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Actual Preface

Apparently that preface as well was written months ago. Shit changed, states were altered, but clarity was achieved. A post that oscillated between initial end letter to one random night that may or may not have altered me a bit. From the very first time I started writing this post, I passed through a transitional phase in my life—not only in terms of career progress, but in terms of me as me. This kind of patched posts usually are more suitable to my untitled posts' series. The titles oscillated as time passes and as I write more, from Nature to One Hero Dose to Feelings but the whole shit is random ass raw thoughts that should never get posted, but on a random Monday I thought why not share the poorly written shit journaling scrapes as well? I may or may not follow up this patched bullshit below with a newer perspective I have developed in the past few months, since apparently the G was actually the first ever drug to change me in a way. Stay tuned or go touch grass and give zero shits about that omniscient maniac spitting crap.

Preface

Have you ever thought about how the preface of a book is written after the book itself? It makes sense tho. Why would you preface an unfinished book? However though, here the state is a bit different. The "High Tolerance" part was written weeks ago under the influence of some drug that I have been recreationally. I do not even remember what the hell this post was about. However, I decided to come write here rather than starting a new post since I currently have the feeling that what is to be written will be related. The variation of the writing will be obvious when you compare the two parts. Why? I am currently writing the preface edging death.

I am new to the G, however, it feels close for some reason. The feeling that I currently have is that I am .. normal? I tried it for the first time yesterday cross fading with some devil's lettuce and cheap wine. That weird mix made me forget the details of the prior day, however, I only could remember the emotions. The feeling of recognizing the emotions as an external cloud surrounding people is not something new, but the way yesterday's mix made my memory disturbed in terms of actual content but only focusing on feelings made me wanna get closer to the G. Today, I decided to sober up the whole day and edge death with the highest possible dose to appreciate this feeling. If I wanted to only explain the feeling itself I will say that it made me feel normal for once. Maybe I need medications? Maybe my mind is actually disturbed and what I have been writing here is not a result of a logical sequence but a consequence of my broken mind? Feeling normal is weird. I woke up and experienced emotions for the first time in years. I have been numbing my mind so hard lately that I ignored the nature of what makes us human. I thought experiencing emotions would be an experience that gets me out of the deep dark void I have been immersed in for a long period of time. Unfortunately, this was not what happened. What happened is that I recognized that there is a problem with the term "nature". I remembered the time when I fully embraced it. I remembered what it feels to be human; it is weird. I started writing this preface directly after hitting the "OD edging" dose. Now, around 16-20 minutes have passed and I was correct, I am feeling like a human, It sucks. I hope I can keep up. I hope I can keep up.

I started writing this preface intending to write the "Low Tolerance" part. Now, I am not sure if I will be able to write it. I, for once, am having a good feeling; I got comfortable with death. I have always been comfortable with the idea of death, you may be familiar with "Is it done?" blogpost. I think I may be close of it being done. I did not expect this to be a result of feeling, for once, normal. I have always thought I will end it all in a down moment. Apparently, this was not the case. Now, I feel the closest to the finish line and weirdly I am so chill about it. I made sure my very few friends would be able to figure out where I am. In case whatever shit happens, I just hope my siblings move on quickly and I dedicate all of my assets & money to them. I know you looked up to me even though I am a piece of shit person who does not deserve to live. I am sorry. I am sorry. I tried to deny the inevitable, but there is no use fighting the inevitability.

However, all of this is just in case something happened though. Most likely I will be safe. The peak of the first dose is passing and I gotta push the limits in the next one. I am a gambler and right now I would bet on nothing to happen. It would be a win though since I will get to finish this mediocre blogpost. This preface is just a mirror to feelings that I have not experienced in years. This preface is how I am feeling. I rarely if not never experience feelings, but at least I got the chance to experience them now for once. The drug itself is extremely mild in terms of "highness" or "euphoria" but the fact is that it may allow me to peacefully die experiencing how nature feels. My OD drug of choice has changed. If it is not yet done, I know it will be with G's hands. So should I try to keep up? Will I try to keep up? I don't know. However, I know it is not in my hands. I'm just one little grain in all these shifting sands. I hope I can pick up. Let's take one more dose and see where it goes. Just remember, there is no use fighting against an inevitability.

High Tolerance: Enough Hate, I Guess?

It's no secret that my extreme hate for humanity runs deep, a visceral loathing that permeates every interaction, however, I believe it is justifiable.

On an unremarkable Wednesday, during some crystal induced enlightenment, a rare moment of self-doubt crept in. "Is hate justified?" I pondered, my crystalline-altered mind entertaining the preposterous notion that I might, for once, be mistaken. Thus began a paradigm shift in my approach to social engagement. I started going out to random ass movie screenings and theatre acts to meet new people and experiment a bit in a quasi-experiment of human connection. I ventured forth, encountering new souls. Some evolved into friends, others merely ephemeral connections, fading into oblivion. Unsurprising. The act of forging new connections is fulfilling for several obvious reasons:

1. Firstly, these untainted eyes perceive only your current iteration, unburdened by the specter of your past transgressions, or in other words, they don't know your shit.
2. Second, you may encounter mediocre specimens, bolstering your ego as you unveil your superior self, or you may stumble upon extraordinary individuals worthy of your alliance, inadvertently stroking their egos. Both scenarios trigger a dopamine cascade, misinterpreted as healthy by the MDMA-averse masses.
3. Thirdly, there exists the infinitesimal possibility of discovering a highly matching friend or life partner. For to encounter those who truly resonate, one must not only wander through the sea of mediocrity but should initially, at least, encounter.
4. Fourthly, the venues of these encounters often align with your interests, rendering even silent participation a worthwhile endeavor.
5. Fifthly, should the activity prove insufferable and social interaction elusive, drug or alcohol can salvage the experience, transforming it into a twisted amusement. Armed with this logic, I spent the summer immersing myself in obscure weird ass Nordic documentaries and lending my ears to pianists and bands with two spotify listeners, such obscurity that they have not yet hit a nonnegative cashflow. Indeed, I encountered a lot of people. Most of those ended up to the "exchanged contacts and never met again" class, a fleeting connection. None breached the inner sanctum of close friendship, though this was neither expected nor the aim of such sojourns. The primary objective was to reinvigorate my landscape, at least socially, and seek any emotion towards humanity beyond contempt. Considering that aforementioned goal, nothing really in my core memory was updated. In this pursuit of enlightenment, my mental database remained frustratingly unaltered; the majority of humanity continued to disappoint. People are still dumb af. I reaffirmed my longstanding hypothesis: I despise most people. The masses remain enslaved to the trivial pursuits of wealth, women and fame—base, materialistic aims. The sole intriguing specimens I encountered were predominantly neurodivergent (autistic), their eccentricities at least rooted in genuine cognitive variance. Yet, this realization has not deterred my relentless quest for truth: Do I genuinely fucking abhor humanity, or is this merely an internalized fallacy?

lOW tOLERANCE

The bitter irony of flirting with oblivion is how it would render the mundane suddenly sacred. In the weeks following my dance with G, a peculiar clarity emerged from the chemical fog. My tolerance—not just for substances, but for life's bullshit—had plummeted to unprecedented depths.

Death proximity has a way of recalibrating the mind's metrics. The trivial anxieties that once paralyzed me became almost comical. Neural elasticity and shit. Professional challenges? Mere conversational exchanges between neural networks—mine operating on biochemistry, others on silicon and status. The judgment of perfectionist overachievers? Just another human functioning under their own delusions of significance.

When you've felt the cold breath of nonexistence against your neck, the social hierarchies and power dynamics that once seemed so intimidating become transparent and absurd. I moved through subsequent weeks with the relaxed demeanor of someone who'd already glimpsed the void and found it surprisingly... acceptable. Problems that would have once sent me spiraling instead felt like child's play to a mind that had recently contemplated ultimate dissolution.

What's fascinating is how the proximity to death restored my cognitive superiority rather than diminishing it. Conversations flowed through my consciousness with unprecedented clarity—perhaps because, for once, I was in peace. Problems that would have once triggered existential panic instead elicited an almost bored efficiency. My solutions to life's puzzles became elegant not despite my brush with mortality, but because of it.

The irony cuts deeper still. After years of self-sabotage, of Pogo and the Clown waging their internal warfare, it took chemically edging death to achieve what therapy, meditation, and self-help never could: a state of genuine indifference to outcomes. Not apathy, I still desired success, but a liberation from the paralysis of perfectionism.

My low tolerance extends beyond substances now. I have minimal patience for bullshit, pretentious posturing, or the subtle psychological warfare of any social environment. Yet paradoxically, this intolerance has made me more sociable, not less. My interactions became razor-sharp, cutting through rehearsed platitudes to extract genuine insights. People seem simultaneously unnerved and impressed by my directness.

So here I stand—or perhaps sit, as I write this—a contradiction. The man who needed to approach nonexistence to fully inhabit his existence. An artist whose brush with chemical obliteration made him more, not less, precise. The misanthrope whose hatred of humanity somehow translated into being convivial.

Is this growth? Enlightenment? Or merely another phase in the endless cycle of self-destruction and rebirth that characterizes my existence? I don't know, and tbh, I don't particularly care. My brain works. My life passes. And somehow, against all odds and expectations, I'm pushing through. And my tolerance, for both G and bullshit, remains blissfully, dangerously low.