Arriving at a party full of obliviously drunk people while on my own psycocillibin adventure became one of the most memorable and impressionable mind fucks and experiences of my life. I realized that what I’d spent years doing every night was possibly one of the weirdest behaviors to me, and I lost all perception of who I was and what I had been and was doing with my life. I went from thinking I knew exactly who I was to asking “who the fuck am I”.
With coffee in one had, a cigarette in the other and mushrooms stirring around in our stomachs and stirring up our brains, my friend and I emerged from my car to make an appearance and a buddies party. We were well into or psychedelic trip when we walked into the downstairs apartment to socialize. Within fifteen minutes I felt like I was going to explode if I was around drunk people any longer. I simply could not comprehend why everyone was so intoxicated. What was the point? One girl had urinated on the couch, for the second time, someone had passed out in each bedroom by then, and everyone else was fixing to get more wasted, or working on getting at least some type of foreplay from a member of the opposite sex. My friend and I looked at each other with a distressed look in each pair of our eyes. She suggested we go out for a smoke, I agreed and we retired to the porch.
“I don’t get it.” She said, and she looked over at me. I knew exactly what she meant, I nodded and agreed with her. I truthfully did not understand these drunk people. All they were doing was getting drunk and sitting there, not doing anything. Aren’t you supposed to get drunk and do something? Aren’t you supposed to get all wasted rant? Isn’t that what it’s all about. This prompted an interrogation of myself. I tried to figure out if I was anymore sane than them, I was pretty sure I was. However, and the same time everything was glowing bright hot pink even in the dark night. It was really the third night in a row I’d been tripping. I started to feel more like I’d been hitting rails than eating mushrooms. There were a thousand thoughts running through my head every minute, and I was jumping back and forth between each one simultaneously while having a conversation with my friend. I had a complete identity break down. Everything in my life that made me the way I am, and hated, I couldn’t understand. And everything I did, I all of a sudden didn’t understand. And everything I had, I didn’t want. Nothing was wrong with my life, but nothing was right either. Everything just was, and I felt no reason to try and further define anything, or find any type of meaning in anything that was said or done in the past or present.
I felt like I had no idea who I was, I knew what made me. Childhood’s what makes us. I sorted it all out in my head before. My comfort level was down in the negatives, and it had spanned farther than just my own skin, it spanned into my group of friends, to the city, to the world to the universe. I couldn’t figure out what role I played in this big scheme of life. I wasn’t sure what I knew and what I didn’t, then realized that everything I know could be wrong. I felt like I didn’t belong in this race, I felt like I was an oxymoron to the human race. I figured we are what we do, in essence, but that defines in no way our emotional connection to anything we do or anyone we know. My whole world and life as I knew it crumbled down and I felt like I was left standing in an abyss. There weren’t even any ruins, I had no way to know who I was. I was struggling to find the reason for why people live, and the only conclusion I could come to was that living was simply to be. It’s that irritating little time between life and death where we try to make something of ourselves and have an identity.