2018/10/05 2138h

I’m currently on the tail-end of a shrooms trip.

Happy birthday to me!

Right now, I feel like meat — in a good way.

Like, I’m merely a meat machine. I haven’t always taken good care of the machine, much like my car. My car and my muscless meat exterior could both use a good wash!

And this computer I’m holding as I type this, well, it feels like an object. Normally, it carries intent with it. Like, “internet”. It’s so easy to get carried away in our narratives, or absorbed in other people’s fictions. Normally, I’m so absorbed in whatever breaking news or evolution of memes that I forget that it’s not real. None of it is real. It’s just stories projected on the screen of a mere silicon/aluminum/plastic thing. THING. Just a thing.

I don’t know. It’s very hard to describe my insights, but I feel like I’ve been plagued by imaginary demons for a long time, and it’s nice to remember that they’re imaginary, if just for the remainder of the evening.

Right now, for the first time in a while, I feel like a mere mortal meat-machine that can be the protagonist. Of course, we’re all protagonists of our stories, but somehow, even though we’re the editor-in-chiefs of the stories we tell ourselves, we make really terrible characters.

Seriously, the story that I tell myself is that I’m an extremely capable renaissance-man that will one day finish something and captivate the world by whatever I’m interested in at the moment. But throughout the day, that person is put through extremely mundane situations, of which I somehow am taking no agency, really. Like, I spend so much fucking time thinking about this stupid simulation. And I’m literally the one making it up. Why don’t I tell others how I feel? Why am I experiencing my own life in the passenger-seat? Why am I making myself into such a shitty character?

Writing this precludes my hope that somebody will read this, further feeding into my aspirations to “amount to something” one day. That is, I’m hoping that I’ll become important enough for this text to matter to strangers. It’s really stupid.

As it stands, this essay is small shout into the void. Hopefully, it’ll be kind reminder to my future-self that everything is just a big ruse.

Happy birthday to me!