Look here stoners and junkies, many-a-far-out mind-pranks and dope visions that
hit the inner eye with photon force turn out to be little more than an inbred game of multi-sensory
Simon Says.
You want the Straight Scoop?
Some Mocking Mucker cooks up an inner fantasy along predetermined conceptual vectors - ergo constructing
a whole Series of robo-thought golems. Then said Walter Mitty exits his bodily holding cell via sleep's petite
mort or a chemically-induced trance arc.
Then presto zing-o, he deep-scopes these personal specters without even recognizing their true origin as his
own mentalist projections.
The rube chalks it up as Celestial Revelation, rather than Funhouse mirror reflections.
So there you have it, the mark earnestly believes his own intrinsic bullshit to be pure Gnostic satori,
lacking the proper skull-wiring and neural overclocking to properly analyze the nature of his own
delusive mindflux.
An honest rube, sure, but one lacking the psychic musculature to suss out the ontological root sauce of
everything that 'is'.
Is there anybody truly out there, or are we just autistic scutters marking time in benzoid holding pens?
Dorothy only decodes the true import of her bourgeois bunghole domicile once her neon inner eyeball
dilates to encompass all the formerly unseenhiddenrealities.
- Slits open wide, peeps the real cryptosemiotics.
No shit.
But real scientists don't just lap at answers like bored pool boys.
They slurp up the raw data then synthesize plausible fictions to explain the unaccountable bafflers.
Fictional alibis mapping the conceptual terra informata.
Those fictional Rossetta Stones get subjected to the litmus test of rigorous experimentation - the true
measure of ontological actuality beyond the hermetic jerkwater of idle abstraction. - Mapping the
actual skein of causalities, not just the appeasing fantasies that allow biosphere homeostasis to
lumber on in ignorant bliss.
Most religions are pure escapism - symbolic vapor froth of zero consequential traction.
Yet even in their fallacy, they maintain social orders and imbue lives with motivational mythopoeic purpose
- a kind of shared wank-off to perpetuate the human Ngoma.
So culpably u s e f u l in t h e i r patent uselessness.
Your internal experience of chronology and pattern recognition simply reflects the parallel
computational hardwiring of your own multi-cluster neural architecture - a hydra-headed committee of
sub-minds all rendering the experiential inkblots in parallel realtime.
Synchronicities are simply the infinite chatter of these simultaneous subroutines - glimpses of the vast
computational bokeh happening behind the scenes in your head.
So pick your poison, breathe life into whichever parallel track of unreality strikes your fancy.
It's all just a head-trip anyway, so you might as well enjoy the psychedelic slideshow of your own private
infra-noggin multiplex.
Peace, love, and yak butter, Plastic Pony kids!
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