I wouldn't say this is the first steps in hyperspace, but stepping around, I find it is very hard to be a person sometimes. It's hard to remember who you are and where you came from, in retrospect, currently tripping, and integrating almost seamlessly, like I was never even trypping.
It's kind of weird to come back into the shell of a person after having been pretty much erased in general, not smoking DMT for a while, except in small hits then going and taking a good, slow, deep hit of who knows how much trashy DMT wax.
See this is how it gets, I think after extracting for a while, then getting down to the last little bit. You're just kind of here. No one in particular, but hey, it's nice to smoke some DMT once in a while. It's nice to dream. It's getting harder and harder to worry intensely, now everything has sort of melted into the back of my mind as a general happening. Nothing good, nothing bad, and I often don't really even remember anything of any significance either, though everything I do feels like I've done a thousand times before.

Has anyone else discovered this weird deja vu that slips into your every day life where nothing seems to ever actually happen, yet it's all happened countless times before?

Does anyone think that you're going to live a million more times, and stop to think about what it would feel like to feel like something else on a regular basis?
Tell me I'm not the only one.

After all, life is but a dream, right?

Hi n0l30cly,

Your story is familiar. But it is important I think to be the person. We can be shown what it is that we are, the thing that is still us, even if you strip away memories, the mind, the body - still there is you.

It can be tough on the mind though when you have it back, the balance I am trying to find is to nurture this life, its here for us to learn how to balance these things.

I have been told that the rest of the lessons are outside of DMT. It has had its say, but for now I need to resolve this with a mind/ego, body and memories and with a full experience of this reality that we appear to share.

A softer gentler version of the same experience is available, you just need to direct your consciousness away from the chattering ego. Its not as easy as a few inhales, but its more controlled. Or you can observe that the experience is always there on a higher level and feel both happen.

You sound like you are already dissociated, feeling separate from this life your body and mind is living. But realise that it is a projection of the you that is sitting back there, so make it a great one - put effort and energy into it and live it fully. To do so whilst also knowing that it is not you can sometimes feel like an awkward balance, which I think is why we are meant to forget.

I like to meditate. I think of it in terms of deploying a parachute and floating back down to a good, calm place. It's nice to do DMT, but sometimes I can sit there with it on my bedside for days before even bothering to hit it. I've always been a little dissociated, but I've also been doing DMT on and off for a while.

I've learned to really just open myself to new experiences even if they're just plain weird.
I think a lot about being another thing in another iteration. Or maybe being like a singularity of consciousness. An infinitesimal object. Really feel smallness, feel the not-in-space-ness of consciousness. It's not really here, but it's the only thing I have to call reality.

It's an existential crisis.

http://www.anandavala.info/miscl/I_Am_That.pdf

Not that useful for re-engaging in life he seems to have only one message. But if you want it with more colour and beauty and in a way that re-inforces that life is to be lived then Jane Roberts Seth books are very entertaining.

Below is a short story that someone shared with me not long ago. I think it pertains to your post quite a bit. I instantly related to this short story. I have had the exact same thoughts on the universe and this life. The story validated my thinking in many ways. It just feels like it fits and is true.

It feels like we are here to learn and grow. I feel like we choose to come here and live many lives, over and over. This feeling of choice has given me a perspective of hope that all is exactly as it should be. Everything is in it's place. It feels like a weight lifted when I took this perspective. I can just relax and observe. Look at everything and know that it is perfect. Perfect in every way. I see myself in everything now. Part of a process. We choose to be students. This experience called life is a precious gift to ourselves.


The Egg
By: Andy Weir

You were on your way home when you died.

It was a car accident. Nothing particularly remarkable, but fatal nonetheless. You left behind a wife and two children. It was a painless death. The EMTs tried their best to save you, but to no avail. Your body was so utterly shattered you were better off, trust me.

And that’s when you met me.

“What… what happened?” You asked. “Where am I?”

“You died,” I said, matter-of-factly. No point in mincing words.

“There was a… a truck and it was skidding…”

“Yup,” I said.

“I… I died?”

“Yup. But don’t feel bad about it. Everyone dies,” I said.

You looked around. There was nothingness. Just you and me. “What is this place?” You asked. “Is this the afterlife?”

“More or less,” I said.

“Are you god?” You asked.

“Yup,” I replied. “I’m God.”

“My kids… my wife,” you said.

“What about them?”

“Will they be all right?”

“That’s what I like to see,” I said. “You just died and your main concern is for your family. That’s good stuff right there.”

You looked at me with fascination. To you, I didn’t look like God. I just looked like some man. Or possibly a woman. Some vague authority figure, maybe. More of a grammar school teacher than the almighty.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “They’ll be fine. Your kids will remember you as perfect in every way. They didn’t have time to grow contempt for you. Your wife will cry on the outside, but will be secretly relieved. To be fair, your marriage was falling apart. If it’s any consolation, she’ll feel very guilty for feeling relieved.”

“Oh,” you said. “So what happens now? Do I go to heaven or hell or something?”

“Neither,” I said. “You’ll be reincarnated.”

“Ah,” you said. “So the Hindus were right,”

“All religions are right in their own way,” I said. “Walk with me.”

You followed along as we strode through the void. “Where are we going?”

“Nowhere in particular,” I said. “It’s just nice to walk while we talk.”

“So what’s the point, then?” You asked. “When I get reborn, I’ll just be a blank slate, right? A baby. So all my experiences and everything I did in this life won’t matter.”

“Not so!” I said. “You have within you all the knowledge and experiences of all your past lives. You just don’t remember them right now.”

I stopped walking and took you by the shoulders. “Your soul is more magnificent, beautiful, and gigantic than you can possibly imagine. A human mind can only contain a tiny fraction of what you are. It’s like sticking your finger in a glass of water to see if it’s hot or cold. You put a tiny part of yourself into the vessel, and when you bring it back out, you’ve gained all the experiences it had.

“You’ve been in a human for the last 48 years, so you haven’t stretched out yet and felt the rest of your immense consciousness. If we hung out here for long enough, you’d start remembering everything. But there’s no point to doing that between each life.”

“How many times have I been reincarnated, then?”

“Oh lots. Lots and lots. An in to lots of different lives.” I said. “This time around, you’ll be a Chinese peasant girl in 540 AD.”

“Wait, what?” You stammered. “You’re sending me back in time?”

“Well, I guess technically. Time, as you know it, only exists in your universe. Things are different where I come from.”

“Where you come from?” You said.

“Oh sure,” I explained “I come from somewhere. Somewhere else. And there are others like me. I know you’ll want to know what it’s like there, but honestly you wouldn’t understand.”

“Oh,” you said, a little let down. “But wait. If I get reincarnated to other places in time, I could have interacted with myself at some point.”

“Sure. Happens all the time. And with both lives only aware of their own lifespan you don’t even know it’s happening.”

“So what’s the point of it all?”

“Seriously?” I asked. “Seriously? You’re asking me for the meaning of life? Isn’t that a little stereotypical?”

“Well it’s a reasonable question,” you persisted.

I looked you in the eye. “The meaning of life, the reason I made this whole universe, is for you to mature.”

“You mean mankind? You want us to mature?”

“No, just you. I made this whole universe for you. With each new life you grow and mature and become a larger and greater intellect.”

“Just me? What about everyone else?”

“There is no one else,” I said. “In this universe, there’s just you and me.”

You stared blankly at me. “But all the people on earth…”

“All you. Different incarnations of you.”

“Wait. I’m everyone!?”

“Now you’re getting it,” I said, with a congratulatory slap on the back.

“I’m every human being who ever lived?”

“Or who will ever live, yes.”

“I’m Abraham Lincoln?”

“And you’re John Wilkes Booth, too,” I added.

“I’m Hitler?” You said, appalled.

“And you’re the millions he killed.”

“I’m Jesus?”

“And you’re everyone who followed him.”

You fell silent.

“Every time you victimized someone,” I said, “you were victimizing yourself. Every act of kindness you’ve done, you’ve done to yourself. Every happy and sad moment ever experienced by any human was, or will be, experienced by you.”

You thought for a long time.

“Why?” You asked me. “Why do all this?”

“Because someday, you will become like me. Because that’s what you are. You’re one of my kind. You’re my child.”

“Whoa,” you said, incredulous. “You mean I’m a god?”

“No. Not yet. You’re a fetus. You’re still growing. Once you’ve lived every human life throughout all time, you will have grown enough to be born.”

“So the whole universe,” you said, “it’s just…”

“An egg.” I answered. “Now it’s time for you to move on to your next life.”

And I sent you on your way.

WOW DmnStr8!

Thanks for bringing this story to my attention. I honestly didn't want the story to end.

I've had similar ideas in my head but found it difficult to explain them or put them together but this story does that and more.

Away to google this (The Egg - By: Andy Weir)

That story makes me smile me every-time i read it.

Chop wood

Carry water

hahaha
#Keepingyourcool (!) -- otherwise: = #crazzzy ?? ..right ??



....be lonnng!

That's a funny story, I wonder how the author would have responded if I questioned him on the fact that time is a prerequisite for a conversation like that. Information processing (which is what we are through and through) depends on time.

Have you read Albert Camus' The Stranger, yet? That book sorta kinda completely answered your questions in a very well-written-out format.