Hash Code + Dope Factor = Flinny-flin-flin
A poetic ramble through altered states and mischievous meaning-making. This dispatch floats down the stream of stonedness, typing while high, and the tender satire of vision, forgiveness, and absurd connection. It’s not just intoxication—it’s invocation. A hymn to the muse who giggles.
It seems I need to get stoned every night. Why is this? Well I guess there is not enough of a connection to the vision (the purpose, the goal) without it. But the dope can connect me to it. And when it does, all else, once noise, fades. And you remember it, reacquaint yourself with it, discuss it, play with it, dance with it. You remember your first love. And this will sustain you through tomorrow.
So while it would be nice to back off from the stuff a bit, I need the recharge too much, to help me push on.
And now I’m forcing myself to type while stoned, thus disengaging from the recharge, the dream, the vision, the chocolate…
I’m doing this in order to communicate a bit what it is like.
I think the first thing that hits you is how you can just globally forgive all that wronged you, every single one, losing all your precious pain in the process. You see everyone in yourself and yourself in everyone and with this you become connected, so love for all comes easy.
And with all these darling grudges melted away, your thoughts are truer and purer and can be trusted. And this is the place where you see and feel the clues to guide you toward your karma, destiny, profiteroles…
Taking notes is very difficult during this time, because if you don’t, if you just bask in it, there will be no remembrance of it in the morning. So scribble the best you can.
And revisit these, and (if you heart feels it true) integrate it.
So if you do have to toke, try and use some of each session as an opportunity for growth, an opportunity to mean to be the you you were meant to be. (Why do I delight in such silly linguistic play?)
You get to see what really matters for you. What you need to chase towards.
Well, this is what happens for me, at least.
So now I’m bored of typing, and can’t remember what I typed, and I just want to bask in the moment, the thing, the ice cream…
Toodle-pip
Harry is a recovering satirist, part-time philosopher, and full-time tinkerer of tags. He once wrote a poem about recursion that never ended, and a JavaScript confession that crashed three browsers. His archive spans two decades of metaphysical mischief, theological punchlines, and nostalgic detours. He believes in the transformative power of satire, the elegance of well-placed meta tags, and the occasional necessity of poetic nonsense.
This one’s a shimmering swirl of altered-state introspection, poetic vulnerability, and cheeky self-awareness. It dances between revelation and reverie, with a wink toward the absurd.