Observations placeholder
A New Alloy Blooms in the Crucible - Syrian Rue, Cacti - T. peruvianus, 2C-E, 4-AcO-DMT & DMT - by Nowhereman
Identifier
022713
Type of Spiritual Experience
Background
A description of the experience
Extracted from A New Alloy Blooms in the Crucible - Syrian Rue, Cacti - T. peruvianus, 2C-E, 4-AcO-DMT & DMT - by Nowhereman Source EROWID Vaults
In the first part of the description this man massively overdoses is sick and starts getting convulsions, we take it up from here ….
This time the convulsions are harder and last even longer. When I can open my mouth to breath I immediately gag on the acrid air and expend all received relief. I crumple from the toilet to the ground, vomiting swallowed mucus on the floor next to me. I’m being held underwater. My vision begins to blur again. This is happening NOW. Questioning, analysis, any distancing from its demands is wholly impossible. There is nothing else in my mind. I am in my most desperate, most silent moment…
Will I call out to my mother, make a plea to a past love, burn my last breath screaming for help to any nearby neighbours? Will this hour of desperation culminate in a moment of revelation when an anthropomorphized interventionist god, at my tortured supplication, bestows His mercy and delivers me from this demonic tryptamine’s possession?
For reasons I don’t fully understand, and at first to my own self-estrangement, but then with briefly stuttering, lonely-but-resolute allegiance, I choose the forms of the sublime—their being, their memory, and their mere potential to exist, as abstract and impersonal as that sounds—as the hope of my deliverance.
Soon it is evident that I’ve made the right choice.
The pounding waves of distortion and caustic washes of physical misery begin slowly drawing into a whirling form. At the moment it is just a glint, the liminal-edge of some terrible resplendence descried through the haze of perceptual bombardment and wavering consciousness, but the rose, apotheosized, is its manifest form. …..: an exquisite crucible where these ragged tendrils of my psyche can be poured and alloyed, recast with grafts from its supple textures, and re-braided in the whirling wake of its spiraling convolutions.
For a moment I revel in absolution………….