Experience: 2g Psilocybe cubensis (Lemon Tek) + 0.25mg Cannabis (Bong) - Passing through The Doors to the Eternal Summer

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  • Date: 02/2021
  • Age: 21
  • Sex: M
  • Height: 180cm / 5' 10"
  • Weight: 70.30 kg / 155lbs
  • Misc: Smoked cigarettes throughout the experience. First-time mushroom tripper, beginner cannabis user. Home setting with three experienced drug users (flatmates) sitting with me for a good portion of the trip.

Report

(T+00 / 4:15 PM) Preparation of lemon tek under the supervision of my flatmates, who all have sizeable experience with psychedelics.

(T+0:15) The mushrooms have steeped in the lemon juice for long enough; I knock it back in one swig on the couch. I am giddy with excitement as I await the onset of my trip. I watch the clock eagerly, counting down the minutes to 5:10 PM, the time when the trip is supposed to be in full swing, according to my flatmates.

(T+0:35) The trip has started to creep in, or I am merely tired. I begin yawning frequently. A cloud of barely detectable mist seems to float through the living room, originating at the house's back door, which leads to a snow-covered deck.

(T+0:55) Yawning has ceased, and I pull a crocheted blanket over my head. The incandescent light from the ceiling lamp in our living room glows through the crochet stitches' holes, giving the appearance of a multitude of stars against the night sky. I spend the next roughly 20 minutes grazing my hand back and forth against the "night sky" under the blanket, in addition to shaking the blanket around— this latter action produces a stunning array of light tracers off the stars, long enough to complete full circles. Further shaking of the blanket intensifies the vibration of these tracer circles.

(T+1:35) The first cigarette of the trip. Lighting up grounds me, although I know I am undoubtedly tripping at this point. The orange glow of my lighter is stronger, more saturated. The snow on the back deck takes on a teal hue in relation to the lighter's flame. I feel like I'm in a 00's action movie poster. I go inside and tell my flatmates that I am Jason Bourne; they quickly refute my assertion in a lighthearted manner and give me some water. Our two house cats, a grey tabby and a fluffy orange one of uncertain heritage rub up against my legs. They are the messenger spirits of the Moon (grey tabby cat) and the Sun (fluffy orange one)! I sit down and explain my theory to my friends, conceptualizing more evidence as the conversation lengthens. I hold this belief that the cats are representations of celestial bodies until the trip is over.

(T+1:45) I become enthralled with an abstract painting on the wall next to the couch, placed there by the landlord before my flatmates, and I moved in. The scene depicted by the painting is vaguely reminiscent of a sunset at a beach, divided into three equally sized strips. Yellow is at the top, representing the sun. Below that is blue, representing the sea, and below that is red, representing the beach/earth. The colours in this painting jump out at me, fully saturated and meshing into one another. The mixture of the primary colours produces other colours, which surface out of the clashing between yellow/blue and blue/red, before submerging back into the original colours.

(T+2:05) I have lost the ability to stand without slowly sinking back to the ground. I lean against the wall for support but find that it just provides a vertical guardrail as I continue sliding down. I manage to make my way over the couch and plop down. My flatmate, most experienced with psychedelics, checks up on me and asks how I'm doing. A million entertaining thoughts are running through my head, and I scramble to produce a coherent sentence that will let my friend know I'm doing well. I take in a comically large breath and then shout, "JUICE!". My friend begins to laugh, launching me off onto a laughing fit as I realize just how nonsensical my exclamation was. My two other flatmates decide they will visit the corner store and ask if I want anything. I assert that I will accompany them, but they graciously decline and place me back on the couch. I order a blue Gatorade and a pack of beef jerky, even though I am not hungry or thirsty.

(T+2:25) The second cigarette of the trip. I crouch down and hallucinate the snow— a flat blanket, in reality, having freshly fallen— rushing along like water. I follow the direction the snow is flowing in and end up at the side of the house. Thick icicles have sprouted off the gas meter, and their shapes entice and beckon me towards them. I crouch down in front of the icicles and watch them ripple down from their base to the snow below. I choose the most robust of the icicles and pry it off the meter, and begin wielding it as a magic wand. I touch the cigarette to the tip of the icicle and combine the two elements together, granting me an artifact of immense power. I walk up the side of the house, towards the front door, and encounter my flatmates returning from the store. I tell them to follow me, and I show them my icicle castle growing off the gas meter. After laughing about this for a moment, we all hurry inside as it's quite chilly outside.

(T+2:40) I lay down on the kitchen floor and pass out. I don't recall falling asleep, or what I dreamed, if anything. My flatmates informed me about this aspect of the trip the day after when I was completely sober.

(T+3:05) I awake, although I don't directly recall waking from my crash. The initial rush has subsided, and I feel like I'm coming down. I'm capable of conversing with my flatmates in a mostly articulate manner, although I tend to continue following a line of thought and go on stream-of-consciousness tangents. Visual hallucinations have ceased, and the only physical symptom I can identify is an inexplicable feeling of haziness in my mind. One flatmate tells me to hit a bowl of weed if I wanted to blast off again. In my too compromised state, I eagerly agree, telling him to pack one for me. I step outside to smoke, grounding myself even further.

(T+3:08) I hit the bong and get the whole bowl—bad idea. My eyes immediately water up, and I'm hacking hard. I drop down to one knee and place the bong on the ground. My flatmates inside see me struggling and open the back door, helping me inside. My saliva glands are running like rivers, and I'm spitting copious amounts. My flatmates tell me to swallow, not spit. Eventually, I do this, get the hang of it, and begin walking over to the cupboard for a glass. Gripping the edge of the countertop, I make it to the glassware and fill a tall glass with water from the sink. I grab the edge of the sink as I drink the water as quickly as possible, trying to suppress a dry mouth and throat. My mind is completely clear, as though I was sober, and I begin mentally preparing myself for the trip's next events. I say to myself, "You've mixed drugs, including one you have never done before. Things might get weird. You're high. You'll make it through this. Just remember it will end eventually."

(T+3:15) I set up a chair next to the sink, just in case I threw up. I eventually lose the dry mouth and throat, my watery eyes dry up, and I'm staring at the kitchen floor tile, imagining the design is like ocean waves moving back and forth.

(T+3:25) I retreat to my bedroom on the third floor of the house and start listening to the song "Sovngarde" from Skyrim on my phone with in-ear buds. I kneel down and fold my hands together as if to pray. I close my eyes and see that I am being initiated into the cosmic ancestral brotherhood of warriors of man. A vast golden hall lays before me, and my spirit is carried forward to the feast table while gargantuan men with flowing gold hair beat away at massive drums. I have assuredly reached nirvana; this must be the reward for completing a trip on the right dosage. My spirit reaches the large feast table, carved out of dark and heavy wood, and I see the grain patterns flow as if alive. The host of the hall, an immense man with a never-ending fire-red beard, which curls into and out of itself, greets me telepathically. He touches my forehead, and my eyes open— I'm back in my bedroom, yet my entire environment is aglow and shimmering. I stand up and stretch my arms out to my sides, turning around in circles slowly, revelling in my great power. Suddenly, the music stops; my phone powers down, and I'm left in my bedroom alone. The enveloping glow slowly dissipates, and I feel as though I have lost contact with that higher realm.

(T+???) I plug my phone into the charger and decide I'm going to spin some records. I check what's already on the platter— The Doors, Greatest Hits. Fair enough, I suppose. Jim Morrison wrote all of this music on drugs, right? I drop the needle on the first track of Side 2, "Break On Through (To The Other Side)," and crank the speaker volume. I am slightly unnerved by the record's tinny sound compared to the clear surround audio I had listened to just a few moments through my phone. "Break On Through" is okay enough, though. Next up is "Roadhouse Blues," and I climb on top of my bed. The album sleeve lays up against the wall, and Jim Morrison faces me down. I lock eyes with him and watch his visage intensely. His eyes follow me around if I move my head. "Roadhouse Blues" ends, and "Not to Touch the Earth" begins, and the song immediately disturbs me, but I can't break my gaze with Jim. As the wretched music continues and picks up pace, I know I'm being hypnotized by Jim Morrison, who is in actuality a messenger of the malicious art gods. I'm being punished by them for listening to video game music.

Why, Jim? Why did you give in to them? Why did you sell your soul to the devil? Don't take mine too, I didn't sign any contract! My answer comes soon enough as the song ends, and Jim's voice slithers out of the speakers, "I am the Lizard King. I can do anything." Ray Manzarek, the keyboardist, slams the keys, giving me a fright. I immediately shut the speakers off and lift the needle off the record. I grab the album sleeve from its position against the wall and hold it in front of me, wobbling it back and forth, watching as Jim's eyes still follow me. I flip the sleeve over and see the entire band, in crisp black and white, staring directly into my soul. All hair on my body stands on end, and my vision narrows immensely. A rush charges through my muscles and I throw the sleeve across my bedroom. I grab the record off the platter and do the same. I'm being watched! There are eyes everywhere! I have indeed broken through to the other side, and it's filled with omniscient beings ready to torture me! I leap back onto my bed and pull the duvet over my entire body. I shut my eyes as hard as I can, seeing hexagons and obelisks multiply and divide behind my eyelids. My body is quivering, and I'm existentially horrified. I work up the courage to emerge from under my bed covers, and the terror continues. I'm simply a puppet in a grand play being put on by a sadistic from another plane. It's irrefutable. Nothing exists beyond my bedroom door; everything I have ever seen beyond these walls is just another piece of the stage. I sit down on my bed and contemplate the existence of another rung in the hierarchy, above governments, a level beyond our comprehension. The reality of this higher plane is undeniable if one follows a simple logic. Humans organize themselves into individuals, family units, communities, governments, etc. Is it not conceivable the most advanced humans have organized themselves into an undetectable higher level of control? It's all a game to them. I refuse to take part in this charade, and I power on my phone to text my friends and alert them of the conspiracy.

(T+4:07) I have successfully turned on my phone. This is a win against the all-seeing tormentors. My thumb misses the Messenger icon and instead opens up Spotify. A curated playlist of Beach Boys songs is waiting for me at the top of the screen. Okay, some nice music to listen to while I tell my friends about this conspiracy. I hit the first song, "California Girls," and put my earbuds in.

(T+4:13) I have entirely forgotten about Jim Morrison, omniscient beings, puppet-masters lurking in the shadows, and all the rest. I'm dancing around like a fool on the carpet at the foot of my bed, which has an interlocking tile pattern. These tiles begin to separate, revealing a sunny dimension on the other side. The harmonizations of the Beach Boys form a blanket of warmth that wraps around me. The tiles below my feet shrink in size until I can see the other side's full image; a glorious, endless beach. I step into this realm.

(T+???) The strains of "Surfin' USA" come at me from all angles as I surf on Technicolor crystal waves. The waves are immense, towering above me, and I easily top them, reaching up to the sun, which beams radiating warmth onto my face. I dive back down the waves, keeping my mouth open and catching drops of water flying up at me. I drag my hand along the water as I rocket past, leaving a stretch of rainbow where my fingers enter the water. "Shut It Down" begins, and I'm suddenly at the wheel of a C2 Corvette Stingray, roaring along an open, endless road. A Mustang is keeping pace with me, and I slam the gas pedal down, blasting off in front. I feel the leather on the wheel and pick up the smell of the exhaust. "Don't Worry Baby" fades in, and I'm cradling my real-life girlfriend in my arms and simultaneously following along with the plot of the song's lyrics. Back to surfing on the crystal ocean with "Surfin' Safari" and the roaring around town in the Stingray with "Little Deuce Coupe." "Kokomo" takes me to a beach barbecue where I'm dancing with my girlfriend in a crowd of revellers who cheer us on. "God Only Knows" has me crooning my eternal love as we sit under the moon, which is much larger than it naturally is. "Wouldn't It Be Nice" has us on the open road in the Stingray, driving along the endless beach-side road as images of our future life emerge out of the clouds and project themselves onto the road in a watery mist. More songs pass with the same themes of pure joy and ecstasy appearing. My body is experiencing this fully; everything smells, tastes, and feels like it's supposed to. I'm back on the ocean surfing for "Good Vibrations," racing towards the end of this endless sea, but the beach never gets out of view. The sun descends and covers all in intense blinding light.

(T+6:31) I awake in an awkward position on my bedroom carpet. My nose is sore, probably because it was pressed to the carpet by my head for over two hours. I sit up, and my eyes greet the eyes of Jim Morrison, lying on the floor. I pick up the album sleeve and the record, suddenly feeling unnerved again. I hastily slide the record into the sleeve and stash it away deep in my closet.

(T+6:40) I decide to go back downstairs and greet my flatmates. They are watching Bob's Burgers, and I join them, trying to explain what occurred to me. They brush off the delusion with Jim Morrison and the feeling of being watched, stating that I have to take "the good with the bad" and that I had an out-of-body experience when I listened to the Beach Boys. However, I don't necessarily believe them as I have no knowledge as to what constitutes an out-of-body experience. I keep quiet and watch the TV with them.

(T+7:00) The third cigarette of the trip. No hallucinations, no incoherent thoughts. Things are wearing off.

(T+7:09) I go back to my bedroom, turn off the lights, and promptly go to sleep.

(T+15:32 / 7:47 AM Next Day) I wake up feeling groggy as all get-out. I grab a glass of water downstairs and have some scrambled eggs and bacon. I attempt to discuss the trip with my friends in greater clarity, yet I don't have the words to describe it.

(T+16:14) I go back upstairs and listen to "Not to Touch the Earth" on my phone in an attempt to come to grips with the fear I felt last night. I make it through the end of the song and then listen to some more of The Doors. I complete the rehabilitation and fall asleep.

Submitted by Raumritter