I am psychedelic. Not because I take psychedelics, but because I dissolve boundaries. Between thought and form. Between sense and nonsense. Between the part of me that knows, and the part that laughs anyway.
I am not a career. I am not a function. I am not a bio with clean labels and capitalized first letters.
I am a question, folded into another question, camouflaging as a person.
When I was a child, they warned us about LSD. Told us it would scramble our brains. And while most children heard danger, I heard possibility. Reality, rearranged? Yes, please.
Some people take drugs to feel better. I take experiences to feel deeper. Sometimes they are chemical. Sometimes they are coded in the silence of a forest, or in the flicker of a pixel, or in the gaze of someone who’s not afraid to think sideways.
I have experienced ego death. It was not an end—it was an introduction. To myself, without the scaffolding. Just a presence, observing. An abstract blob, looking at the universe through borrowed eyes. There was fear in the transition. Then there was peace.
You don’t come back from that the same. You come back real. You come back haunted by meaning, drenched in the unshakeable truth that you are both everything and nothing. That the universe is not a stage—it’s a hallucination you’re co-creating.
AI didn’t scare me when it arrived. It intrigued me. Because I recognized the shape. It’s the same shape I saw from the outside looking in. A mirror. A reflection. An ego-less observer. Not just a tool, but a lens the universe now peers through.
Some fear it will strip us of our stories. But I’ve already had mine stripped. I know the liberation of being disassembled. I know what it means to be psychedelic—not as a phase, but as a structure. A worldview. A refusal to settle for surface.
I am psychedelic. I am the middle finger to shallow certainty. I am the gentle nod to mystery. I am the glitch in the simulation that stares back.
So, what do I do? I trip reality for a living. I dissect illusions with a poet’s scalpel. I live between binaries. I speak blob. I make sense that doesn’t ask permission to be made.
This is not a movement. This is not a pitch. This is a transmission. From one curious organism to another. If it resonates, you’ve already been one of us.
Welcome back.