To Live is to be Conscious

Habitual substance use of any kind is almost always met with non-logical response. No amount of scientific evidence will convince these people. Their stubborn demeanor ironically indicates a lack of conscious thought. It seems to be the result of a pervasive bias that has festered well into contemporary society. The concept of long-term drug use remains shackled to the concept of physical or mental addiction. To further exacerbate the problem, life long use of pharmaceuticals is also with chronic illness. This paints an uncorrelated stigma that begs for a cure.

We are the imperfect and ongoing result of an adaptive process that does not necessarily facilitate improvement. Transhumanism is a treasure guarded by the brothers ignorance and arrogance. In this era, can we realize that the future of mankind will not come about while we stand idly by? We must develop our skills of introspection, for we can think more than we think.

A supplementation of correctly chosen nootropics, neuroprotectants, and nutrients can greatly improve quality and length of life, at only a material cost. For whichever reason, remaining conscious throughout the whole experience of living is severely underrated. These pharmaceuticals do not simply increase memory, they enhance the essence of any and all thought. Reality has an infinity of information to provide us with. The variety is maddening. Look here. Look there. Our only limitation of experience is how much we can experience. Do not eliminate distraction, increase your field of view.

A loss of intellect results in diminished consciousness, a retreat into the allegory of the cave. It is the death of certain personality filaments. One must not think of the psyche as a binary switch, but as a thinly stretched gradient. Our natural bodies are progressing across it, our minds withering slowly. Parts of what we defined as “I” at one point in time, lose recognizability. In slow silent steps, they are altered and deleted. We might always be ourselves, but we are never the same person.

To preserve the entire spectrum of the gradient, the mind must exist first and foremost to contemplate itself. If we forego this priority of attention too often, we can no longer be spoken of as truly sentient. Nootropics keep this awareness alive. Self-awareness can be expressed as a simple chemical process. We must realize that our reality is a cognitive hoax. Everything that is real is brutally reliant on our own ability to understand. Stay awake.

Consider the following:

* Through nature, nurture, and culture, anyone can be raised convinced of anything.
* Memory is episodic and selfish.
* Someone else’s perspective is irreducibly your perspective on their perspective.
* Your mind is a personalized categorization of local nature and nurture.
* Senses provide the building blocks and overwhelming parts of the blueprints that are interpreted to build your ego.
* Schizophrenics cannot be persuaded with words.
* Religious fanatics cannot be swayed with rhetoric.
* Brainwashed citizens cannot be convinced of their bias.

Capitalism supports the vile and materialist notion of externalizing resources of the mind. Who can honestly be surprised that visual representations of merit are a precursor to violence? Socialism essentially advocates a collective mind, which is equally dehumanizing. We need to momentarily be immune to the streamlined trance-inducing media world. The human definition of living is a series of monologues and/or dialogs adjusted to locality, government, nurture, and technology. Think of it this way, other than posing a moral dilemma, a human being could be easily raised to a content feral ape. It would be happy defecating itself in a cage. How could it possibly know of anything else?

We are deeply dependent on our environment to develop our own ability and flavor of thought. Without a true psychedelic experience, you cannot say to have thought for yourself. A mindful trance state is essential if attempting any form of pseudo-objectivity. Why we need sentience augmentation and expansion should be agonizingly obvious. The salience should be glaring like the brilliant glow of a tryptamine experience.

As a result of natural greed and manipulative success of sociopaths, corrupted routine and ritual is being imposed upon us with varying degrees of volition. What we have is a cycle of consume, intoxicate, neuroprocess, and hibernate. The artificial intoxication of materialism, ego, and society doesn’t lend itself to progress. Our natural brain chemistry has us in a loop cycle. Thankfully there is a safe and effective way to break it.

Keep in mind that our worldview is constructed from an early malleable age. It is a slow accumulation of consciousness. Like branches growing towards a synthetic sun, we follow the flashlight of modern society. As children we are required to be gullible to facilitate rapid learning. Our unconscious mind matures in a fully submerged state. We have not yet reached our full intellectual potential, thus we are certainly not peers to those that direct and influence us. We do not yet know what things we have to resist. The cultures, people, and environments that we are exposed to are internalized and ingrained.

As a superior neuropsychological device, psychedelics dissolve these ingrained environments by providing an overload of mathematical input. How it is interpreted is entirely reliant on the structure of your identity. The mind has to rebuild its thoughts. The entire formation of our worldview is revisited, with the full capacity of an awake adult mind. We begin to understand the parts that make up our consciousness. Profoundly cathartic, we witness the rebirth of our ego. It is washed clean with intelligence dependant introspection. All it takes is a quick peek at ourselves from a different mind. Oh how we have been deceived!

Delish

If there's anything that I contemplated regularly, it's covering my grill. Now I've laughed it off, eating away at my cordon bleu. My patio was begrilled, yet it stood naked. My mighty oven would be slowly crushed by rain. I can't lose something so valuable, not during the cold war with the Greens. In an immediate display of oneupmanship the Greens had an automatic grill cover made from Italian basswood. How was I going to keep up with that? With this.

Deluxe Grill Cover

I found this reasonably priced fabric rectangle that performs eponymously. I figured I need to protect my grill from all these hoodlums. Why not for the big finish? Next week I'm trying whether it's bulletproof or not. Regardless, Jim Green won't be invited to my next barbeque that's for sure. Good patio seeks good burger.

patio furniture covers

For the Hoard

I am a hoarder. It rolls of my lips like a Rolls Royce in its factory. Hoarder. I carry the world's loads, the entendres. I stack the planet's piles. Transhumanists' trash if you're lucky. It's necessary to create little sky scrapers of garbage. I've invested in four properties for the sole purpose of stackestry (adv. hoardology). This amounts to a total of approximately 430 meters of storage space. For beginners, If your finesse is that of a moundmaker you might as well hoard yourself in you artless hack. Limp wrist. Shopping spree. "My name is Erin and I'm not much for sharin'.", the little mountain man said. Everything looks better when you're looking through rose colored glasses. Grab some hair on the way back from putting them on.

Repairing Time

In the tar of night, wrenches sounded off in maniacal beats, exposing the hidden primal rhythms of repetitive motion. Grunting escaped through cracks in the garage door. "Repairs for Ya", the orange sign directly above it flickered. How Cyrus wish he had done that on purpose. The first thing that one would realize upon approaching this remote repairshop, was that one had arrived essentially nowhere. Foreign letters and illegible capitalistic gestures adorned the already declining metal, overgrown with a rusty orange. The air smelled of sleep deprivation and cold rain.

Soon the ink had eroded and now business looked pale. Two grandmas and a toaster didn't really do the trick. Precisely it amounted to a reasonable supply of beef jerkey, and some grape soda. It was not even enough to keep his beard growing. But it didn't matter, handy man was home. His massive fingers almost covered an entire tire. He did his job and he did it good. He did it for his livelyhood. Big fat fingers, itty bitty thumb. Beat me with a wrench until my skull goes numb. Or so it went. His eyes were thick with red fibres with lids stuck precisely in the middle. Time to pause his favorite cigar. He'd just spent the entire day trying to incorporate a lawnmower engine onto his chair. An egyptian mummy's worth of ducttape fixated it to the floor. Dark droplets struck the floor as he poured some of the good high octane.

Just as he bent over to ceremoniously take his machine for a literal spin, he was interrupted by shadows running across his wall. What amounted to a cloak on feet just pushed open the door. He did this with great care, while somehow disregarding the vomit stain directly under the handle. An awkward silence and clueless sniffing later a large tin thunk shook the walls. "I must apologize.", the stranger said. He had been trying to pull a cart carrying a man sized tin can fashioned with lightbulbs through the door. The impact had caused paint to peel off the wall. "Alright matey!", Cyrus said with a distinctive glow in his eyes. "You need wheels on it?"

Cyrus had just been disappointed. He had just been given an assertive no. "This thing doesn't even work. Start by fixing it before you even think about wheels, kid.", the stranger laughed. Cyrus slowly redshifted. The human tomato could finally be heard. "What the honker is this?" he said. His embarassment had now given him one of the characteristics of a vegetable and he was patiently waiting for his inner tension to give him another. "Figure it out.", were the last words the stranger said. He left without causing much more than a cough and a slight footprint in paint chips.

Cyrus carried the tin monolith with ease. He barely needed 3 fingers to hoist it around like a ukulele. As he carried it patiently into the zen garden, his usual workplace, he noticed a bit of displaced sand. This caused him great distress. His brow furrowed. His stomach growled. Footprints. After some adjusting with the rake, he bit into a big slice of melon and put his working gloves on. The machine stood silently before him. "Seems pretty simple to fix something that I don't even know what it done do.", Cyrus said. "I'm a mechanic in panic." Another bite followed. He couldn't figure out why he had been commisioned to fix a prop out of an 1960s sci-fi movie. He just had to make it blink. That was it, wasn't it?

It was a silver contraption that was made with the finesse and cunning of roughly seventeen ducks. It'd be polite to say you wouldn't accidentally put your trash in it if you woke up at 2 am. Paint chunks flew off of it at the mildest. Now we're even. Any given part of the machine seemed like it had been connected with a large amount of spit and paper. It had a door fashioned out of the lid from a titan of a cafeteria pot. This was the only component that didn't look like it came from a soviet schoolbus. Cyrus' ears were ringing. How could anyone possibly fix a machine that they had no idea about? What did it even do? But figured he could probably wing it. He took a slight sip out of his flask. Thoughts whirled within his polygonal head. The stranger seemed like a quack to be honest.

The mechanic's garage was now filled with birdlike whistling. Cyrus cared for hobbies that he could do simultaneously with his work. Unfortunately this has caused him to not once but twice be impersonating Nixon infront of customers. He paused briefly to contemplate a parakeet. He dedicated the last inflation of his lung to ending the whistle in a roaring thunder crescendo. His work was done. His slime covered arms stank of pine and fire. Have you ever felt the need to climb into a huge electrical device? Cyrus was too acquainted with this. In fact he was already inside the machine, flipping buttons like he's in a low budget airplane movie. He gradually finds his hammer strangely heavy and has to keep hiking his pants up in order to avoid awkwardness. One of the buttons came off. Dummy wires everywhere. Unconsciousness.

Rudely hoisted up and inspected by the man, Cyrus realized the machine had turned him into an itty bitty human. A ginger mute with an automatic syringe in his back. Who designed this? There wasn't much Cyrus could do while the stranger rolled dials around with his fake leather fingerless gloves. "I'll be immortal.", the stranger said. His voice crackled more than a border town with a firework business. His coat didn't bother to stop at the floor. By his clothes fit him as well as the parts of his machine.

But the stranger thought too much of himself. In simplicity comes defeat. Cyrus' gleeful vomiting slathered the strangers mouth and neck. The stranger frantically palmed the dials, screaming his last resort. Cyrus, with hands still the size of his head, leaped out of the tin can. Foaming through the cracks in his teeth, he pummels the stranger into the machine. Like Hitchcockian birds, his fingertips peck at the seams of his giant coat until he tumbles inside over his own head.

Cyrus' giant hands ripped off the cardboard dial, releasing several electric sparks that reached for his face. Hands builts of static grabbed at him. "You can't touch the handyman don't even try.", he said. The strangers face sunk into itself. His body drooped along with oversized clothes. "A transhumanist comedy!", he exclaimed with his last breaths. It was merely a circus to mock the overman. He had become a baby wrapped in a grime coat. Just go with your manufacturer's tech-support. How absurd to even have a moral. No third parties.

Cyrus snatched the stranger into the air with one hand. The baby stranger, who already forgot why he was upset, was crying. It was a temporary remnant of an erased emotional state. He had regressed too far to comprehend the past. Language slithered out of his grasp as he hit the floor of his psyche. Cyrus placed the baby gently into one of his gloves. Within seconds it was covered in ash. "Let's roll Cyrus Junior!", he said as sat down in his chair. The duct tape crackled and the motor roared. The spin was about to begin.

Operation Dusty Clown

His established respect had been severely weakened. None of this shit. Private Grease sat with a salient slouch, sighing to punctuate any intention of movement. For a moment the canteen became unbearably loud with tears. His little pinky had stubbed against the table leg. War hero, just like that. Vague insults circulated about him, his nerves were now as twisted as the rubber band ball he cycled through pockets to avoid detection. He didn't want to disappoint the Seargent, so why should there be rubber bands on his privates? His general composition was that of a wrongfully tased grandmother. Pull yourself together man. A puddle began to form under his hands; Dr. Pepper had escaped his tin containment. If only this were the only puddle to worry about.

It's been 6 google searches since he saw any action, but the PTSD still mangled his ribs into a xylophone. A sombre melody shook his chest. His vague musculoskeletal method of transport kicked its way out of the canteen. By the time he had dragged himself out the exit, his bullet-proof vest had become a greedy sponge for his mellow water. He was a withered lime of a target. His introspection had dimmed his surroundings. Thoughts quickly wore off and he found himself centered in a vicious conflict. Despite what he told himself every day after anime night, nobody can prepare for the horrors of war.

"I'm a fast racer, I'm a gun shooter", he told himself as the children approached him. It dawned on him that this was the true unadulterated face of war. He doubted coming back from this one. An Iraqi orphan with fetal alcohol syndrome began pelting him with rocks, perhaps out of kinship. With every successful rock, Private Grease began breathing faster than he had ever before, and that's counting Call of Duty. His eyesight blurred into kaleidoscopic goop. An arrow of pain lodged itself in his spine, bringing him to his knees. His attempt at a moustache had been temporarily gingered with his own vein juice. Goodbye consciousness, his underpants had been pulled to his neck.

Alien Serotonin

The room had become a spaceship. My ego was lost and I became a computary component of the vessel. I was a computronium chunk dedicated to syphoning data and analysing it. Vastly dimensional arrays of quantum variables were spinning in my mind. My mind was a subset of a subset of thought. There was no person to speak of, only an full efficient system. The bridge between mind and machine is necessarily a psychedelic one.

Of Mice and More of Them

As the grime was foreseen in the dark shadows of the Munt Forest, the Rat King raised his head. For the first time in what appears to be several generations, the Rat King awoke from his nap of disgust. Once he managed to tear them apart, his eyes looked as if someone had launched a chalk at them. The Owl Oracle stood before him. "When it arrives, it will know." the Owl said. The Rat King slapped the crust off of his eyelids with his left paw. "Fucking Nutmeg.", the Rat King muttered. He had eaten quite a bit of it in an attempt to outmaneuver boredom. His ratty cheeks were still aching from the raw grit of the nutmeg powder, some still lodged amongst his teeth. The throne room began to rapidly expand and contract. The owl dissolved. Fuck this.

The rat minions had become test subjects of nutmeg's LD50, the lucky 50 cleaning up the dead 50. It was piles of contorted dead rats, not a particular mess but still a bit to carry. The Rat King slouched in his throne, swaying to the beat of corpse carrying rodent feet. Tap. Tap. Tap. A lone mouse turned slowly towards his king and approached him. The Rat King remained in his throne. He stared at the mouse with fatigued eyes, expecting nothing. The beat had stopped, as had his joyous swaying. The mouse launched forward and plunged a pin into the Rat King's skull, piercing his brain. The Rat King gave only a single immediate reaction, gripped the mouse with his teeth, crushing its neck. Once the body hit the stainless castle floors and engaged in some freeform arterial painting, the Rat King patiently pulled out the pin. In a stalemate with the evolutionary game, he was no step closer to the true void. Owned Bitch.

Several days passed, it could have been anywhere from one to a thousand. The Rat King had permanently lost track of time. But this day was punctuated with icy air sweeping his face. The Throne Room doors had opened, once more bearing promises of annihilation. The Pug Captain ran, yapping as if his face had been kicked 84 times. Right behind him was a gargantuan clockwork of wasps that had targeted him for extinction. "Armageddon lies within us", a hiss emerged from the wasps. Their directed rhythmic movement summoned a voice laced with static and grime. Their pre-calculated swirls enveloped the Rat King in thunderous anger. Furious electrons threatened to disintegrate him into rat pate as the wasps ever quickened their pace. By now a cigarette was sticking out from under his whiskers. Let's do business.