I’d like to offer some additional commentary on the final volume. I want to apologize if parts of it come across as overly mystical—possibly to the point of being unintelligible or nonsensical for some readers. I’m not trying to be obscure; on the contrary, I’ve tried my best to express myself plainly. Its mystical nature has three major causes. Firstly, my deep exploration of Christianity has been both lengthy and, at times, immensely frustrating. I’ve come to realize the limitations of approaching this study from a purely “objective” perspective, as if observing from the outside. Instead, I have chosen to fully immerse myself in the Christian narrative, embracing it on its own terms. This approach has involved a deliberate effort to avoid selectively validating aspects of what constitutes “authentic” or “rational” Christian belief. By opening myself to the Christian worldview, I aim to comprehend, adopt, and live out its theological principles.
Second, there are certain experiences and insights that resist direct description, slipping into symbols and allusions simply because language can feel too blunt a tool. I find myself unavoidably shifting to something closer to poetry—not because I claim that anything I’ve written reaches the level of actual poetry, but because that mode of expression feels like the most faithful way to hint at the reality I’m attempting to describe. In this, I echo Martin Heidegger’s view of poetry as a primary means of “unconcealment,” through which a poet’s engagement with language reveals layers of being hidden in everyday discourse. For Heidegger, poetry is neither ornamental nor secondary; it is, rather, the “house of Being,” a place where our deepest truths dwell before emerging into consciousness. By striving to approximate a poetic manner of speaking, however imperfectly, I hope to invite a moment of unconcealment—an opening where these otherwise ineffable realities can brush against the edges of our shared understanding.
Third, it’s surprisingly easy to lose sight of how altered my state of consciousness is during these sessions. This oversight partly arises from the fact that my writing often appears as though it were composed soberly, giving the impression of a conventional essay. However, these chapters differ significantly from standard essays, not only because they are influenced by psychedelics, but also because they are primarily written during the psychedelic state itself. Therefore, the beliefs I express should not be assumed to represent my normal, sober convictions.
Rereading the last chapters stirs a certain uneasiness in me, both in my complete confidence in having grasped ultimate reality, but more specifically, about some of the ideas I presented. One such idea is my belief in a physical resurrection—a notion that I ultimately could not uphold once the substance faded. Similarly, I voiced an unconventional perspective on the miraculous essence of life and its relationship to the origin and nature of consciousness, one that clearly diverges from standard scientific thinking. It’s not something I fully endorse in my everyday, rational state. This thought did not arise spontaneously, though. It has lingered in the back of my mind for a few years, with different parts of myself engaged in an ongoing internal debate. I do not claim that this view is necessarily correct or even the most plausible, but I believe it merits at least some consideration.
As the psychedelic effect wore off, my moment of absolute certainty in these ideas dissolved into confusion—some of which you can see creeping into the final paragraphs. Once the drug’s grip began to loosen, confusion set in for days. Whenever a radical belief emerges under LSD, and it differs wildly from my sober convictions, it fades—but only gradually, not all at once when I return to normal consciousness. Echoes of the experience linger, stalking me for days. Even when I can’t rationally understand how I once held such beliefs, they exert a subtle pull—a call that steadily diminishes until it finally disappears into what feels like nothingness. Yet sometimes it seems like a deceptive nothingness, because these ideas quickly resurface the moment the right trigger appears.
It is worth emphasizing how bizarre this phenomenon is. First, the fact that one can experience a kind of split in personality and worldview during a psychedelic state is, in itself, completely surreal. For those who have never encountered such states, it’s nearly impossible to convey the sheer absurdity of this bifurcation. Second, it’s remarkable that the effects of this altered state continue even after achieving complete sobriety. Strictly speaking, the chemical has done its work and is long gone from one’s body—but the existential aftershocks remain, shaping my mindset long after the physical substance is gone.
Because of all this, I feel compelled to clarify and emphasize: these entries are not a definitive statement of my entire belief system or worldview, nor do they always reflect what I consider true when sober. Part of my concern in stating this stems from a lingering, almost childish fear of losing intellectual credibility—an insecurity I’ve carried for too long. But I also need to clarify because I genuinely do not fully subscribe to these propositions, at least not in the precise terms I used in those chapters. For the sake of accuracy, I believe it’s necessary to make this distinction clear.
However, I do not, for a second, consider these experiences mere silly illusions—like imagining myself Napoleon or suspecting the government is run by reptilian overlords. Such an interpretation would undercut the crux of this project and how I perceive psychedelics. Even if I can’t accept every insight in my sober state, I don’t see them as foolish, random, or worthless. On the contrary, they cut deeply into the heart of what it means to be human and challenge the ways we conceptualize ourselves, others, and the world. I do not take it lightly that these experiences feel not only real, but hyper-real—more real than everyday consciousness. In some sense, I believe this to be true, though I remain uncertain about the extent or manner of that truth. In many ways, this question has haunted me for most of my adult life. Throughout this book, I have presented interpretations and proposed possible mechanisms for these phenomena and the duality they reveal. Perhaps I’ve uncovered part of their ontology; perhaps not, and I remain light-years away from fully grasping the true nature of mystical experiences and religious thought. Still, I keep trying.
Even though I maintain a contradictory perspective at my very core—without clear rational justification—I nevertheless must continue living, and one cannot help but live within a particular worldview. Given that I hold two worldviews which, in some respects, are incompatible, I ask myself: How do I live? The answer is that I live with both. In my day-to-day life, I generally adopt a more scientific perspective, which for our current purposes is loosely defined by a disbelief in a traditional God who created the universe and cares about humanity, and by the conviction that the laws of nature are unbreakable. Yet I cannot shake the profound feeling in my soul that Christianity is true, even if that conviction conflicts with my scientific outlook. I strive to integrate this religious perspective into my life in existential and moral ways. For example, while I cannot say I believe in a literal, physical resurrection, I have chosen to attempt to live a religious life and, in a certain sense, act as though such events are real. I don’t do this out of wishful thinking or merely for pragmatic reasons, but rather from an existential recognition of Christianity’s power and truth, including those claims that seemingly clash against science and even if they completely defies reason.
Every day, I try to hold these beliefs with respect and humility, fully aware of how they baffle my intellect. It took many hard-fought internal battles to reach a place where I could embrace a faith I don’t fully understand—and to accept that I might never resolve the tension between my scientific skepticism and a spiritual certainty that defies reason. I’m focused on living the story itself, rather than dissecting every element to determine what is “ultimately” true, as though I am an omniscient arbiter of tradition. I lack such knowledge or wisdom. One might assume it would be straightforward to discern ultimate truth, but my experience (and this book) suggest otherwise. Thus, I have decided to take the story as it comes—content in the knowledge that it orbits around an ultimate truth, recognizing it as a story worth living by. If some parts of this story do not align with a purely mechanistic, scientific worldview, so be it. To the best of my ability, I approach these beliefs with openness and reverence. After much struggle, I’ve finally found the courage to embody beliefs I do not fully understand. And having taken a shaky step into this contradiction, I feel more alive—and more deeply human—than ever before.
That said, thank you for following my journey. It means more than I can express that you’ve taken the time to read my experiences, doubts, and thoughts. I sincerely hope that somewhere in these pages, you found something to resonate with. If you’d like to connect, ask questions, or share your own reflections, the best place to reach me is on Instagram at @tiagobooks.
With gratitude,
Tiago
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