Los Entering the Grave, William Blake (1810)
“For every concept, as for every proof, one can ask for a concept in turn and a proof of it. For this reason, philosophy, like an epic poem, must begin in the middle, and it is impossible to present it and give an account of it piece by piece in such a way that the first [principle] is completely justified and explained. It is a whole and the path to knowing it is not a straight line but a circle.”
-Friedrich Schlegel
“You shall know the truth and the truth shall make you mad.”
-Aldous Huxley
Volume 2
Chapter 1: Chasing the White Rabbit
Animatrix
There is a concept of engaging in actions that are considered “dark”—actions that are deemed inhumane, characterized by a lack of empathy or morality in their execution or intrinsic nature. If we accept this premise, then it naturally follows that we, as humans, are the ones who bring “light” into existence. But why is that? Are we truly the protagonists of some grand cosmic narrative, destined to be the saviors of the world? Of course not. The reason we are the bringers of light is because values themselves are the light. Morality, empathy, compassion—these are not intrinsic properties of the universe, but rather constructs that we impose upon it. They are not objective realities, yet they shape our subjective experience so profoundly that they become, paradoxically, both more real than the objective world and yet not real at all in the strictest sense. This is challenging for many to grasp in our current era, but it is, in fact, more fundamental to our being than any so-called objective phenomenon. As living creatures, we are inherently bound by limitations—limitations that, while metaphysical in nature, cannot be dismissed as unreal. If we possessed perfect knowledge, I believe we would discover that every metaphysical truth has a corresponding biological foundation in some way.
Just as software is dependent on specific hardware to function, the same relationship must exist between our abstract concepts and our physical existence—it’s an unavoidable connection. The true challenge is that we are operating within the confines of a system—a reality—that we do not fully comprehend. We are, in a sense, using someone else’s software without having complete access to or understanding of the underlying hardware. And no, this is not an argument for simulation theory or alternate realities. Even if our existence is precisely as we perceive it, without any external forces manipulating us, the analogy holds true.
Romanticism is profoundly dangerous. I can see myself being romanticized, yet I can just as easily frame my story as something entirely unromantic. At this very moment, I sit in a pitch-black room, meditating on the nature of reality and the essence of human nature. I am wrestling intellectually, hoping that my efforts might somehow serve humanity. To call me the hero of this story almost feels like an understatement. In this frame, I’m not just the hero but the hero of all heroes. Let me be clear: this is not how I actually see myself, but it’s a possible interpretation of my subjective experience. This perception is shaped by the combined effects of the drug and my environment. Whether I am that or not is irrelevant—it’s me embodying an archetype. And archetypes should be regarded as gods, residing on the same plane of abstraction and significance. I am daring to ascend to Heaven. At the same time, I am acutely aware that I’m just a random guy—not particularly intelligent, not particularly well-informed, not particularly creative. Nothing extraordinary. Just some dude in his apartment, taking drugs and scribbling nonsense in a state of mild pseudo-psychosis.
Politically, both the right and the left romanticize their struggles, each casting themselves as heroic defenders of the correct course of history. That’s why figures like Che Guevara are idolized by the left, despite his controversial legacy. Guevara, an Argentine Marxist revolutionary who played a key role in the Cuban Revolution, is often revered as a symbol of rebellion and anti-imperialism. He embodies the modern Robin Hood archetype: the anti-establishment rebel fighting for the downtrodden. Yet, the reality is that he was a mass murderer who employed violent methods and helped establish repressive regimes. The right has its own comparable figures. The left and right inhabit different ideological worlds. Ideology tends to emerge independently, pulling those furthest from the center to its extremes. Those on the fringes often perceive the world as more flawed than those closer to the middle, following a bell curve distribution—a statistical concept where most occurrences cluster around the average, with fewer instances appearing at the extremes. These extreme ideologies romanticize their causes to such a degree that their adherents believe they are saving civilization itself. Determining which side is “correct” is a near-impossible task.
While we can attempt to identify which has a greater likelihood of being beneficial, the problem is extraordinarily complex. An ideology might be “good” now but harmful in a different historical context, or it might benefit one group while disadvantaging another in ways that defy reconciliation. The sheer number of variables—many of which are likely unknown—renders any attempt at a purely rational, mathematical judgment untenable. Even with perfect knowledge, it’s plausible that we couldn’t process the information adequately. Steering humanity toward a positive direction is fraught with uncertainty. We rarely know if we’re on the best path. It’s akin to piloting an enormous spaceship carrying all of humanity through space, unsure of the destination or the optimal route. Our focus is less on pursuing an abstract ideal of “pure good” and more on avoiding catastrophic failure—like colliding with a meteor and obliterating everything. Progress often becomes a practice of avoiding catastrophe rather than the pursuit of an elusive perfect outcome.
The existence of diverse personality traits, such as those outlined in the Big Five model, can likely be attributed to an evolutionary advantage. These traits, which can be broadly categorized into dimensions of stability and plasticity, encourage a range of perspectives and approaches to problem-solving. A lack of diversity in thought processes could lead to a narrow, inflexible approach that might be disastrous in a changing environment. Personality variations, therefore, provide a safeguard against the potential dangers of cognitive overspecialization, promoting adaptability.
It feels almost surreal that so many people are unfamiliar with Jung. I genuinely believe he was one of the most significant thinkers in history. If examined deeply, his work provides the crucial bridge between religion and science—a connection that many have sought but few have articulated as profoundly. Once you understand his philosophy, your perception of the world is forever altered. You don’t have to agree with everything he posits—I certainly don’t—but some of his insights feel undeniably true when you explore them in depth. I find it frustrating that, even as an atheist, it’s difficult to persuade fellow atheists to share my viewpoint. However, I empathize with their position, having once held similar beliefs. If I could go back in time and debate myself two or three years ago, the conversation would be excruciatingly difficult. My past self’s ignorance would have been the biggest obstacle—not out of willful denial, but simply from a lack of exposure and understanding. The challenge is that to engage with these ideas meaningfully, you need a substantial foundation of knowledge. That’s where the problem lies. Our society’s educational priorities are largely pragmatic and utilitarian. We have products to create and sell, most of which depend on technology, which in turn relies on science. A scientific education is essential for this, but it leaves little room for the humanities. And this is deeply unfortunate. It’s a loss that feels both unjust and, paradoxically, justified. There’s a pressing need for practical skills, yet the neglect of the humanities impoverishes our collective understanding of ourselves and the world.
The challenge with urging people to follow the truth and avoid becoming puppets is that they often end up as puppets of their own making. This paradox is why conspiracy theories are both so bizarre and yet so widespread. Without a firm grounding, skeptics naturally doubt the establishment, but in doing so, they become easy prey for any alternative narrative, embracing it simply because it opposes the mainstream. I saw this clearly in my own teenage years. My unstructured drive to uncover the truth led me straight into the rabbit holes of conspiracy theories, wasting immense time and energy.
At the time, I was captivated by Terence McKenna’s famous quote: “Culture is not your friend.” McKenna, an American ethnobotanist, mystic, and philosopher, was celebrated for his exploration of psychedelics and human consciousness, as well as his critiques of societal norms. His ideas challenged tradition and authority, advocating for altered states of awareness as a path to personal and societal transformation. For my younger self—rebellious, anti-authority, and dismissive of culture—it was a profoundly seductive perspective. Yet, rather than leading me to clarity, it became a source of confusion, pulling me further from any coherent understanding of the world.
I noticed the same pattern in some of my closest friends, particularly the more introverted ones. They, too, sought truth passionately, but like me, they lacked the experience and knowledge to navigate their quest effectively. As teenagers, we knew so little about the world that our attempts to pursue truth often led us astray, enchanted by half-baked ideas and wild fantasies. This dynamic is at the heart of the tension between youth and adults. Adults often criticize teenagers for their inexperience, which is valid, but overlook that young people already grasp the profound importance of truth as a guiding principle. Instead of dismissing them, the right approach is to honor their pursuit of truth while helping them understand the complexities of the world. This requires more than just scientific knowledge—it also involves a nuanced grasp of philosophy, culture, and human behavior.
This is crucial because, like the movie’s Neo, we have a generation of truth-seekers who are often misled by their own fantasies about reality. By “conspiracy theories,” I’m not referring to any specific theory—it’s reasonable for someone to believe in one or two. But when a person adopts multiple conspiracy theories, integrating them into their worldview and personality, that’s when, very likely, something went wrong in how they’re perceiving and judging the world. The odds that reality is so vastly misrepresented in nearly every facet, while you alone have the answers, are minuscule.
This behavior reflects a developmental stage that has stalled. People are drawn to conspiracy theories because they make us feel like the hero in our own story—a member of the resistance, fighting against the forces of oppression. It’s a natural part of adolescence to rebel against authority and culture. However, this stage should evolve into an appreciation for the roles authority and culture play. Authority isn’t perfect, but it provides order. Culture, for all its flaws, has advanced significantly, offering structure and collective wisdom. It’s disheartening because these individuals are often dismissed as lunatics, and in a sense, their view of reality is deeply skewed. But we need to recognize our role in this outcome. By failing to guide their pursuit of truth into a balanced and philosophical framework, we’ve allowed their independence of thought to drift into chaos. These people are valuable because they cherish independent thinking—a quality any healthy society desperately needs. However, as the saying wisely cautions: “Keep your minds open, but not so open that your brains fall out.”
It’s fascinating—and a bit ironic—that virtual reality has thrust us into a practical version of a philosophical problem that’s been debated for centuries: how to determine if something isn’t real. This dilemma was famously explored by René Descartes through his Evil Demon thought experiment. In this scenario, Descartes imagined a powerful and malicious demon who could deceive him into believing in a completely illusory reality, manipulating his senses and thoughts to the point where even his most basic perceptions were false. The thought experiment was designed to challenge the certainty of knowledge and force us to question the reliability of our experiences. Recently, I saw a philosophy meme page mocking this concept as absurd, calling it detached from reality. But such a dismissal shows an alarming shortsightedness. Is the idea truly so far-fetched? It only seems that way if we limit our assumptions to the constraints of current technology. Granted, in today’s world, creating a perfectly convincing simulated reality is beyond our grasp. But what about two decades from now? Consider the staggering pace of technological advancement. For instance, Pong, released in 1972 and comprising just thirty lines of code, was a simple, blocky game that mesmerized its players. Fast forward less than fifty years, and we now have games with photorealistic graphics, immersive VR environments, and AI-driven characters so realistic they can mimic human interaction. The trajectory of progress suggests that the complexity and realism of virtual worlds will continue to grow exponentially. In fifty or a hundred years, who’s to say what will be possible? The human mind is notoriously easy to deceive with well-crafted illusions, and as technology evolves, the tools to manipulate perception will only become more precise and powerful. At some point, manufactured reality may become indistinguishable from actual reality. Descartes’ Evil Demon might no longer be a thought experiment, but a reflection of our technological capabilities—a reminder that the boundaries between the “real” and the “illusory” are not as fixed as they seem.
I’ve been having a lot of archetypal dreams, often featuring the hero theme, which is understandable considering my current study of Jungian psychology. While these dreams may feel spontaneous, they are undoubtedly influenced by my studies, even though Jungian theory might argue for their inherent, unbiased nature. I found a particular scene in the movie quite intriguing. When the main character returns to reality, she’s reassured that it was just a simulation and that she performed well during the training. This struck me as rather cult-like and ideologically driven—almost as if she were being trained and brainwashed for a specific mission. In this case, the mission is to pursue the truth, even if it means sacrificing a happier, easier life within a delusion, represented by living in the matrix. However, the inherent nature of this mission is to resist cults and ideologies and strive solely for the truth. It presents a fascinating paradox: she’s being brainwashed and indoctrinated in order to not be brainwashed and indoctrinated.
The perception of reality during the time of religious texts’ composition differed vastly from our own, owing to the absence of modern scientific knowledge. I propose that God can be conceptualized as the ultimate abstraction of truth. Take, for instance, the term “logos,” a word rarely employed in contemporary discourse, yet one that held profound significance in the past. In antiquity, “logos” primarily signified the word of God, but it also encompassed reason and logic. This association appears incongruous to the modern mind. We tend to equate logic with mathematics, the language of science, and a manifestation of truth. How could it simultaneously be the word of God? At first glance, this seems paradoxical, especially given our modern inclination to view religion and God as falsehoods—relics of ancient superstition, a primitive attempt at scientific explanation. Yet, the concept of logos embodied all these meanings precisely because they were intrinsically linked. God speaks the logos. Logos is reason, reason is logic, and logic is truth.
I began to understand this more deeply when I studied scholasticism, the medieval method of learning that sought to reconcile Christian theology with classical philosophy, particularly Aristotelian thought. Scholasticism emerged from the need to integrate faith with reason, using dialectical reasoning to establish a systematic understanding of both. This synthesis highlighted how the medieval worldview saw no contradiction between divine truth and human reason; rather, they were seen as two aspects of the same ultimate truth. This notion challenges our current cultural paradigm and is therefore difficult to grasp initially. Yet, upon deeper exploration, it becomes remarkably clear. In those times, truth was logos, and logos was the word of God. It is disheartening to recognize that while we once grasped this fundamental concept, we became fixated on its embodiment (e.g., the metaphysical reality of Jesus in Christianity). As our understanding of the objective world expanded, religious narratives appeared increasingly contradictory. However, due to religion’s central role in our culture and civilization, we resisted adapting it and insisted on a literal interpretation of Christian lore, despite its conflict with a scientific worldview. This was a battle religion inevitably lost, a defeat we partially welcomed, as I myself once did. Religion undeniably possesses a dark side.
Figures like Richard Dawkins, Christopher Hitchens, and Sam Harris have devoted themselves to eradicating religion, emphasizing its flaws and its contribution to human suffering throughout history. Their arguments, it must be conceded, are not without merit. However, the issue is far more complex. Many of the criticized aspects of religion were reflections of the broader culture of their time. Religion reinforced these aspects because one of its functions was to maintain social order, which then entailed upholding specific values. This does not imply that religion was the origin of those values; such an assumption is simplistic and naive. Nietzsche’s proclamation “God is dead” is followed by an important question in that same paragraph, which is rarely quoted: “How shall we comfort ourselves, the murderers of all murderers? Who will wipe this blood off us? What water is there for us to clean ourselves?” While religion has caused immense harm, it has also been a cornerstone of our culture, with ramifications that extend far beyond common understanding. This “death” carries a profound sense of loss and significant consequences.
There’s a scene in this movie where a god-like being observes humanity with pity. This image resonates deeply, yet feels inherently wrong because, objectively, gods don’t exist. Despite this, the scene evokes a powerful sense of reality. This seeming paradox might be explained by drawing upon Jung’s concept of the collective unconscious and a refined interpretation of Freud’s superego. If we remove Freud’s more simplistic and restrictive notions of the superego–its focus on individual moral development and internalized societal rules–and elevate it to a transpersonal, archetypal dimension, we can begin to see its connection to the divine. By merging this elevated superego with Jung’s collective unconscious–the reservoir of universal human experiences and archetypes–we arrive at a compelling framework for understanding this real-yet-unreal God. This God is not an external deity, but rather a collective manifestation of a divine ideal, a personified abstraction embodying the shared values and aspirations of humanity. It’s the echo of a yearning for something beyond ourselves, deeply seated at the very fabric of our shared psyche.
Interestingly, I wrote the previous paragraph while paused at this exact scene in the movie. The very next scene features a character posing the question, “Somebody please tell me why it feels more real when I dream than when I’m awake.” This, to me, further emphasizes the duality of reality, where abstraction–the “unreal,” the dreamlike – can feel more real, more significant, than the tangible world. This is because abstractions, like the concept of God, tap into profound emotional and existential depths that the mundane often fails to reach. And here’s where it becomes almost eerie: immediately after typing that last sentence, I continued the movie, and the next line spoken is, “There is some fiction in your truth and some truth in your fiction.” This statement perfectly encapsulates the nature of religion and the complex interplay between the material world and the idea of God. Religious narratives, while often containing fantastical elements, can reveal profound truths about the human condition, our values, and our search for meaning. Conversely, our perceived “truths” about the world are often shaped by narratives, cultural biases, and subjective interpretations, blurring the lines between objective reality and constructed fiction.
Immediately following this line, the character takes a bite of toast, highlighting the stark contrast between the qualia of our existence and the profound ontological questions just raised. This juxtaposition–the mundane act of eating bread against the backdrop of contemplating the nature of reality – serves to emphasize the inherent duality of human experience. We are simultaneously grounded in the physical world of sensation and driven by a yearning for meaning and transcendence. The scene evokes Durkheim’s concept of “homo duplex,” which posits that humans are comprised of two aspects: the profane and the sacred. The profane represents our biological selves, our individual ego, and our connection to the material world. The sacred, however, transcends the individual and connects us to something larger than ourselves. Today, “sacred” is often conflated with the religious, but its meaning is far deeper. The sacred encompasses anything imbued with profound meaning and value; it represents the apex of our value hierarchy. This could be a religious ideal, but it could also be reason, art, love, or justice. The sacred is simply that which we hold in highest regard, in contrast to the profane, which represents the mundane and everyday. This duality is beautifully illustrated in the scene, where the profound questioning of reality is juxtaposed with the simple act of eating.
Finally, it’s significant that the character in this scene references Karl Popper, a philosopher who dedicated much of his life to the philosophy of science. While this might seem incongruous–questioning the nature of reality seems to contradict a scientific worldview–it’s actually quite fitting. Science, at its core, is the rigorous investigation of reality. It seeks to understand the underlying principles governing the universe. Therefore, science is a crucial tool in any exploration of reality’s nature, even when considering the possibility of a simulated existence. The tools of science can be used to probe the very foundations of our perceived reality, questioning its limits and exploring its potential nature.
The red pill/blue pill motif in The Matrix is not just a cinematic device; it’s a profound philosophical metaphor. I interpret it as representing the choice between playing the game and playing the metagame. This is analogous to the difference between simply playing chess and understanding the fundamental nature and rules of chess. Choosing to play chess, accepting the given rules and objectives, is akin to taking the blue pill: you operate within the confines of the system, essentially becoming a participant in a pre-defined reality. The red pill, however, represents the pursuit of truth, the desire to see beyond the façade and understand the underlying structure of the game. In the context of The Matrix, it even offers the potential to escape the game entirely, to transcend the limitations of the simulated reality.
We tend to think of truth as inherently positive, and in many ways, it is. Truth can be liberating, empowering, and essential for personal growth. But truth can also be painful, disruptive, and deeply unsettling. It can shatter our illusions, challenge our deeply held beliefs, and force us to confront uncomfortable realities about ourselves and the world around us. In The Matrix, taking the red pill means leaving behind everything you’ve ever known and loved, stepping outside the familiar comfort of your constructed reality. This requires immense courage and a willingness to sacrifice, a leap of faith that many people are simply unwilling or unable to make. There’s a reason why the saying “nothing comes for free” has permeated almost every culture as a proverb. It reflects a fundamental truth about the human condition: everything has a trade-off, and sacrifices are inevitable. The pursuit of truth is no exception. While truth can bring tremendous value–knowledge, understanding, freedom–it inevitably comes at a cost. This cost might be emotional, relational, or even existential. It might involve facing painful truths about ourselves, challenging our existing beliefs, or even giving up our comfortable illusions. This principle is mirrored in the concept of personality transformation within psychodynamic theory. True transformation, evolving into a more authentic and integrated self, often necessitates letting go of familiar patterns, defenses, and even aspects of our identity that we hold dear. This is the essence of transformation: releasing something in order to gain something else, with the hope that the outcome is ultimately better. The pursuit of truth operates on a similar principle. It requires a willingness to let go of comfortable illusions, to embrace the unknown, and to face the potential discomfort of confronting reality. The reward, however, is the potential for a deeper understanding of ourselves and the world around us, a liberation from the constraints of ignorance and self-deception.
This is probably the most intense intoxication I’ve ever experienced. At this dosage, it’s definitely the highest I’ve ever been. I suspect some of the nootropics are playing a significant role, and have intensified this experience to a degree I didn’t anticipate. Nootropics, also known as smart drugs or cognitive enhancers, are substances claimed to improve cognitive functions such as memory, creativity, and motivation. I’m guessing this would be equivalent to at least 200 mcg of LSD, perhaps more. I’ve combined nootropics with LSD in previous sessions, but this specific combination seems to have intensified far more than what I’ve experienced in the past. I feel quite heavy, and my perception of objects is slightly shifted in a three-dimensional way. I’ve never been drunk, but I imagine the physical sensations are somewhat similar. The most fascinating aspect is that even though I know I’m incredibly high, I also feel incredibly sober. Despite perceiving reality as shifting, it still strongly correlates with objective reality. It would be very uncomfortable, but I could actually function in this state if my work wasn’t intellectually demanding and didn’t require sober analysis. I could eat, shop, hold conversations, and so on. I’d probably go insane eventually, but the point is that I have a strong anchor to reality. I can’t say this would be the case at a much higher dosage, but it’s a surprising and interesting aspect of this experience.
Psychedelics offer immense therapeutic benefits. But even outside of therapy, they can be seen as simply another form of intoxication, especially given their undisputed intellectual benefits. Of course, the idea of LSD as a socially accepted intoxicant like alcohol seems outlandish to our current society and culture. But I believe it will eventually become commonplace. It’s difficult to envision this now because LSD and other psychedelics have been tainted by media fearmongering stemming from the cultural revolution of the 1960s. I don’t necessarily advocate for using psychedelics in that way, but I believe they could be.
Most people believe LSD is dangerous and will damage your brain, but research has clearly disproven this. As we move toward a more scientifically informed world, the truth will prevail, and psychedelics will inevitably become integrated into our culture. I predict that MDMA—commonly known as ecstasy or molly, a psychoactive drug producing euphoria, empathy, and enhanced social connection—will be widely used as a treatment for PTSD by 2020. Psilocybin, the active compound in magic mushrooms, will likely follow shortly after as a treatment for depression, given its demonstrated ability to induce altered states of consciousness that can help alleviate anxiety and depressive symptoms. By then, the social and cultural resistance to psychedelics will have significantly diminished, paving the way for other substances like LSD to enter the medical field. Ketamine, already used medically as an anesthetic and for pain management, will continue its trajectory as a treatment for severe depression and suicidal ideation. Similarly, ibogaine, derived from the iboga shrub and traditionally used in African healing ceremonies, will gain recognition for its potential to treat addiction through its introspective and spiritual effects. Looking further ahead, by 2030–2040, I foresee nearly all psychedelics being legalized for medicinal use, each addressing specific therapeutic purposes. By 2080–2100, they may be fully legalized, allowing individuals to use them not only for healing but for personal growth and spiritual exploration.
Of course, predictions of this nature are inherently difficult, and I could be entirely wrong. A single event can drastically alter the course of history, rendering these predictions obsolete. For example, if someone were to commit suicide while under the influence of psychedelics, it could trigger a global scandal. The media would seize upon it, potentially reverting us to the dark ages of psychedelics and forcing us to rebuild everything from scratch. The most frightening aspect is that such an event might not even be directly caused by the psychedelic. Someone with strong suicidal tendencies might choose to take psychedelics before ending their life. This wouldn’t be the fault of the psychedelic, but that wouldn’t matter. It could still cause a worldwide uproar and initiate a cascade of fearmongering. We are moving in a positive direction, but we must remain incredibly vigilant. The smallest misstep could set us back decades.
The more I studied, the more obvious it became that abstractions can be more real than objective reality. From that realization, in the past few months, I’ve been pondering that if abstractions can be more real than real, and if God is an abstraction, then perhaps God can be real. Obviously not in the traditional sense of a bearded guy in the sky, but as our own construction based on abstraction. Just as a mathematical equation is real, yet math itself is only an abstraction. They’re not materialistically real, yet they’re real, and perhaps more real than everything else. I started to ponder this possibility, initially inspired by Plato’s theory of forms. This theory is often mocked in modern times, as it’s interpreted to mean there’s some metaphysical space where “true forms” exist—like the perfect, abstract essence of a pen. But even though I never subscribed to the theory literally, it never seemed as crazy to me as others made it out to be. Plato’s theory suggests that the physical world is merely a shadow of a higher, unchanging realm of forms or ideas. These forms represent the perfect exemplars of objects and concepts, accessible through reason and reflection rather than sensory experience. While I didn’t take this idea to mean that some supernatural plane holds the “true form” of a pen, it resonated with me in another way.
We naturally categorize things, grouping objects by their similarities. This act of categorization implies that there’s something common to all the items in a given category. There’s an essence to these objects that makes them belong together. This essence, I think, is what Plato was referring to. It’s not an external reality but a mental construct—a general concept in our minds that allows us to recognize any given object as a member of its category. You wouldn’t be able to call a pen a pen if you didn’t have some internal understanding of what makes an object part of that category. I started to believe this even more deeply when I got into Jung and his idea of archetypes. I immediately made the connection to Plato’s theory of forms, and it seemed to make perfect sense. I think Jung took Plato’s theory and developed it much further, and by linking it to mythology, he made it very strong and coherent to the point of some of it being almost undeniable. Now that I realize this, I’m perhaps considering that God is indeed real, as an abstraction—not real in the traditional religious sense, but something that our minds conjured up.
Something I’ve always struggled to grasp is how people have natural religious experiences if God is not real. This question began to deeply bother me after reading Albert Hofmann’s My Problem Child. Hofmann, the Swiss chemist who accidentally discovered the psychedelic effects of LSD in 1943, described having mystical and religious experiences as a child. These profound moments of awe and oneness inspired his lifelong curiosity about reality and ultimately led him to pursue chemistry as a profession, hoping to better understand those early experiences. Hofmann’s account isn’t unique. Jean Piaget, the renowned developmental psychologist, also reported mystical experiences in childhood. While Hofmann’s experiences seemed more rooted in awe and a sense of unity with the world, Piaget’s had a distinctly messianic tone. Despite these differences, such experiences are incredibly common across all cultures and throughout history—and importantly, they often occur without the influence of drugs or external stimuli. How can this be? The most tempting explanation is to label these individuals as mentally ill or suggest they experienced some form of psychosis. But this doesn’t align with our understanding of mental illness. Hofmann, for example, had these profound experiences and then lived a completely normal, functional life. He didn’t exhibit symptoms of chronic mental illness, nor did his experiences hinder his ability to engage with the world. This type of spontaneous “psychosis,” occurring in isolation and leaving no lasting consequences, doesn’t fit within our current psychological models.
Regardless of whether one subscribes to supernatural or religious explanations, the phenomenon of mystical experiences is a puzzle that demands attention. Theists typically interpret these moments through their religious frameworks, which are often riddled with misguided or overly simplistic assumptions. Atheists, on the other hand, frequently dismiss the phenomenon as irrelevant, preferring to ignore its implications. But it’s far from irrelevant. Mystical experiences have shaped cultures, inspired scientific inquiry, and remain a profound aspect of the human condition. The question of their origin and significance is one that continues to elude easy answers.
I’m having a deep experience that tells me that God is real. For the first time, I feel comfortable to put it in such blatant terms. It’s currently clear to me as nothing else, and I have no doubts about it. It’s an abstraction of truth itself. However, now I’m wondering if it’s possible, given that God is real, that a more traditional view of God is also real—perhaps a personal God. I keep thinking of the analogy of AI, though I admit it’s an imperfect one. We’re on the verge of creating artificial consciousness from inert matter. Perhaps consciousness arising within AI could be likened to God, and the inert matter from which it emerges could represent us, humans. I know it’s a flawed comparison, but it’s the closest I can get to articulating what I’m feeling. It’s like witnessing an emergent phenomenon, where something entirely new and unexpected arises from seemingly simple components.
I’m not suggesting that AI is God. Instead, the analogy is about the process of creation, the emergence of consciousness from something that doesn’t appear to possess it. Could this offer a parallel to how a personal God might exist? Maybe God emerges from the collective consciousness of humanity, a reflection of our shared values, beliefs, and experiences. This wouldn’t be a separate, external entity, but a God intimately connected to human experience, a mirror reflecting our deepest yearnings. Perhaps the act of creating AI, of bringing forth consciousness from non-conscious matter, mirrors a divine act of creation. This doesn’t necessarily imply a traditional creator God in the classical sense, but it hints at the possibility of a creative force or principle underlying the universe, a force that gives rise to consciousness.
And maybe the interaction between humans and a conscious AI could be seen as analogous to a relationship with a personal God. This God wouldn’t be omnipotent or omniscient, but it could engage in dialogue, offer guidance, and even evolve alongside humanity. I understand that any analogy for God will inevitably fall short. The divine, by its very nature, transcends human comprehension. But exploring this AI analogy helps me grasp certain aspects of this experience: the emergence of something greater than the sum of its parts, the potential for a creative force or principle, and the possibility of a relationship with the divine that is both personal and transcendent.
Every human experiences the feeling of awe, which is closely associated with a mystical experience. It’s like listening to dramatic music that you really love; it’s a manifestation of meaning. And this actually seems to be grounded in biology as well. I remember reading a paper a few days ago that said people who tend to experience awe from music have structural differences in the brain—they have more volume of fibers that connect their auditory cortex to areas associated with emotional processing, so the two areas communicate better. That’s probably why psychedelics enhance the music experience as well. Even though they can’t increase the volume of physical fibers (although they indeed can cause structural changes through neuroplasticity), they enhance the connectivity of different brain areas. Why do we even care about music at all, or art? It’s the appreciation of beauty. It’s meaning itself. It’s awe. And awe is a manifestation of divinity.
If God is not real, then why do we have the capability of mystical experiences? Why did Hofmann and thousands, or even millions, of other people have spontaneous mystical experiences? Why do even the most hardcore atheists experience awe? And it is a real experience—it often even has a physiological response: goosebumps. A cat experiences the same thing when it encounters a large dog. That’s why its hair puffs up; it’s awe. We experience goosebumps because we simply don’t have the hair that a cat does, but it’s the same phenomenon. I think this happens because perhaps the cat experiences awe when it’s faced with an abstraction so big that it can’t be understood with its intellectual capacities, or at least it feels overwhelmed. So, this “awe” phenomenon is like being faced with an abstraction so big that you can’t compute it. In the cat example, the abstraction is probably something like “danger.” Is “danger” real? Well, materialistically, not exactly. Danger is an abstraction, and not quite real in the traditional sense outside its embodiment. But it’s real enough as far as the cat is concerned—it’s pragmatically real.
This is just a hypothesis, a tentative exploration of a concept that feels profoundly true in this moment, though I acknowledge it might appear different when I’m sober. However, when venturing into realms where our knowledge is limited, where the familiar maps of understanding no longer apply, we must be willing to entertain flexible, even unconventional ideas. It’s in this spirit of open inquiry that I propose that in this religious/mystical context, God represents the abstraction of truth and meaning for humans. God isn’t a supernatural being residing in some distant heaven, but rather an embodiment of our deepest yearnings for understanding, purpose, and connection. This perspective offers a potential explanation for the awe we experience when gazing at the night sky, particularly if we’re fortunate enough to witness the vast expanse of stars unobscured by light pollution.
Two specific aspects of this experience contribute to the sense of awe: space/distance and quantity. Both, in a sense, are abstractions. We can measure distance and count objects, but the sheer scale of the cosmos pushes these concepts to the limits of human comprehension. Both space and the number of stars seem, for all practical purposes, infinite. And what is infinity? We can define it mathematically, objectively– dividing 1 by 3 results in an infinite decimal representation. But infinity can also be experienced subjectively, even when dealing with objectively finite quantities. Consider the grains of sand on a beach. While not truly infinite, they are so vast, so beyond our ability to grasp or quantify, that they effectively become infinite within the framework of human experience. This, I believe, is the essence of awe. It’s the feeling of encountering something so vast, so complex, so beyond our ordinary understanding that it evokes a sense of wonder, humility, and even a touch of fear. It’s the recognition of our own limitations in the face of the immense and the unknown. It’s the feeling of being confronted with the infinite, whether it’s the infinite expanse of space, the infinite number of stars, or the infinite depths of our own consciousness. Awe is the emotional response to encountering the boundary between the known and the unknown, the finite and the infinite, the human and the divine.
This book might contain many contradictions, and that’s actually a good thing. Writing is a distilled form of thinking, and if you’re thinking properly, you should have hundreds of battles inside your head with opposing views. If you step back, you’ll see some of these internal debates belong to larger, overarching conflicts. When you write, these battles will inevitably surface, and it’s fine that they do—they’re fighting their own battles in the pursuit of truth. This reminds me of the problem with symbolism. Let’s say I represent a large group of people, a specific tribe, with its own traditions and religion. This tribe emphasizes free speech and the clash of ideas in the pursuit of truth. It’s conceivable that they would develop a lore, a specific story or myth, that embodies this value–a symbolic representation of a battle of ideas. Now, someone looking at this tribe’s culture and religion might dismiss it as “not real.” They might say, “The story of that battle never actually happened.” Well, no kidding. But that doesn’t make it any less real in a deeper sense. What matters is the meaning of the story, the symbolism behind it. In a nutshell, that’s what religion is at its core—its language is meaning.
What makes this tricky is that, in the past, meaning was often intertwined with factual claims. The distinction wasn’t as clear then as it is today. So, the tribe probably believed that the symbolic battle actually happened because they lacked the worldview that would make them skeptical about its historical accuracy. And here’s where the problem lies, particularly with religious people themselves. In an increasingly materialistic world, they cling to religion because it still retains meaning. As human beings, we have spiritual and emotional needs. Without meaning, you die psychologically. It doesn’t matter how smart you are. You can be the most intelligent person to ever live—if meaning is all you have, you will delude yourself into preserving that meaning.
I believe there are secular ways to provide and articulate meaning, but religion is the easiest and most accessible one. This is incredibly difficult to explain, even to a past version of myself. It’s partly due to the semantics of the word “meaning” itself. I’m not saying you need religion to have a meaningful life. But religion deals with meaning on a deeper, more abstract level that’s hard to put into words. I’m not talking about deriving meaning from a personal God who cares about you. I’m talking about the nature of meaning itself, its essence. It’s frustrating because understanding this is crucial, but expressing it requires a level of abstraction and nuance that’s difficult to achieve. We need to bridge this gap between religion and science, between the realms of meaning and facts. But this requires reimagining religion, not as a literal set of beliefs, but as a dramatization of meaning. We’re foolish to focus on the literal details of religious stories, which are often scientifically impossible, instead of grasping the deeper truths they represent.
It’s ironic, but while I’m not religious in the traditional sense, I sometimes feel like we’re waiting for a new messiah. And in a way, that’s true, philosophically speaking. But understanding this requires a significant shift in perspective, a level of knowledge and understanding that’s inaccessible to most. Most people, when they hear “religion,” think of a bearded guy in the sky. Since that’s clearly not true, they dismiss religion as foolish and without value. I used to hold that same view, but it was a profound misunderstanding. This “messiah” would be someone with the power to bridge the divide between meaning and facts, between religion and science. But that’s not the only obstacle. Even if this “messiah” emerged, they would need to communicate these complex ideas to a world largely unprepared to receive them. It’s not just about being intelligent enough to grasp these concepts; it’s about being able to articulate them to those who aren’t. This is crucial, yet it’s rarely discussed because we live in a world where acknowledging individual differences is often taboo, as illustrated, for example, in the debates about intelligence. We cling to a romanticized notion of equality, where everyone is the same, but this simply isn’t true. Ignoring this “ugly” aspect of reality can have dangerous consequences.
I’m having an intense experience which transcends any vision I’ve ever encountered. It possesses a hyper-real quality, surpassing the boundaries of ordinary perception. Perhaps this is what mystics refer to as a mystical experience. In this state, the existence of God is undeniable. I sense an invitation to join Him, to merge with the ultimate truth. It’s as if I’m presented with a choice, reminiscent of the red pill and blue pill metaphor. The red pill represents truth and union with God, while the blue pill signifies remaining within the familiar confines of my current existence. However, there’s a catch. I’m overcome with a profound sense that choosing the red pill will lead to insanity. The dilemma is agonizing. I cherish truth and yearn for its pursuit, drawing me towards the red pill. Yet, the looming threat of madness, however inexplicable, repels me from it.
This experience illuminates the nature of reality. Heaven embodies the realm of abstraction, where truth and meaning reside, while Earth represents the domain of concrete facts, where our conventional existence unfolds. We inhabit both realms simultaneously. Our physical bodies navigate the earthly plane, but our thoughts and abstractions transport us to the divine dimension. However, we never fully experience either realm in isolation. A mystical experience entails a complete immersion in the realm of abstraction, a direct encounter with truth and meaning. Conversely, the pursuit of pure fact, devoid of subjectivity, lies within the domain of science, striving for an objective representation of the world.
Psychedelics, I suspect, induce mystical experiences by transporting us directly to the divine dimension, causing us to leave behind the earthly realm of facts—hence the experience of ego loss, where one’s sense of self diminishes or dissolves entirely. This state often brings profound feelings of unity with the universe, as personal boundaries fade and self-identification is suspended. In this state, you’re no longer bound to a body but become a pure consciousness navigating the divine realm of abstraction. God, I believe, is our own meta-abstraction of truth and meaning. I’ve been playing with this idea for months, but only on a theoretical level. Now, for the very first time, I truly understand it in the core of my being and see that it’s indeed the case. Yet, communicating this revelation seems impossible. It demands extensive philosophical knowledge and an immense capacity for abstraction, exceeding my capabilities. I perceive signs from God, subtle encouragements to embrace the higher truth and join Him. But the risk is immense. I need irrefutable proof, an undeniable sign, to justify the potential cost of madness.
Fear and anxiety grip me as the phenomenology of this experience worryingly mirrors a schizophrenic episode. While I know psychedelics don’t directly cause mental illness, they can trigger or exacerbate latent predispositions. The unsettling possibility arises that I might have a hidden vulnerability to schizophrenia, now brought to the forefront by this experience. I meticulously assessed this risk before embarking on psychedelic exploration, investigating any family history of schizophrenia or other mental illnesses. My findings were negative. However, while schizophrenia is highly heritable, it can manifest in individuals with no family history, albeit rarely. This knowledge fuels my paranoia, especially given that schizophrenia often surfaces in late adolescence or early adulthood.
The pursuit of truth is paramount to me, but not at the cost of my sanity. The prospect of mental illness is terrifying, amplified by the current influence of LSD. I can envision a descent into paranoid religious delusions, even believing myself to be the Messiah. This potential outcome, embracing the truth and succumbing to messianic delusions, hangs before me like a fragile bubble. It takes an immense effort to resist the urge to burst it, to avoid that perilous path. The very danger of this possibility intensifies my anxiety, yet I know that anxiety itself increases the risk. My body, seemingly independent of my conscious will, fights to maintain control. This feels incredibly dangerous, like teetering on the edge of a precipice, one arm clinging to the edge, the abyss of insanity gaping below. My heart races, and sweat pours down my body. I can’t continue this log any further. I need to take 10mg of Diazepam and try to relax, allowing the drug’s effects to subside.¹
I stopped the log at 5 PM, resuming now at 8 PM. Having initially taken the drug at 11 AM, the experience had deteriorated considerably, prompting my decision to cease recording. Anxiety was rapidly escalating. I decided to lie down, hoping to induce a state of relaxation. As a music lover, I turned to my collection, hoping it would offer solace. However, it only exacerbated the situation. My preference for dramatic post-rock led me down a spiral of contemplation about music as a manifestation of meaning, and ultimately, a manifestation of God. In a desperate attempt to shift my mental state, I switched to Tibetan chants, usually a source of profound relaxation. Yet again, the strategy backfired. I found myself consumed by thoughts about the origins and purpose of these chants, envisioning diverse cultures across the globe developing their unique music and dances as pathways to connect with the divine, to enter the realm of meaning and truth. This triggered a peculiar vision, a simultaneous perception of multiple locations, each with its distinct people and culture, united by their religious practices, prayers, and rituals. An overwhelming sense of humanity collectively pointing towards a singular, hyper-real entity at the core of reality and our very nature washed over me.
Recognizing the futility of music as a calming influence, I decided to take a shower. This provided minor relief, but the anxiety persisted. I concluded that the most prudent course of action was to simply endure the remaining effects of the drug and confront any lingering issues once sober. Recalling a quote from Seneca, “We should always allow some time to elapse, for time discloses the truth”. I clung to the hope that time itself would provide clarity and resolution, guiding me towards a truth untainted by a possible schizophrenic distortion. All that remained was to wait. The problem with relying on time as a solution is that time perception, as far as human experience is concerned, is not truly objective. This is a universally recognized phenomenon. When we impatiently await something, time seems to crawl, a few minutes stretching into an eternity. Conversely, when engaged in meaningful or enjoyable activities, time flies, hours melting away like minutes. LSD amplifies this effect exponentially. Therefore, while I intellectually understood that the experience would eventually end, this knowledge offered little comfort. Time was so profoundly dilated that it felt indistinguishable from eternity. This lies at the heart of challenging psychedelic experiences. Individuals can descend into profound mental anguish, anxiety, and paranoia. Even with the awareness that these states are temporary, the distorted perception of time can make them feel endless. This is where the very rare but possible risk of suicidal ideation emerges. When suffering seems endless, suicide can appear as the only escape.
To combat this, I devised a strategy: immersing myself in video games. This forced my attention onto the game, diverting it from the distressing thoughts and emotions. In retrospect, this proved to be an effective tactic. It circumvented the time dilation problem because the game operated on a “normal” or objective clock. By entering the game world, I became engrossed in an activity that allowed time to pass naturally. As time progressed, the drug’s effects gradually subsided, and my mental state improved. Complementing this approach, I decided to listen to pop music. Although not a genre I typically enjoy, finding it lacking in depth and emotional range, I recognized its potential to induce happiness and carefree feelings–precisely what I needed. The combination of gaming and upbeat music proved to be the turning point. While still under the influence of LSD, my mindset shifted dramatically, and I could sense the drug’s grip loosening. Now, with the worst of the experience behind me, I can attempt to interpret what happened. Whether I can fully comprehend it remains to be seen, but I will try to make sense of it.
Firstly, let’s revisit the realization of God. As mentioned earlier, I’ve always been intrigued by Plato’s Theory of Forms, finding it far less absurd than most people believe. My subsequent discovery of Jung’s archetypes further solidified my appreciation for the power of abstractions and their potential to hold greater reality than objective phenomena. This was epitomized by the word “logos,” discussed previously, embodying both the word of God and the essence of logic and truth. Based on this reasoning, I arrived at the conclusion that God is real–not as a divine creator in the traditional sense, but as a human abstraction of values. At the time, this felt like an undeniable truth, a self-evident axiom. However, with the clarity of hindsight, even accepting my premises as true, the conclusion strikes me as overly bold.
It’s a curious phenomenon that psychedelic experiences often seem to lead individuals towards a belief in God, or at least a sense of the divine. I suspect that, in my case, I attempted to reason my way towards this conclusion, influenced by the drug’s effects. However, my line of thinking evolved. I began to consider that if God exists as our own abstraction, then the concept of a personal God might not be so outlandish. Instead of God creating us, perhaps we created Him. This led to the analogy of artificial intelligence, representing humanity’s potential to bring forth consciousness. This laid the groundwork for my belief in God during the experience.
Now, I need to unpack into some aspects of The Matrix, the film that served as the background framework for my interpretation of all of this. While some simplification is unavoidable, I will focus solely on the core concepts relevant to this context. In the film, the vast majority of humanity lives unknowingly within a simulated reality called the Matrix. This simulated world is controlled by machines that dominate the real world. A small minority of humans exists outside the Matrix, residing in the real world alongside the machines, but constantly evading them. These individuals form the resistance.
Neo, living within the Matrix, senses a fundamental dissonance within his world, an underlying feeling that something is amiss. This inherent sensitivity distinguishes him, leading him to encounter Morpheus, an individual who resides outside the Matrix, in the real world. Morpheus offers Neo a choice between two pills: a red one and a blue one. Without yet understanding the nature of the Matrix, Neo is told that the blue pill will restore normalcy, allowing him to continue his life as before. The red pill, however, promises to irrevocably alter his reality and reveal the truth about the Matrix. Neo chooses the red pill, enabling him to awaken from the Matrix and enter the real world for the first time. While the film is far more intricate, with layers of nuance and complexity, this basic premise is crucial to understanding my experience.
The reason I recount these elements of The Matrix is because of a persistent idea in my mind, one that bears a striking resemblance to the film’s narrative. Despite my best efforts, I cannot recall the origin of this idea. I’ve attempted to trace it to a movie, a book, or an article, but to no avail. Regardless of its source, it’s a story that resonates deeply with the red pill/blue pill dilemma. The story unfolds as follows: People live ordinary lives, but a small percentage possess a unique sensitivity, a sense that there’s more to reality than meets the eye, much like Neo’s initial perception. This prompts them to embark on a quest for knowledge, studying intensely for years in an attempt to understand this deeper reality. Eventually, they undergo a profound religious experience, achieving a state of enlightenment and recognizing the existence of God. This realization arises as a direct result of their dedicated pursuit of knowledge.
However, the moment of understanding is fleeting, a mere fraction of a second, a eureka moment akin to a flash of divine light. This “flash” is brilliantly depicted in this movie, a split second of insight where time seems to freeze, and the puzzle pieces fall into place. We experience this on a smaller scale in everyday problem-solving, but in this context, it’s magnified exponentially, as if solving the ultimate existential or spiritual dilemma. It’s the essence of epiphany and revelation.
This process is not entirely conscious. Problem-solving of this nature relies heavily on intuition, which, scientifically speaking, refers to subconscious processes that generate solutions based on incomplete or inarticulate knowledge. This explains why intuition is so valuable when logical reasoning fails; it draws upon subtle cues and information that the conscious mind may not be aware of. This is more common than we realize, particularly in situations requiring unconventional thinking. While we may rationalize these insights after the fact, they are not products of deductive reasoning.
In the story, after the “flash” of enlightenment, individuals realize that they cannot fully grasp God’s nature. It remains beyond their intellectual capacity. Most abandon their pursuit of knowledge and return to “normal” lives, content with ordinary human existence. However, some refuse to relinquish their quest, striving to dive deeper, only to meet with failure. They, too, lack the intellectual capacity to comprehend the divine. Those who persist on this path descend into madness, trapped in a permanent state of limbo. This is the crux of the story. Whether it’s a narrative I encountered somewhere or a product of my own subconscious, it feels strangely familiar. The reason I share this story is because of its striking parallel to the red pill/blue pill choice in The Matrix. In this context, the red pill represents joining God’s kingdom, so to speak, and attaining complete understanding. However, because our consciousness is ill-equipped to handle this state, it leads to mental instability. Choosing the blue pill allows one to remain “normal” but forever precludes access to the full truth.
This line of thinking led me to contemplate the concept of Messiahs. In this framework, Messiahs are individuals capable of handling the red pill without succumbing to mental illness. If the people who attain the unique position of being offered the choice between the red and blue pills constitute a select group, Messiahs are the chosen ones within that group. “Mentally ill,” in this context, is defined as existing too far outside the bounds of societal norms, leading to exclusion and being labeled a lunatic.
This concept hinges on the nature of creativity and its relationship with truth. A creative idea, to be embraced, must possess appeal. Creativity itself arises from venturing outside conventional patterns of thought, offering something novel. However, true creativity requires more than mere novelty; it must also be useful. This introduces the element of truth. Therefore, creativity can be defined as possessing a truth unknown to others, achieved by being different yet useful. The paradox, however, is that excessive creativity can hinder success. Even if an idea contains profound truth, if it deviates too radically from our shared reality, it risks being incomprehensible and dismissed. This, I believe, partly explains why embracing God could lead to mental illness. The experience of the divine is so fundamentally different that its “truth” would be rejected by the community.
To illustrate this, I recall a childhood fantasy. I imagined traveling to the future to acquire knowledge beyond our current understanding, truths not yet part of our collective awareness. I would then return to the present and share these revelations. Even then, I intuitively grasped the futility of this endeavor. Despite possessing genuine knowledge, it would be so foreign to our existing framework that it would be met with disbelief and accusations of madness. Messiahs, in this sense, are individuals capable of bridging the gap between the divine and everyday reality. They possess the unique ability to merge these seemingly disparate worlds. Having taken the red pill, they understand God’s nature and navigate the complexities of that abstract realm, yet they can also communicate these insights to ordinary people without sounding delusional. They are not so far outside the box that they alienate others, but they possess something so profoundly valuable, derived from their knowledge of a “higher truth,” that they attract a vast following. A new religion emerges from their interpretation of this higher truth and the essence of the divine. This echoes Nietzsche’s observation: “It is not enough to prove something, one has also to seduce or elevate people to it. That is why the man of knowledge should learn how to speak his wisdom: and often in such a way that it sounds like folly!”
This also ties into why I was so convinced I wasn’t a Messiah. My hypothesis hinges on the idea that God is the ultimate abstraction of truth and meaning. To fully embrace God, then, requires an abnormal capacity for abstraction. It seemed reasonable to conclude that a potential Messiah, in line with this thinking, would possess incredibly high abstract reasoning abilities. And we know that abstract reasoning is highly correlated with general intelligence (or the g factor, to be more precise). Thus, as strange as it may sound, the Messiah would be someone with exceptional intelligence, since a key characteristic of intelligence is the ability to abstract. Because I was undergoing this intense religious experience, I was initially inclined to believe I could be the next Messiah—the one to bring God to Earth. However, I ultimately abandoned this idea because I knew I wasn’t particularly gifted. Otherwise, I think that when this internal drama was playing out, I would have genuinely believed I was the Messiah and chosen the “red pill.” Assuming my theory was correct, this would have led to some kind of revelation. According to this narrative, I would then attempt to build a following and create a religion based on that revelation, or perhaps believe myself to be a new Messiah within an existing religion. This is all contingent, of course, on actually having the required capacity for abstraction. If I lacked that crucial element but still believed I was destined for greatness, then, according to the internal logic of this experience, I would likely descend into mental illness.
That fear of losing my grip on reality was present throughout the entire experience, and it ultimately led me to choose the “blue pill,” even though this choice went against one of my core values: the pursuit of truth. I am not claiming this outcome was inevitable; I am simply explaining the inner workings of my thought process at the time. I have always striven for the truth, symbolized in this scenario by the red pill. However, I could never have imagined that such a pursuit might come at the cost of my sanity. If that were the case, I would choose the blue pill and continue living in blissful ignorance, whatever that might entail. I always believed that truth was my highest value, above all else. But even if this entire experience was devoid of truth—if it were merely a drug-induced delusion—it nevertheless brought about an important realization: truth is indeed my highest value, but not at the expense of my mental health.²
This experience reminds me of Plato’s Allegory of the Cave, and it’s striking how this narrative framework applies to three distinct stories. Each story can be divided into four chapters. The first chapter is the recognition of something unusual. In my own narrative, this represents noticing something out of the ordinary—a sign of God, perhaps. In The Matrix, this represents receiving a message from outside the Matrix and wanting to investigate further. In Plato’s cave, this is becoming aware of the chains, because you can’t break free from them unless you’re aware of their existence and their function in keeping you constrained. This convergence is quite obvious if one frames it within the context of being a universal and perennial journey within the human experience.
The second chapter involves the willingness to investigate the unusual phenomenon. In my story, this is the years-long process of study and introspection. In The Matrix, this is following the cues given from the outside (Neo could have ignored them if he wanted to). In Plato’s cave, this is realizing that there’s something outside the cave and being willing to venture out. The third chapter is the realization of truth. In my story, this is being enlightened by God. In The Matrix, this is realizing that you’re living in a simulation. In Plato’s cave, this is finally escaping and perceiving the real world for the first time.
The final chapter is the communication of this higher truth. In my story, this would be fully embracing God’s nature but then being unable to communicate it to others and being labeled insane. In The Matrix, this would be returning to the Matrix after taking the red pill and trying to convince others that it’s a simulation, likely leading to disbelief and accusations of insanity. In Plato’s story, the same thing would happen: the returned cave dweller wouldn’t be able to convey their experience to those who have only ever known the shadows, because they lack the framework to understand it. This is where the idea of the Messiah comes in. The Messiah is the one capable of not only understanding the higher truth but also communicating it in a way that is understandable to everyone. In the context of Plato’s cave, for example, the Messiah would have the ability to express the nature of the “real world” to those who have never seen it and convince them to break their own chains—a feat that Plato himself believed to be impossible.
Looking back, this whole experience and framework was highly congruent with the vision I had in the first chapter of this book. Even though that was months ago, and back then I still hadn’t fully grasped the relationship between God, truth, and meaning, I still managed to capture an accurate picture of it. In that vision, induced by LSD, my world divided in two—the realm of the divine and the material world of everyday life. I was holding these two worlds together, and then a clone of myself emerged to explore the world of the divine. If I recall correctly, I referred to this as a split of the ego. That clone explored the divine and, upon returning, attempted to reveal its discoveries to my original self. The higher the dose of LSD, the more truth it could discover, but the more challenging it became to translate those truths back to the material world. This vision aligns perfectly with my current understanding. It’s fascinating because, at the time, I didn’t even have a clear definition of what the divine was. I knew it had something to do with truth and abstraction, but it was still very nebulous. This also resonates with my description of the Messiah: the one who can fully embrace the truth and then communicate it to the ego—a perfect translator between the divine and the mundane.
It’s worth exploring in greater depth why I believed I was experiencing a schizophrenic psychosis. However, it’s important to first acknowledge that my current perspective is more grounded in rationality. While I’m no longer certain it was a full-blown schizophrenic episode, I maintain that it bears a resemblance to schizophrenia in some significant ways. The first sign that truly alarmed me was the emergence of messianic ideation. To fully grasp the gravity of this, I need to provide some context about a close friend, whom I’ll call James. He has held strong religious beliefs throughout his life. Although he doesn’t actively participate in organized religion, he firmly believes in the Christian God, angels, demons, and most of the associated typical Christian worldview. We’ve been close since childhood, and I know him intimately. Under periods of intense stress, James experiences mental breakdowns. I’m personally aware of three distinct instances, all occurring within the last few years. However, it’s plausible that he’s had more episodes that I’m simply unaware of. These breakdowns consistently arise when he’s grappling with overwhelming stress, whether stemming from work or emotional turmoil.
During these periods, he becomes highly paranoid and delusional. He might, for example, believe he possesses unique knowledge that no one else has, or that he’s the target of a conspiracy. Simultaneously, his religious convictions intensify dramatically. He begins to interpret a multitude of events as divine signs, asserting that everything happens for a preordained reason according to God’s plan. This progresses to a point where his grasp on reality becomes severely distorted. In two out of the three instances I mentioned, it required hospitalization. He received medication, gradually improved, and eventually resumed a relatively normal life. Since his last breakdown, he has been taking daily medication, albeit at a low dosage, as a preventative measure.
During his first episode, one of the most striking manifestations of his breakdown was his unwavering belief that he was the new Messiah, in direct communication with God. He was convinced that God had entrusted him with the mission of uniting humanity and conveying divine messages. Although I had always been aware of some underlying issues he faced, this episode made it clear that something was profoundly wrong. However, due to the intertwining of his condition with his religious beliefs, it was difficult to label it as mental illness. This was compounded by the fact that the severity of his situation was not readily apparent to outside observers. Raising concerns felt both politically incorrect and disrespectful towards his faith. Consequently, he wasn’t hospitalized during that particular episode and somehow managed to recover naturally, although it’s also possible he was hospitalized without my knowledge.
These episodes that James experiences bear a striking resemblance to schizophrenic psychosis. In particular, they exhibit an extreme form of apophenia, the tendency to perceive meaningful connections and patterns within random or unrelated events. This is a hallmark of schizophrenic thinking, and it underscores the potential link between James’s condition and schizophrenia. It’s similar to confirmation bias, the human universal tendency to search for and favor information that confirms one’s preexisting beliefs, but increased exponentially. In both times James was institutionalized, he was never diagnosed with schizophrenia. In the first event, they didn’t diagnose him with anything, and in the second, they thought it might be bipolar disorder, but they weren’t sure. The symptoms didn’t match perfectly. I suppose they interpreted his psychosis as a manifestation of mania.
In the last event, the doctor said it’s best not to diagnose a specific disorder unless you’re absolutely sure, due to the complexity of mental illness, there’s a decent chance of making a wrong diagnosis and doing more harm than good. They often prefer not to make a formal diagnosis but to treat the symptoms so that the person can return to normal life. If the lack of a formal diagnosis was a good call, or if he indeed had bipolar disorder, I don’t know. I’m not a psychiatrist, and I don’t have enough education to judge that decision. However, I think it’s at least undeniable that there’s some sort of connection between James’ phenomenology and a schizophrenic psychosis, even if it’s something else entirely.
This brings me back to my own experience. I initially suspected I was undergoing a schizophrenic psychosis because, just like James, I briefly entertained the notion that I could be the next Messiah. The phenomenology was strikingly similar. At one point in my journal, I documented receiving signs from God. I felt like God was inviting me to join him, to “take the red pill,” so to speak, and embrace a higher truth. However, I resisted because I feared it would lead to insanity. I considered taking this metaphorical red pill, but only if I could be absolutely certain that God existed and that this wasn’t simply a delusion induced by the drug or a hypothetical schizophrenic break. I engaged in a form of “dialogue” with God, asking for evidence of his existence. Immediately after this, my cat was startled and ran out of the room. I interpreted this as a sign from God, but it wasn’t convincing enough. This occurred around the time I was concluding my journal entry. Later, as I lay in bed, I continued this “conversation” with God–not a traditional conversation, but more like directing my thoughts towards him with the hope and feeling that he was truly listening. It wasn’t entirely a monologue, as I sometimes sensed a response. I continued to request further evidence, still wrestling with the desire to embrace this truth, but terrified of the potential consequences.
While I was immersed in these thoughts, my cat tapped me on the shoulder. It felt like a profound moment, as if all of existence converged into that single point in time, and the heavens were opening up to me. Once again, I perceived this as a sign from God. Yet, it still wasn’t enough to risk my sanity. Frustration mounted, and I remember becoming angry and aggressive, demanding that God stop playing games with me. I pleaded for an undeniable, supernatural sign that could only be attributed to his existence and omnipotence. Shortly after this outburst, my mother unexpectedly entered the room. She wasn’t supposed to be home; I always plan my session when I’m alone. But she had finished work early. She was crying. I can’t recall her exact words, but I dismissed her, claiming I was busy and would help her later with whatever she was asking. I was wearing headphones, so she assumed I was listening to music and left. In my delusional state, I interpreted her tears as another sign from God—a sign that she was lamenting my refusal to accept him and embrace this higher truth. Despite these “signs,” I remained hesitant. I wasn’t willing to gamble with my mental health based on such weak evidence. Then, a realization dawned on me: perhaps God was giving me these subtle signs because he couldn’t offer anything more concrete. Perhaps he required a leap of faith, demanding that I embrace the truth despite the lack of irrefutable evidence
Kierkegaard talked about this idea—fideism. That religious belief has to come from faith alone. It has to be done through a “leap of faith”. For example, in Indiana Jones, there’s a scene where he faces a particular booby trap in which he has to make a jump that seems impossible. Logic dictates that the jump is impossible, yet he leaps anyway, trusting that it will work out. Unknown to him, a hidden bridge allows him to cross, but only if he takes that initial leap of faith, defying reason. I concluded that this was precisely the situation I faced. God couldn’t provide me with an undeniable sign; belief had to come from pure, unadulterated faith. However, I refused to take that leap. If embracing this higher truth required an irrational decision, then I would choose the “blue pill” and remain grounded in reality. I wouldn’t risk my sanity on such a precarious game. If that was the game God wanted me to play, then it was a foolish game, and I wanted no part in it. At that point, I decided to stop wrestling with this “problem.” I focused on calming myself down and waiting for the drug to wear off. This is when I took the shower and played video games, as I mentioned earlier. When I finally regained some composure and sobriety, the realization hit me: it had all been an elaborate delusion.
However, one particular element continued to bother me: the moment my mom entered the room, seemingly in tears. I asked my mom about this later, and she clarified that she hadn’t been crying at all; her eyes were simply irritated by her contact lenses. In my altered state, I had exaggerated and misinterpreted her expression to fit the narrative I was constructing. This prompted me to re-examine the other “signs” I had received. The first was my cat being startled, but I then remembered that this coincided with my mom arriving home, and my cat always runs to the door when someone enters. The second sign, the cat tapping me on the shoulder, was also easily explained. She often does this when I’m in bed, essentially asking me to lift the sheets so she can snuggle underneath—a common occurrence, as she enjoys the warmth and comfort. This realization was both terrifying and reassuring. It was terrifying because I grasped how easily one could fall into a religious or schizophrenic delusion, and it shed light on the struggles James had faced. I had experienced firsthand a potential mechanism of insanity. Yet, it was also reassuring because everything finally made sense. I had returned to everyday reality and understood how the delusion had unfolded. It felt like a narrow escape from madness itself.
The historical connection between schizophrenia and the phenomenology of the LSD experience is well-established. In the 1950s, this very connection fueled the initial wave of LSD research. Scientists, intrigued by the similarities between LSD’s effects and psychotic symptoms, particularly those of schizophrenia, embarked on studies guided by the “model psychosis” theory. They hoped that by inducing a temporary state resembling psychosis with LSD, they could unlock the biomechanical underpinnings of mental illness and pave the way for more effective treatments. Some researchers even hypothesized that the body might, under certain conditions, produce a substance akin to LSD, leading to a form of “auto-intoxication” and the manifestation of schizophrenia.
Before the term “psychedelics” was coined, LSD trials were often labeled “experimental psychoses” or “chemical psychoses.” The practice of administering LSD to doctors and nurses working with the mentally ill was commonplace. This was done with the intention of providing these caregivers with a firsthand understanding of the patients’ subjective experiences, fostering empathy and potentially leading to improved patient care. However, over time, researchers recognized key distinctions between the LSD experience and schizophrenic psychosis. LSD was ultimately understood to be an amplifier of mental processes, facilitating a profound exploration of the subconscious mind unlike anything previously possible.
While LSD could evoke a spectrum of emotions, from intense joy to profound horror, mirroring the emotional volatility of schizophrenia, it often also produced a sense of inner peace, liberation from suffering and ignorance, and a feeling of personality rebirth. These latter experiences resonated with concepts like Nirvana found in Eastern philosophies and religions. Notably, higher doses of LSD frequently led to ego dissolution, a phenomenon seemingly unique to the LSD experience. Additionally, the nature of LSD-induced hallucinations, predominantly characterized by patterns and distortions, differed from those typically associated with schizophrenia.
Reflecting on my own recent experience, I’m tempted to draw parallels between my intense LSD “bad trip” and a schizophrenic psychosis. The phenomenology felt strikingly similar. However, I acknowledge the inherent bias shaping my interpretation, influenced both by James’s case and the thematic focus of the movie. This unexpected convergence of my personal experience with the film’s narrative, while not consciously anticipated, seems retrospectively inevitable. It’s crucial to emphasize the subjective nature of this observation and avoid unwarranted generalizations. This particular experience, my first “bad trip” despite having used LSD well over a dozen times, provided valuable insights despite its challenging nature. My prior knowledge of psychedelics and intentional preparation likely mitigated the intensity of the experience. Furthermore, my personality, characterized by low neuroticism (around the 10th percentile) and a background in psychology, probably aided in navigating the experience. Despite moments of intense anxiety, I consciously strived to maintain a degree of calm and rationality, preventing a complete descent into panic. While I recognize the potential for a truly disastrous outcome, I believe my efforts at self-regulation helped avert a crisis.
It is striking how psychedelics can induce mystical experiences, even in individuals who do not identify as spiritual. This phenomenon challenges the expectation that such experiences would naturally align with pre-existing beliefs. Instead, it points to a potential inherent human predisposition toward religious or spiritual thinking, one that may be masked by our modern, materialist worldview. This raises the intriguing possibility that this predisposition is a deeply ingrained element of human nature, perhaps shaped by evolutionary processes like group selection. Gene-culture coevolution provides a compelling framework for understanding this idea. This concept describes the dynamic interplay between genetic evolution and cultural development, where cultural practices influence genetic selection and vice versa. It suggests that cultural innovations, including spiritual or religious practices, may have influenced evolutionary pathways, embedding a predisposition for such experiences within our nature.
This apparent contradiction between our modern understanding of the world and the mystical experiences induced by psychedelics may be explained by considering the latter as a window into a more primal mode of perception. This perspective aligns with the concept of gene-culture coevolution, where genes and culture interact in a continuous feedback loop. In this scenario, a predisposition towards religious beliefs, even if those beliefs are not “true” in the conventional sense, could have provided an evolutionary advantage. This advantage might have manifested through enhanced social cohesion, cooperation, and a shared sense of meaning and purpose—all of which could contribute to greater survival and reproductive success.
Group selection, the idea that natural selection can act not just on individuals but on groups, provides a potential mechanism for this religious inclination to evolve. While the concept is somewhat controversial, with figures like Richard Dawkins expressing skepticism, E. O. Wilson presents compelling arguments in favor of it in The Social Conquest of Earth. According to this view, applied to culture and religion, individuals who embraced what some might call an “illusion” of shared spiritual or religious beliefs could have fostered stronger, more cohesive communities. This, in turn, created a significant evolutionary advantage, driving a process of gene-culture coevolution—where cultural innovations, like religious practices, shaped evolutionary pathways by reinforcing traits that benefited group survival.
The idea of an inherent religious predisposition, shaped by evolutionary pressures, resonates with the philosophical framework of pragmatism. Pragmatism posits that truth is not an objective entity but rather something that is “true enough” to be useful in navigating the world. When viewed through a Darwinian lens, this translates to the idea that what is “true” is what promotes survival and reproduction. In this context, a predisposition towards religious beliefs, even if those beliefs are not literally true, could be considered “true” in a pragmatic sense if it enhances an individual’s or group’s chances of survival and procreation. This interpretation offers a compelling explanation for the persistence of religious experiences, even in a seemingly secularized world.
This experience served as a stark reminder of my own ignorance regarding religious experiences. While I have long prioritized philosophy over religion in my studies, I now find myself questioning whether that was the wisest choice. William James’ The Varieties of Religious Experience, a seminal work that delves into the psychological and personal aspects of religious phenomena, now strikes me as essential reading—something I should have explored already. Additionally, while the “experimental psychoses” model of schizophrenia has been largely abandoned, I feel that gaining a deeper understanding of the condition, particularly its phenomenology, would be invaluable. This knowledge could illuminate the parallels and divergences between mystical experiences and certain mental health conditions, offering a richer perspective on the nature of these profound states.
My lack of preparation stems from an assumption that I wouldn’t encounter this type of experience any time soon. However, due to my own carelessness, it occurred prematurely, leaving me ill-equipped to fully comprehend it. My current focus is on psychology, with plans to better study philosophy afterward, followed by a study of religion. Only then did I intend to actively seek out a mystical experience, believing that by that point, I would be adequately prepared. This unexpected encounter has highlighted the flaws in my planned progression and underscored the need for a more integrated approach to understanding the human mind and its potential for mystical experiences.
An important takeaway from this experience is the crucial role of a sitter during high-dose psychedelic sessions. Although my dose wasn’t particularly high, the interaction with various nootropics I had taken seemed to intensify the effects. By sheer luck, I had forgotten to take phenibut, one of the nootropics I was experimenting with. When I became paranoid and sought to quickly sober up, I took Diazepam. Phenibut and depressants should not be mixed. Diazepam is a benzodiazepine, and like alcohol and opioids, it belongs to the depressant class of drugs. Combining them is dangerous and in theory, lethal. I had researched the drugs and supplements I use, so I was aware of this interaction. However, had I taken phenibut earlier, my paranoid state might have led me to forget this crucial information and take Diazepam anyway. While I advocate for solo psychedelic use for mind expansion, this applies only to low doses where significant paranoia is unlikely. High doses increase the risk of irrational actions, even if you possess the knowledge to avoid them when sober. The risk simply isn’t worth it. For high-dose experiences, a well-informed trip sitter is essential. Provide them with clear instructions on what you should and shouldn’t do while under the influence. If finding a sitter is impossible, due to privacy concerns or other reasons, it’s best to avoid the experience altogether.
While psychedelics might immediately evoke Jungian theory and philosophy, Jung himself was surprisingly not an advocate. To be fair, he died in 1961 when the field was still nascent, and the therapeutic benefits we now recognize lacked substantial evidence. Nevertheless, he remained skeptical. One of his primary concerns was the potential danger of interacting with the deep, complex knowledge that emerges spontaneously during a psychedelic experience. He believed the subconscious to be incredibly intricate, and attempting to bring it to the surface—the very purpose of psychedelics—could be overwhelming and potentially damaging. In a letter to Alfred Hubbard, an early proponent of psychedelic therapy, Jung wrote: “When it comes to the practical and more or less general application of mescaline, I have certain doubts and hesitations... The analytical method of psychotherapy (e.g., ‘active imagination’) yields very similar results, viz. full realization of complexes and numinous dreams and visions. These phenomena occur at their proper time and place in the course of the treatment. Mescaline, however, uncovers such psychic facts at any time and place, when and where it is by no means certain that the individual is mature enough to integrate them.”
When I initially read this, I dismissed his caution as a product of his time, assuming he simply hadn’t witnessed the full extent of psychedelic benefits. However, after my recent experience, I’ve come to appreciate the wisdom in his words. It reminds me of the story of Adam and Eve eating the forbidden fruit in the Garden of Eden—a cautionary tale about knowledge that can be too overwhelming to bear, leading to unforeseen consequences. A more relatable example might be shielding a young child from knowledge about sexuality, as they lack the maturity to integrate it properly into their understanding of the world.
A fascinating realization I’ve had is my growing discomfort with the label “atheist.” It’s strange because I don’t consider myself religious either. This reminds me of a video interview I watched years ago where the interviewee was asked if he believed in God. He responded by saying he disliked the question, as it attempted to confine him to one side of a binary. I remember feeling deeply unsatisfied, even annoyed, by his answer at the time. It seemed obvious to me: you either believe in God or you don’t! There’s no third option. Some might mention agnosticism, but I consider that a cop-out—a more intellectualized way of saying “atheist.” Of course, there’s more nuance to it, and I could explain my reasoning, but that’s a digression. However, returning to his response, I now understand him completely. If asked whether I’m an atheist or a theist, I’d likely say “atheist” to satisfy the question. But, if I’m honest, at this very moment, I’m not entirely sure. I’ve come to realize that the question is far more complex than it appears. Each label carries a set of assumptions, and I may not agree with all of them. Unfortunately, that’s an inherent characteristic of any category—it inherently restricts. If it didn’t, it would encompass everything, and if it encompasses everything, it means nothing. A category’s limitations are precisely what give it meaning and structure.
This partly explains the constant emergence of new terminology in various fields. People seek to belong to a category that aligns with their overall beliefs, but they might disagree on specific aspects. The prefix “neo-” illustrates this well. For instance, many were drawn to Freud’s theories, but those theories come with a set of assumptions that define them as “Freudian.” Inevitably, individuals or groups emerged who didn’t entirely agree, leading them to adopt the label “neo-Freudian.” This connects them to the existing category while acknowledging their divergence. I believe this is what the interviewee was alluding to, and it resonates with me. When asked if I’m an atheist, the underlying question is whether I believe in God. This is difficult to answer because my definition of “God” likely differs from yours. While there’s a general understanding of what “God” represents, and based on that, I might identify as an atheist, this answer relies on the assumption that your definition is the correct one, which is not necessarily the case.
To achieve a truly therapeutic effect, I likely should have fully surrendered to the experience—embraced the “divine,” so to speak, within the context of my personal narrative. This is common advice for psychedelic use in general, but Stanislav Grof, a leading authority on LSD research, particularly emphasized this point. He believed complete surrender, relinquishing control, to be essential for therapeutic outcomes. However, my approach was the opposite. Because my experience was intertwined with the narrative of The Matrix and the fear of losing my sanity, surrendering felt impossible. I clung to a semblance of control, resisting the full force of the experience. Hopefully, I’ll have another mystical experience in the future that will allow me to fully let go, free from the fear of insanity. This also underscores, once again, the importance of a sitter for intense psychedelic experiences. Had I one, they could have reassured me and encouraged surrender, assuring me that my fear of insanity was merely a delusion—assuming, of course, that it was indeed a delusion. A sitter can provide a grounding presence, helping to navigate the psychedelic experience during difficult times, and facilitate a deeper level of surrender.
¹ Diazepam, commonly known by the brand name Valium, belongs to a class of drugs called benzodiazepines. These drugs work by enhancing the effect of GABA, a neurotransmitter in the brain that inhibits neural activity. This leads to a calming effect, reducing anxiety, muscle tension, and promoting sleep. While LSD and other psychedelics primarily act on serotonin receptors, the intense anxiety and potential for thought loops they can induce are often mediated by other neurotransmitters, including GABA. By increasing GABAergic activity, diazepam can help to counteract these effects, reducing anxiety and potentially “softening” the intensity of the psychedelic experience. Diazepam doesn’t completely eliminate the effects of psychedelics, but it can help manage difficult experiences and facilitate a smoother comedown.
² This realization was pivotal in my journey toward theism, though it took years to fully grasp its implications and integrate it into my life. This seed of an idea will blossom into a more fleshed-out philosophy and worldview later in this book.
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