its not unlike humanity to seek answers. we look toward our largest, most near satelite and; well nothing--at least until a few decades ago. Nothing more could be done than to gaze at its surface and ponder the texture and deformations of its outer most layer. we have, since, spent billions of dollars to, in my best aproximation, spend a few hours there trapsing around on it. to smash a golf ball a little bit farther than one could on their best day on the green.
the stories contained herein, are little more than testaments of how individuals, without golf clubs let alone space craft, have sought the same relationship with foriegn textures.
and, while these inner-efforts have been as costly as those toward our moon, and that their gleanings have been equally fleeting, and the fact that their experiences provide more questons than answers, it remains that, just like our excursions toward a spinning rock, the dabblings of psychonauts are just as much an undertaking of a serious narrative--whether personal or univeral.
and here we find ourselves half-way understood, and even less understanding searching for a narrative. yes, and now, the narrative may even be abandoned in search of it, as DiVinci would have never imagined the telescope without first dreaming to travel amongst the stars.
may these entries be only a comma in a Proustian sentactical excursion. a pause amidst a thought still forming. a psychological hypothesis, equally ready to be both further tested or discarded.
it may have begun
