Complete / Squander Your Youth

This article is based on this Dutch article of Martijn Benders

Fertig / Waste Your Youth

Veer was hosting a sort of mini-ceremony yesterday with Amanita alongside two sisters.

I spent the entire day mastering this track:

I’m still not entirely satisfied with it—the drum moves too much and feels a bit too thin—but it’s already much better than it was. I’ll need another day or two to finish it. I thought to walk to the supermarket to buy some food for myself, but I stepped into a kind of pit in the dark and slightly twisted my ankle.

Later, I was sitting in my room when suddenly a butterfly started fluttering around—a red admiral. It spiraled upwards in concentric circles, moving toward the ceiling lamp.

Then Veer returned home, glowing in an Amanita haze.

Many insects possess interdimensional powers. Sometimes, I notice hoverflies in my room so small they’re barely visible, only to see them making movements in interdimensional space.

It’s an entirely different vibe compared to the Stone-Grey Wormhole (I hear it’s called pear-grey), which heralds Death. That one is also a kind of portal but feels fundamentally different. Unmistakable once you’ve experienced it. The peculiar thing is that the portal is clearly off-limits to everyone except the person for whom it’s meant.

I’ve now completed the first master of Waste Your Youth—a world of difference compared to the original. I’ll continue working on it later. After two days obsessing over a single track, your ears can’t take it anymore.

A storm of emotions, a wave breaking through the system

At this point, you almost feel like running out of the room screaming.

Today, I thought back to an Ontological Anarchist I once encountered in a bakery. Dressed entirely in somber black, he was a true autumn-revolutionary at heart. It struck me as amusing to imagine this man set right in the middle of Aquamarine—a location later rebranded as Metoomarine after some so-called guru, who more closely resembled a washed-up gym teacher, turned out to have been abusing those dependent on him.

Anyway, the ontological anarchist roared at me, “The flamethrower! Use the flamethrower on it!!!”

I only went there because it was one of the few places where you could quietly read a book—with that bamboo coffee in hand. Trying to do the same in the bakery wasn’t an option with all the weed smoke and noise, nor was it feasible elsewhere. You might suggest reading at home, but back then I lived in a neighborhood full of shady characters, next door to someone I call the thud mat, a person who sold MDMA from home. It was BOM BOM BOM music all day, and BOM BOM BOM knocking on the windows all night. And my roommate? He’d once downed fifty psilos during a depression and was plagued by random freak-out episodes where he’d start tripping all over again.

It was a magnificent time.

Incidentally, I don’t believe the freak-outs had much to do with the mushrooms. Consuming fifty psilos while depressed is admittedly a terrible idea, but the phenomenon once dubbed the flashback is, in reality, something every person undergoes daily. The assemblage point must realign itself with this reality, and that takes time. For everyone, that point isn’t fully stabilized in the morning. For some, it “shifts,” though only slightly because they lack the energy for more drastic movements. But even small shifts result in hazy perceptions or perhaps “visuals,” which psychiatrists then label as a psychosis. Yet, fundamentally speaking, the issue arises from fear, which nudges that point ever so slightly.

So it’s not that big a deal.

However, by massively exaggerating it, slapping an unyielding label on it, and transforming it into a quasi-religion (or a “fact” or a “disorder”), you indeed turn it into a problem. SEEING THINGS THAT DON’T EXIST, OH DEAR. But who gets to decide what things are allowed to exist?