Death as a DMT flash
During the morning’s shower, I imagined the faces my loved ones, and myself, might make at the moment of death, and the peace or devastations I might feel, depending on the face. Is this morbid? To think and write about death casually? It is inevitable, and the more you ignore it, the harder it hits you. Instead of getting mauled by a bear, you can learn to walk through the woods at night. Mostly though, I think about the experience of death. I really think the idea of “eternal heaven” is a palliative, and even, not too Christian (since the ego lives on in an afterlife, you avoid Christ’s task, the task of dying). My model of death is more like a DMT flash. DMT is a great mystery to me; I guess some people have casual relationships with it, like any other drug, but I imagine most people leave the experience more existentially confused than they were before. It is more than a “drug.” It feels like a Copernican shift. Bigger than aliens. We can go to the land of the dead? From the trip reports I’ve heard, it’s a mixed bag of heaven and hell—ranging from Christ visualizations to abdominal surgery by mantids. People talk about a flash, a rupture, a breaking of space-time, as if you’re getting catapulted over the ocean, dizzied by the height, and some ascended and some cannonball into a chilling underworld. If death is that same catapult, it might be your last shot, and so it might be existentially important to take DMT in your life, multiple times, if it’s how you learn to fly.