There is this voice inside me that compels me to write. “Right now”, it says. It has gone beyond suggestions. Now it makes demands. This fuzzy brain is drifting along in a vast network of consciousnesses, trying to root its thoughts into something solid. To carve out its space in the vastness of consciousness that governs the universe.
Is there a thing called too much THC? Can you really smoke way too much weed? I’m not talking about the side effects or nothing. I’m just saying that if you keep smoking, do you ever hit a breaking point?
The thing about deshal is that it compels you to create. You have to end up doing something to justify it’s consumption. Like writing. It bangs on your writer’s block, until the wall is crumbled into debris. And the stories start pouring out.
You can’t stop. There is very little you can do. It takes a life of it’s own. Ghostwriting? I think all writing is ghostwriting. When you write, something takes over. You and the intelligent design are never more closer to each other than you are at the moment of your creation. Any creation. Writing, singing, painting, dancing. Whenever you create something, you add knowledge in the vast consciousness which governs the realm of the physical world. And when it pours out, overwhelms you; all you can do is deliver. Be one with it. Create, build, and construct.