Cosmic weight

This happened last fall. I was alone at home, no plans, no distractions, just a curious mood and a stash of mushrooms I had grown myself Golden Teachers, dried and cracker crisp. I weighed out 5.2 grams, ground them to powder, and stirred it into a small glass of lemon juice and water. Let it sit for about 2 minutes, then drank the whole thing like a shot. I figured I’d ease into it on the couch, music on low, maybe throw on some YouTube visuals later if I felt like it.

Fifteen minutes in, I started to feel warm and restless. My limbs felt both hevy and twitchy. I got up to pee and noticed the floor was breathing—not waving or pulsing, just very subtly inhaling and exhaling. I laughed out loud and said, “Here we go.” Something in me already knew this was going to be different than usual. By the 30-minute mark, I couldn’t really follow a train of thought. My brain felt like it had no walls anymore. Ideas weren’t connecting, they were sliding past each other. I sat back down, put on some Shpongle, and closed my eyes. That’s when things really started to spiral.

I was no longer in my living room. I was somewhere else entirely. There were colors I’d never seen before, and a sort of pressure building behind my face. Then it felt like something snapped—like an internal seam had come undone.  I felt like a porcelain doll thrown off a Cliff and shattered in a thousand directions. There wasn’t even panic. Just this strange sense of watching it happen.

The visuals got intense as fastkaleidoscopic vortexes that seemed to peel back the skin of reality. Every second was a new layer being stripped away. I was all broken on the floor. I could still remember my name, kind of, but it felt irrelevant. The idea of “me” had become something abstract, like a thought I couldn’t finish.

At one point, I remember looking at my hands and they didn’t feel like mine. They were just meat-appendages on some being that used to have a self. I think I said something like “I’m not in here” out loud. I curled into a ball on the floor and rode it out.

I was cracking open like an eggshell under this cosmic weight. That’s the best way I can explain what it felt like in my chest and skull. Not painful, not scary. just a rupture of everything I was used to holding together. There were no thoughts, only sensations. I remember my body felt porous, like I was leaking into the room.  Suddenly, I wasn't whole anymore. I was just pieces floating in space.

I must’ve stayed in that state for about an hour. The music stopped meaning anything. Words didn’t make sense. I tried to think of something comforting, my partner my dog my childhood, but all of it felt too far away. I wasn’t having a bad trip, exactly. It was just… ego death in the rawest way.

Eventually, I came back. Not all at once, but in waves. First, I could move my fingers. Then, I realized I was hungry. I made my way to the kitchen, grabbed a banana, and it was the best banana of my life. Like, I could taste the individual molecules or something. So vibrant. I stood in front of the sink for a while drinking water and just looking at the faucet like it was a holy artifact.

After that, I walked outside and sat in the grass. The sun was setting, and everything looked hyperreal, like it was glowing from within. I watched a bird fly overhead and cried a little—not because I was sad, but because it felt like I had just come back from the edge of the universe and now I was back in my body, in this familiar world, and everything felt new again.

The comedown was smooth. Gentle. I journaled a bit and tried to make sense of what had happened, but the words felt too small for it. I still don’t really know how to explain the peak. It wasn’t just visual or sensory it was ontological. Like something about the framework of my reality had cracked open and shown me what was behind the curtain.

I went to bed early that night. Slept like a baby. Woke up the next morning with this weird sense of awe. Not in a mystical way just a humble kind of respect for what the mind is capable of, and what happens when you stop clinging to the illusion of self.

Would I do that dose again? Yes, but not for a long time. That wasn’t a party. That was surgery.