A mind is a simulation that simulates itself.
It is not the ink and the paper that matter, but the hand that holds the pen.
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It is not the ink and the paper that matter, but the hand that holds the pen.
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Any time someone gives you drugs, the purpose is to subdue. Always. Whether it is from a dealer, a friend, your mother/brother/sister/son, or your government--especially your government--the intention is to subdue, and always to feed another motive. Why? Because in getting high, your power and your intellect are blunted. Can the motive ever be in your best interests? Governments notoriously use sex, drink, and drugs to subdue their people. Notoriously. And we're falling for it.
Our actions are the results of our intentions and our intelligence.
The line of head is strong, but the line of heart is weak. And most importantly, the line of life is short. The stars do not seem to be right.
Life is not a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well-preserved body. But rather, to skid in broadside, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming .... WoW, what a ride.
Writting turns you into somebody who's always wrong. The illusion that you may get ir right someday is the perversity that draws you on. What else could? As pathological phenomena go, it doesn't completely wreck your life.