I am sitting on my roof in my underwear, nonchalantly smoking a cigarette, looking at the stars. Some cars drive by and I become self-conscious and I straighten out my legs. I become self-conscious because there is an observer. I begin to think of photons and how their state is contingent on an observer. They become self-conscious when observation is taking place. I realize that the photon is self-conscious because I am self-conscious; they are one in the same self-consciousness. I realize that the world is conscious of itself because I am conscious of my self. I inhale deeply as this realization hits me with a pang.
I've awoken in Gonzo's head: awkward and ambiguous juxtapositions of vibrant colors and other-worldy forms slowly drip down, as if pulled by gravity itself, to cover all that I can fix my eyes upon, like wax melting to drape my saucer-sized pupils; all of which signifying that the trip I have been impatiently anticipating is maturing and growing out of control, like Frankenstein's monster, beyond the limits of my mind's wimpy newbornesque grasp.
You know, throwing the baby out with the bath water is a somewhat misleading metaphor for what the proposition really means.
Holding onto things just because you've been holding on to them is flawed logic.
I've been sounding like a Critical Theorist lately. I'm worried for my mental health. My reason is leading itself down a rabbit hole. It will soon be smoking hookah on a mushroom with a talking caterpillar.
