Why I Love Magic Mushrooms

Author’s note: This essay was not written with the intention of encouraging anyone to use psilocybin mushrooms. Rather, I wrote this piece with the intention of merely sharing my experience. It really must be stressed that this is my experience, and that each and every individual experience will be just that: individual. While I consider psilocybin to have a positive impact on my life, you may find that the same compound has the effect opposite. Furthermore, if you are struggling with mental illness, please refrain from self-medicating and talk with a doctor.

My Journey With Magic Mushrooms

For a long while, I have wanted to talk about this. But I have been too afraid—afraid of the judgment of those who will disapprove—and afraid I might lead a reader down what could be the wrong path for them.

However, I truly believe that psychedelics are an undervalued tool for introspection and expansion. I envision a future in which psychedelic therapy is normalized and utilized. And I pray that one day it will be more commonplace to trip shrooms than it will be to risk alcohol poisoning.

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Reaching Beyond The Trivial: A Quest For Meaning In A Bullshit-Filled World

A year ago today, I released an essay titled ‘The Good Life’ Is NOT The Four-Hour Work Week. The essay preaches about how happiness—true happiness—is derived, not from fame, money or luxury, but from spending one’s time doing meaningful work. True happiness comes from cultivating a sense of Life Purpose.

The main criticism I received on the essay was that it failed to address the systemic causes of the, as Jon Vervaeke calls it, ‘meaning crisis’. My readers seemed to agree on the notion that the problem is not that us young folk cannot find our purpose because we are too busy pursuing fame, money and luxury. From their perspective, the problem lies in the forty-hour work week; for, if we are to spend at least a third of our lives working, and another third sleeping (ideally), then how are we supposed to find and realize our purpose in the limited time that is leftover?

Upon reading these criticisms, my heart sank. As a writer who currently makes bread by working in the beauty industry, this really is the fight I am up against: Because ‘time is money’, I have a limited amount of time to tell all the stories I want to tell, and a limited amount of time to communicate all the ideas I dub meaningful.

Through all my writing—from my fictional works such as The Sun and Moon Saga to essays like this one—my intention is to help the reader find meaning in an otherwise meaningless world, in a world filled with more and more bullshit each and every day. But is capitalism solely to blame for our meaning crisis?

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The Tale of Holly the Christmas Elf

There is an elf named Holly. Like most elves, Holly has long pointy ears. But, unlike most elves, for much of her life, Holly had the honour of working for Santa Claus.

Yes, Holly is a Christmas elf—and, because she is a Christmas elf, she has vibrant red hair, and her face is laden with freckles. She is also kind-hearted, of generous spirit, and a very hard worker.

For many years, Holly toiled away for jolly old Saint Nicholas. Centuries, in fact. She started her position at the North Pole in year 1324, and she only just retired in 1954. Blimey! That’s six hundred and thirty years!

For the sake of her privacy and solitude, which Holly now truly enjoys, I have promised to keep the location of her retirement home secret. For the purposes of our story, all you really need to know is this: Holly moved into an old abandoned cottage in the middle of the woods, somewhere on the West Coast of Vancouver Island.

Having spent so much of her life in the North Pole’s forever Winter, she had grown tired of seeing the snow year-round. Although she didn’t want to lose Winter altogether, she was craving some change, a turning of the Wheel. And here, in her woodland cottage, Holly could witness and appreciate each of the four seasons…

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