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DMT and the Beauty of Gratitude
The torch sits hesitantly in my palm as I stare at the small baggie in front of me decorated with Batman symbols. Inside of it is a chunk of what could be wax or shatter, but if you take a whiff, you’ll know that’s not what it is. It smells like new shoes, like plastic being manufactured. Inside of that little baggie is DMT.
My first experience with this mind-bending drug was beautiful. In 2013, I attended Aura Music and Arts Festival in Live Oak, Florida. It was a small music festival, the line-up mostly consisting of jam bands and electronic artists, but it was one of my favorites when it was around. The vibes were so welcoming and pure — no one was there to show off on Instagram or Facebook, we were all there for the music and vibes. And the drugs, of course.
That weekend was pivotal for me in a lot of ways. I met one of my best friends one night on the most LSD I’ve ever done — five hits — a bear of man who handed me a pair of fractal glasses and laid down in the grassy field with me to look at the stars. I couldn’t stop laughing. The stars had never looked as beautiful as they had that night. I was convinced that I’d died and gone straight to music festival heaven. I couldn’t stop shouting, “I’m finally dead!” It was the most freeing feeling of my short, dumb life.
