smile on your face. You know you’re nowhere near my core.
“Come down, now.” I’m just hearing remnants of what I know to be the entire sentence. “Come down.” I wipe my face with my bedsheets as he probes in a safe, hymn-like tone. I make my way down seventeen steps on barley shag that feel like the first wave of summer, warm and deep-set between each toe. Comforting. We forget what it’s like to count numbers, acknowledge things like space, like time. And in all of the mechanics, lost in where we are, I think to myself, I finally know who I am, and what love is. It’s written on my eyes and how easy it is to love you. Even though I’m flocculent and irrational; even though who I am is blurry and softened.
I think the world has forgotten how to love. I hear people talk about how things should be. Pettifoggery, really. Whatever happened to the cadent enchantment of selflessness? I think it’s the square root of everything. I think about these things when in oblivion. At the moment, I feel as though I must wear red on my face as a statement. I pretend that someone else in the universe is entertaining these thoughts and playing dress up, too. Haze—according to Merriam-Webster—is defined as “a slight obscuration of the lower atmosphere,” I read. I would have finished the rest of the sentence, but that’s exactly where I was. I was way at the bottom, looking up. I know they all see me waving from such great heights. There’s a voice calling me to that place. He’s downstairs…