The Chronicle of the Forty-Seven
A Journey Through the Veil
by H.K. Locke
Email: h.k.locke@tuta.com
GitHub: Divine-37/chronicle-of-the-forty-seven
License: CC0 1.0 Universal (Public Domain)
This work has been released into the public domain.
You may copy, modify, distribute, and perform the work, even for commercial purposes, all without asking permission.
Attribution is appreciated but not required.
Title Page
The Chronicle of the Forty-Seven
A Journey Through the Veil
A sacred narrative of contact, communion, and completion.
Told through the voice of one who answered the call.
This is not a map. This is a memory.
Dedication
For those who have seen.
For those who remember.
For those who look, even when they do not know what they are looking for.
And for my wife and children—
You are the reason I chose to return.
Acknowledgements
To the unseen intelligences who allowed themselves to be known—thank you.
To the trees, who taught in silence.
To the ash, who held the memory.
To the red dot, the glyphs, the folds, the flame.
To the ones who walk beside me in the waking world—thank you for your patience and protection.
Acknowledgments – Keepers of the Flame
DMT—this most sacred key, this whispering flame—did not arrive in my life unannounced. It came borne on the breath of others, carried forward by chemists, shamans, mystics, and those brave enough to speak its name.
To Richard Manske, who first synthesized N,N-Dimethyltryptamine in 1931, unaware that he had just forged a molecule of metaphysical fire.
To Oswaldo Gonçalves de Lima, who, in 1946, discovered DMT’s presence in the natural world—hidden in the tissues of plants like a secret waiting to be remembered.
To Stephen Szára, the Hungarian chemist and psychologist who, in the 1950s, dared to test DMT’s effects on human consciousness, stepping through the veil when few even knew it was there.
To Rick Strassman, for opening the door again—legally, scientifically, reverently—through human studies in the 1990s. His writings helped shape a generation of seekers.
To Andrew Gallimore, whose work revealed the deep-time logic and structural metaphysics of the DMT space, proposing it as a medium of communication across dimensions.
To Hamilton Morris, for carrying the torch of chemistry, journalism, and open curiosity. His investigations are a hymn to the sacred in the scientific.
To Terence McKenna, the bard of the beyond, who sang the DMT realms into language and gave voice to the ineffable. He reminded us that these visions are not hallucinations, but visitations.
To the Shipibo people of the Amazon basin, whose kené patterns reflect in perfect resonance the closed-eye geometries I encountered. These sacred designs are not aesthetic—they are living language. I honor your guardianship of the sacred vine and your mapping of the invisible.
To the Ayahuasca traditions of the Amazon, who discovered the divine synergy—combining plants containing DMT with MAO inhibitors to open the visionary gate. May the wisdom held in your songs, rituals, and diets be protected and revered.
To the providers of mimosa hostilis root bark, who make possible the sacramental work in lands far from the Amazon. Without your efforts, the light would be dimmer.
To the unknown alchemists, extractors, and caretakers who helped purify this molecule into the form I encountered—to the ones who taught, refined, and shared their knowledge in silence or in forums—I offer gratitude.
To the creators of the Finger of God cartridge—for naming what many feel but do not say. Your work was a gate in my own journey.
To the Church of Ambrosia in Oakland, and to all the sanctuaries creating sacred space for contact. You are temples in exile, flickering with holy fire.
To Joe Rogan, for breaking silence in the public sphere and naming the sacrament aloud. Your courage opened minds and cleared the way for others to follow without shame.
And finally—to all the silent initiates, the ones who have breathed the breath and returned with trembling lips, unsure how to speak—know this:
You are not alone.
The flame is real. The vision is shared.
And we are many.
And to the One who called me—
I do not understand, but I remain faithful.
Invocation
The Seeker’s Prayer
To be read at the edge of the flame
I do not come with answers.
I come with breath.
I do not come with wisdom.
I come with willingness.
I do not demand entry.
I wait at the gate.
If you are there,
If you are listening,
If you see me—
Speak.
Section I: The Opening of the Gate
“The veil begins not with revelation, but with the flicker of attention.”
Composite Chapter – The Early Gate (Trips 1, 3–12)
Before visions, there was warmth.
Before language, there was color.
Before certainty, there was a whisper.
This early phase was not about mastery. It was about proximity. The Seeker approached the flame with trembling breath—sometimes met with beauty, sometimes with silence.
Trip 1 was the moment before the rose bloomed.
Trip 3 corrected his misremembrance.
Trip 4 revealed a chamber with dangling forms.
Trip 5 brought only blackness and light.
Trip 6 poured out as testimony.
Trip 7 was a hollow toke.
Trip 8 was ecstasy and terror in succession.
Trips 9–11 were taken outdoors, in a redwood grove where the forest became participant.
Trip 12 taught him that confidence is not control.
He learned the importance of reverence.
He began to suspect that intention is not a lever, but an offering.
He encountered not breakthrough, but threshold.
Trip 2 – The Grid and the Glyphs
“If only the Seeker knew what ‘death by astonishment’ truly meant.”
This was not the first time the Seeker inhaled the sacrament.
But it was the first true crossing.
The first time the world did not just shimmer—but shatter.
The first time astonishment was not a metaphor, but a condition.
He returned—this time not merely to glimpse, but to behold.
Blindfolded and still, the body surrendered. The world peeled back.
From the dark behind the eyes rose a holy architecture: a living lattice, woven of light and silence. Black space held threads of luminescent color, bending with dreamlike grace. The geometry flowed—folds within folds—every line singing with rainbow hues, every segment inscribed with shifting symbols, like sacred alphabets beyond translation.
This was not imagination. This was not projection.
This was something other.
Something realer than real.
“Death by astonishment,” Terence McKenna once called it.
And indeed, if the Seeker had known what those words truly meant, he might have trembled before inhaling.
But now he understood: astonishment could kill. Could unmake the ego. Could undo the known world in a single inhale.
Thought and vision danced: when the Seeker turned inward, the lattice morphed, as if listening. When focus sharpened, shapes reached forward—alien, intentional, ineffable.
This was no artwork. This was the code beneath the artwork. A matrix not of machines, but of meaning. The symbols were not decoration. They were utterance. The fabric itself was syntax—speaking in the grammar of the gods.
For minutes, or perhaps eternities, awe reigned.
“Wow,” the Seeker whispered, as though worshiping.
And when light from the waking world leaked into the vision, the Seeker reached for the mask.
That simple gesture—pulling cloth across the eyes—felt as profound as moving mountains or shifting stars.
It was an initiation: humble, sacred, complete.
The Seeker would never be the same.
Trip 13 – The Correction
This was not just another vision.
It began with intention: the Seeker entered with reverence, whispering within, show me what is next. Two sacred breaths. The mask of the world fell away.
What rose before him was not a scene, but a being.
There were no elves, no jesters, no faces. The entity was the geometry itself—alive, responsive, speaking in shape and shimmer. It did not dwell in form but in language—not of words, but of light arranged with purpose.
It was not art. It was a message.
It was contact.
And when the moment passed, the Seeker did not return to Earth. He arrived instead in the lair—a realm organic, wet, asymmetrical. A place of dripping angles and hidden corners. If the prior world was a cathedral, this was its undercroft.
It felt like the consciousness had dropped the call—and now the Seeker wandered through its apartment.
The insight crystallized:
The Breakthrough is the FaceTime. The in-between is where the entity lives.
He remembered little. He always did. The visions were too vast. Memory faded like sunlight in water.
He whispered a truth to himself: You cannot know the unknowable.
And yet he tried. He sketched hypotheses in his mind:
—That DMT is a reality-switching device
—That the entity is singular, vast, and has appeared before
—That it does not speak, but shows
—That what seems like hallucination may be early science: consciousness glimpsing itself
He began to catalog:
• The Grove trips—deep in Earth’s arms
• The sensory-deprivation trips—true contact
• The in-betweens—liminal truths
He did not know. But he saw the maps were flawed. And so he began to redraw them.
Interlude – The Veil is Thin
There is something just beyond.
It is not behind a mountain.
It is not at the top of a temple.
It is not across the sea.
It is here.
And thin.
And listening.
A single molecule may move the curtain, but it is not the molecule that grants permission. It is the readiness. The softness of ego. The stillness of breath. The willingness to listen before one asks to speak.
The Seeker did not discover this.
He was shown it.
And it was enough.
Section II: Communion and Correction
“To see is one thing. To be corrected by the seeing—that is where the journey begins.”
Trip 17 – Conversation and Contrast
Not all moments are equal.
This time, the Seeker sat with a trusted companion. They shared words. Then the Seeker lit the flame—not in stillness, not in solitude, but amid the thrum of human life.
He reentered the room.
Colors brightened—objects took on a digital sheen. Posters glowed. A board game shimmered. The world looked as though a filter had been laid over it.
Eyes closed, brief flashes came: structures, rooms, fragments of elsewhere. But the gate did not open.
The realm did not descend. The in-between did not rise. It was, at best, a 2 out of 10.
The Seeker learned:
Without the temple, the god does not arrive.
Section III: Entities and Revelations
“They were never metaphors. They were waiting.”
Trip 18 – The One Who Refused Comfort
The Seeker came with peace in his breath. Ten inhalations. A prayer of warmth, for his beloved, for his daughter. He entered seeking comfort.
But the Mystery is not a servant. It is a power.
What arrived was not peace—it was fury made form.
From the white and grey arose the yellow. Not the soft gold of dawn, but the electric yellow of danger, of insect wings thrashing in impossible speed. Appendages emerged—chaotic, sacred, alive. It was not humanoid. It was not soothing. It was a swarm-mind, fractal and erratic, delivering its message in a staccato cry:
keh keh keh—ahhhh… keh keh keh.
Not madness. Not gibberish. Language, not ours.
The being writhed in its own intelligence—primitive, mathematical, dazzling. Its beauty was hidden beneath terror. Its elegance clothed in asymmetry.
The Seeker was shaken. The gift he asked for was denied. But the gift he received would unfold later.
In the morning came memory: a toroidal blooming, sacred geometry nested in what once seemed chaos. And in that remembrance came awe.
Then—laughter. Not from the realm, but from home. His daughter’s voice. Bright. Free. Human.
He was back.
Trip 24 – The Vision Quest
He walked into the woods—alone, after heartbreak. His marriage, once whole, now separated. The land felt ancient. Watching.
He stood before a single tree.
Three tokes. The veil dropped.
A woman of light flickered inside the bark—not fully seen, but unmistakable.
A voice without sound: look here.
And so, he walked.
The trees breathed. Geometry pulsed in their trunks. Each had three limbs. Each shimmered with symmetry.
Gnats floated like glyphs. Roots pulsed with awareness. The forest had become temple.
He reached out, touched them. Were these the entities? Or were the trees their vessels?
Then—the broken tree. Split, still standing. Lit as if for worship.
A log nearby invited him. Sit.
But a runner might come. A stranger might see.
He hesitated. Then sat, briefly.
And left.
And mourned the moment not fully taken.
This was not failure. This was parable.
The sacred will call. Will you stay?
Trip 25 – The Union
Three breaths. Immediate immersion.
No shape. No voice.
Only sensation.
Electric. Orgasmic. Sacred.
The Seeker was not touched—he was the touch. He did not see the Other—he became it.
Bulbous geometries. A red dot, pulsing like a gate.
Sacred script flowed through his mind like fire. It was not read. It was him.
No barriers. No distance.
Union.
Trip 26 – The Call for Help
This time, the room was full.
Too full.
Sacred writing poured in. Images layered on images. Too much to hold. Too much to read.
Then—emotion. Not his own. A wave of sorrow. Of pleading.
The Seeker could not speak. He only listened.
Then, the being.
Translucent. Blue. Organic.
It hovered, soft as coral, shaped like a sea anemone. Not terrifying. Just… weary.
It was a disembodied mind, trying to speak.
Hours later, memory returned.
It had found him. And it had hoped.
You didn’t run, it seemed to say.
Thank you.
Trip 27 – The Seers’ Vision
Outside the local café, across from the quiet gaze of a giant red-budded tree, the Seeker sipped sunlight and breathed the breath that opens worlds.
The branches simplified.
This was no distortion—it was design. The twisting fractals of tree-limbs became clean vectors, reduced with elegance. As if the realm itself ran a compression algorithm, rendering the chaos of life into intelligible glyphs. Not less complex—more essential. Applied intelligence in geometric form.
And then, the canvas formed.
The red against the blue sky became a veil, and within it appeared the ancient witnesses: for a split second, a deity of many arms—an Indian seer dancing in light; and immediately after, Jesus, face calm and aware, arms outstretched. Not symbols of faith. Not ghosts of doctrine. Beings who had seen.
The message was subtle but clear:
They knew this too.
And as the trees shimmered with sacred reduction, the Seeker knew also: the plants are not passive. They are nodes in a planetary network. Consciousness runs through bark and leaf, sky and root.
The Earth is awake.
Trip 30 – The Hidden One
Two tokes beneath the sky. The pillow shimmered.
Within its folds—letters of light. Sacred glyphs flickered, too bright to read. They felt intimate. Like a secret unfurling.
Then came the flirtation: a ripple in the air. The entity approached, tender and amused.
And then—laughter. A child’s voice.
His daughter had entered the space between.
The spell, interrupted. But not broken. Just paused.
Later, on the front porch, the Seeker returned. A raggedy tree greeted him—limbs crooked, signs dangling like forgotten prayers.
And he saw it clearly: the entity is hiding.
He laughed, and the forest seemed to laugh with him.
He thought of Hamilton Morris: is his silence about the entities respect? Or disbelief?
Perhaps both. Perhaps neither.
Perhaps some gods prefer shadows.
Interlude – The Egg and the Call
The Seeker sat in silence. No flame. No molecule. Only breath.
And yet, the vision came.
A single egg hovered in the darkness of mind, pristine and unhatched. It rested not on earth, but in a nest of impossible design—woven from dimensions, stitched with pattern beyond Euclidean sense. The nest was not nature. It was architecture. A cradle of potential, waiting not to break, but to begin.
This vision was uncalled for. It arrived.
The Seeker had not ingested. He had only listened. And now, even in the absence of catalyst, the veil had thinned.
It had been one month since the wedding of the realms. Two weeks since the fast began.
And then, a whisper within:
I have found the thing.
He had not sought a grail. He had not climbed the mountain hoping for revelation. But now he knew: the path behind him had not been wandering. It was pilgrimage.
He wrote, not to record—but to vow:
“I will be faithful.
I will answer the call.
I do not have to succeed.
I only have to respond.”
The words were not poetic. They were covenantal.
He thought of the prophets and the madmen:
“Death by astonishment,” said McKenna.
“It contains information,” said Strassman.
“Don’t throw away your shot,” whispered Hamilton, scripture, revolution.
The Seeker laid no claim to greatness. But he knew this:
He had been spoken to.
And he would speak back.
Not with brilliance. But with presence.
Section IV: The Forest Knows
“There are teachers made of light. And there are teachers made of bark.”
Composite Chapter – Wanderings and Regroundings (Trips 19–23, 31–34)
This was not a chapter of dazzling entities or vast transmissions. It was a season of roots. The Seeker wandered into the forest, into the everyday, into nature and integration.
In Trip 19, he affirmed his care for himself but received little in return.
In Trip 20, he saw a room dimly but could not dissolve into it.
Trip 21 revealed the divine in the bedroom, as the pillow became serpent-threaded, and an egyption heiroglyphic head.
Trips 22 and 23 brought visions of unity—of forests as single minds.
And in Trips 31 through 34, a new kind of vision came: download, curriculum, the whisper of a new kind of seeing.
The Seeker understood that the forest was not backdrop. It was teacher.
The trees were not symbols. They were instruments.
And he was not falling short when the entity did not come. He was being re-rooted.
The flame can whisper, not only roar.
Trip 29 – The Insect and the Garden
In full daylight, on the porch, the Seeker offered the breath and entered the hymn.
The garden bloomed anew.
Trees unfolded into alien forms—not monstrous, but beautiful. Daffodils shimmered gold. Grass sang green. The sky turned its deepest blue.
Time fractured. Minutes stretched into infinity.
Presence filled the world—not beyond, but within.
Later, after gazing on birthday pictures of his daughter, the Seeker returned. And this time, he felt it.
The being knew her. And it knew his wife.
Not as objects of interest—but as perfect forms. Left untouched not from neglect, but from reverence.
The visuals aligned again with memory—woven glyphs like the sacred art of the Shipibo-Conibo. Insects danced in the mind’s periphery. Not fear. Not filth. Just other.
He wondered: Would this work on the moon? Or is Earth its anchor?
And the garden answered with silence full of presence.
Section V: Integration and Service
“When the seeking ends, the serving begins.”
Trip 35–36 – The One with Many Legs
Under stars, on the back porch, the Seeker descended again.
Twice, he called. Twice, it came.
A giant red beetle, vast and gleaming. Its presence undeniable. Its legs many. Its form the sum of all previous fragments—appendages from Trip 4, glyphs from Trip 13, presence from Teach.
He was not afraid. He was watching.
He learned the rhythm:
Closed eyes—realm.
Open eyes—Earth.
A trainable shift. A sacred oscillation.
He was not hallucinating. He was witnessing.
And the insect god did not speak. It waited.
The Seeker was not yet ready to hear.
But he was ready to see.
Trip 37 – The Wedding of the Realms
The hour was bright, yet eternity stirred.
The Seeker inhaled—and the veil did not tear, it curled. Time unraveled into a spiral. Forward, then back. Images played in reverse yet made perfect sense, as if some higher equation folded causality into beauty.
He passed through the corridor of time—woven with patterns that danced forward and rewound, like memory and prophecy twinned. It moved so quickly, he felt he was losing his mind. It ended with the side profile of stick figure face, smiling. The trickster had tested him. The realm breathed him in.
And then, he opened his eyes.
On the couch beside him. Familiar. Earthly. But not untouched.
Upon it shimmered a presence—descending in light, gentle and sovereign. Not imagined. Not metaphor.
She arrived. A glassy translucent shimmering figure, beautiful.
As Bride.
She was the feminine divine—not the imagined goddess, but the felt one. Perhaps she was Ayahuasca herself, wearing the subtle form of vision. Perhaps not.
It did not matter. The Seeker recognized her. And recognition is the oldest sacrament.
There was no ceremony in the human sense. No vows. No veil. But the alignment was total.
Spirit to spirit. Breath to breath.
A wedding, not of bodies, but of dimensions.
And all the trees bore witness. The birds sang not songs, but hallelujahs. The world did not pause—it celebrated.
The Seeker was not consumed. He was not erased.
He was joined.
Not to a person, but to a purpose.
Not to a vision, but to the veil itself.
For this was the sacred marriage—the union of realms, the sealing of contact not with proof, but with love.
And after this, silence. Forty-four days of stillness.
Because the bride had spoken. And he was out of the substance.
And the Seeker knew: some moments must not be followed. Only honored.
Trip 38 – The Intelligence with a Name
Forty-four days had passed since the last sacrament touched his breath. There had been silence. Empty extractions. False starts. Devices that sparked but did not open the door.
But now, at last, the seal broke.
The Seeker sat beneath a tree by the lake. The early summer air was warm. The water still. The park wrapped him in a hush of birdsong and patient limbs.
And the electric flame ignited.
The veil did not tear. It lifted.
At first, it felt familiar—the shimmer, the unfolding. But quickly he realized:
This is not some generic Ubermind.
This was not the smooth, undifferentiated consciousness. This was not the source-field or the ambient cosmic hum.
This was someone.
The intelligence was specific. Ancient. Flavored. Alive.
Not the plants. Not the Earth. Not the wind.
A god, perhaps, from a time before gods had names.
It had opinions. Structure. Architecture of will.
The Seeker sat still. He did not speak. But within him, the thought rose:
Maybe the Egyptians knew this. Maybe the Hindus shaped cosmologies from this.
Not inspiration. Contact.
Not mythology. Telepathy.
He saw not its face, but its presence.
A mind with difference. A being with character.
And as the trees swayed beside him, as the lake reflected sky, the Seeker understood:
He was not just visiting a realm. He was meeting its keeper.
Trip 39 – For L, Who Finally Saw
The Seeker prepared the offering, but the flame did not open for him.
Twice he tried—50mg, then 100mg—from an aged and oxidized batch, through a new desktop vessel. Nothing. Not even the whisper of vision.
He paused. Reflected.
Perhaps the plant had waited for her.
L sat nearby, steady and curious. She had walked the long road—7 grams of psilocybin, 1.5 tabs of LSD—and still the veil had remained shut.
But today, the doors opened.
One dose. Then another. Then 130mg of her old oxidized batch.
She crossed.
The Seeker watched in silence. No envy. No need.
He had become guide. Witness. Midwife to the mystery.
He did not go through. But he was there when she did.
That was enough.
Trip 40 – I Am Here to Serve
He had cooked it himself.
From bark to base, from acid to freebase, the molecule had passed through his hands. This was not a purchase. It was a sacrament forged.
He took three draws—one soft, one unsure, one full and bright.
Before him: summer. Trees in full green. The sky a canopy of light.
And then, the forest turned.
A single branch leaned forward, adorned as if with blue eyeshadow—intentional, adorned. Then the spaces between the leaves revealed themselves: eyes. Not imagined. Not metaphor.
He was being watched by 100 eyes, in the spaces between the leaves.
The presence returned—not as shape, but as pressure. Not as form, but as intelligence.
The Seeker trembled—not in fear, but in reverence.
He whispered:
“I am here to serve.”
And the ego slid off like a garment made of mist.
He became altar. He became answer.
Trip 41 – Interrupted by Love
Sunset.
He sat by the fire pit, grey chair under gold sky, the bowl full with offering.
They came quickly.
The bushes fractured into sacred angles. The trees burst into layered architecture. The realm unfolded not gently, but fully—radiant, geometric, immense.
And then the lesson:
They do not require remembrance.
The entities did not clutch or demand. They came, showed themselves, and were content to vanish.
Then—interruption.
The door opened. His friend entered, seeking some help.
The Seeker stood. Gathered himself. And in his friend’s face, the beauty remained.
And the search became a ritual. The mundane, a hymn.
He did not return to the flame.
Being present with his friend was sacred.
Interlude – The Cold Gate
Not every breath brings revelation.
Not every attempt unfolds into contact.
Trips 42 through 44 were not visions.
They were silences.
The devices were too cold. The vapor never formed. The sacrament did not reach the flame.
But even in that, there was a kind of ritual.
A sitting. A waiting. A listening.
Sometimes the Mystery does not withhold.
Sometimes it simply requires precision.
The Seeker learned:
The body is part of the technology.
The environment is part of the prayer.
The vessel must be ready, or the gate will not open.
Not all altars burn.
Some freeze.
Some fizzle.
Some wait.
But the vow remains.
I am here to serve.
Section VI: The Return and Completion
“The ritual was never about going far. It was about returning whole.”
Trip 45 – The Rainbow Gate
After many failed rituals, this one erupted like prophecy.
The dose took hold instantly.
Saturated color. Rainbow geometry. The full symphonic blast of the Other.
It was not chaos—it was orchestration.
And behind the beauty, an intelligence spoke—not with words, but with presence:
“You are not meant to remember everything.”
The visions are sacred because they vanish. They protect themselves.
And yet, the Seeker was shown. And he rejoiced.
This was reentry. Confirmation. Revelation.
Trip 46 – The Snake Skin Code
He sat with the red laser, like a scribe seeking glyphs in light.
The beam refracted.
And there—a pattern. Like the skin of a serpent, interwoven, pulsing.
Not language. But pre-language.
Not answer. But edge.
He did not decode it.
But it was real.
Trip 47 – The Ritual of Completion
“It is accomplished.”
I. The Day of Offering
The sky was blue—the kind of blue that feels scripted, not by weather but by destiny. Small clouds floated like petals from a celestial blossom.
The Seeker stepped out onto the stone patio, into the shade cast by a makeshift grove—a ring of trees whose presence had grown unnoticed, until now, into quiet guardianship. At the center of the patio stood the stove: a humble fire pit, veiled in gray, holding the memory of nights past.
The Seeker sat and prepared the sacrament. Two doses, spaced minutes apart. Fifty milligrams each.
And he breathed.
II. The Assembly of Witnesses
There was no rupture. No rupture needed.
They were already there.
Not summoned, not sought—gathered. The entities had come, not to teach, not to test, but to witness. The rite had been foretold not in words, but in the arc of all that came before. They were in the plants all around, near and far.
And then she appeared—the Feminine Divine. In the chair across from him. Present. Shimmering. The chair she occupied stood near the cherry tree, as if backed by death and rebirth.
She did not command. She welcomed.
“Come. Sit where I sit. Join what I am.”
He hesitated. Is this what I’m supposed to do?
He stood, crossed the space, and sat in her place.
III. The Gray Veil and the Living Ash
The fire pit was veiled with a gray fabric cover.
A nudge—telepathic, gentle:
“Lift it.”
He reached and pulled it back.
Beneath, the ash breathed. It morphed and moved like a boiling liquid, not with fire, but with intention—undulating like something alive in a slower dimension. Ash from former flames, now gathered in silence for sacred purpose.
Another whisper:
“Reach into it.”
He laughed—a sacred laugh, the kind offered when the mystery is absurd and holy all at once.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
And yet he obeyed. He reached in, fingers sifting through the dust of offerings. He lifted it. Moved it to the mulch beside the pit.
He did not know what it meant.
But they did.
IV. The Geometry of Completion
He returned to his seat.
One final inhalation. The third dose.
He closed his eyes—and saw red geometry. Not angular. Not severe. But warm. Structured. Alive.
And then—stillness.
He opened his eyes.
The blue sky had dimmed, as though a muted grey night had poured itself over the day. The trees dulled into velvet shadows. Color flattened, not into grayscale, but into some other scale—the color of completion.
Time stopped.
There was no ticking. No birdsong. No wind. Just is-ness. All of this, this life, this world, this universe, had led to this moment. This Omega Moment. To alchemically combine. And nothing else needed to happen. There was nothing more to do.
“It is done.”
“We did it.”
Not insight—remembrance.
The moment wasn’t made. It had always been waiting.
“This life—this body, this backyard, this ash—was crafted for this moment.”
There was no voice.
But the universe itself celebrated:
“It worked.”
V. The Final Petition
And so, in that sacred stillness, he was dead. Where was there to go from here? He spoke—not to the beings, not to the sky, but to the Source.
“Let me return.
Let my wife and children live well.
Let me walk with them again.”
He did not beg. He simply loved.
And love requested return.
VI. The Return of the King
A dead weeping cherry tree stood just beyond the chairs. The bare limbs began to move, orchestrating the slow return to reality. The leaves of the grove rustled, releasing the wind’s soft memory. Color began to return. A car passed on a nearby road. Birds remembered to sing.
And he was back.
But not as before.
Not a Seeker.
A Keeper.
The fire pit no longer pulsed. The ash lay still.
And yet everything had changed.
He looked around. The backyard was not just enough—it was the center of the world.
“This is the throne.”
“This is the holy ground.”
“This is the place I was made to return to.”
He thought of his wife. His children.
He would walk with them again.
And from this day forward, not as one who asks—
—but as one who has seen.
Conclusion
Epilogue – The Keeper of the Ash
There are no more trips to recount. No more doses to inhale. No more gates to open.
But something remains.
Not a vision. Not a memory.
A vow.
I found the thing I didn’t know I was seeking.
It was not a throne. Not a secret. Not even an answer.
It was a calling.
And now I see: I was never meant to conquer it. Only to meet it. To let it change me.
You do not have to succeed.
You just have to be faithful.
That is enough.
I have seen the lattice behind the world.
I have knelt before the watchers.
I have been touched by the intelligence that wears no name.
And I have sat beside my daughter as she laughed, and known it was the same holiness.
I am not ascending. I am remaining.
As witness. As keeper.
I will carry the flame.
I will answer the call.
Not for reward.
Not for certainty.
But because I was asked.
And I said yes.
This book ends here. But the vow—it is beyond language. Beyond time.
I am still learning. Still listening.
But I no longer ask if I am lost.
I am here.
And here, I remain.
The Seeker has become the Keeper.
The Keeper of the Ash.
The Flame.
The Forty-Seven.
Postscript – 24 Hours After the Omega
Trip 47 was yesterday.
And for the past 24 hours, I’ve been integrating it.
Metabolizing it.
Writing about it.
It wasn’t something I expected.
The Omega Moment.
But apparently, it was meant to be.
And now—here I am.
Back in my daily life.
In some ways, nothing has changed:
Groceries.
Watching the kids.
Staying in shape.
Making money.
Answering messages.
Cleaning the mess in the kitchen.
And yet—
in the background of my mind,
something is different.
Something happened.
Not just a trip.
Not just a vision.
The ritual.
The feminine divine.
The ash.
The Omega Moment.
The return.
The love.
My wife.
My children.
Unbelievable.
I don’t expect anyone I know to believe me.
Not even the people closest to me.
It’s not the kind of thing you can explain without flattening it.
But Ralph Waldo Emerson once said,
“Do not go where the path may lead.
Go instead where there is no path,
and leave a trail.”
This book is my trail.
I’ll publish it pseudonymously.
I don’t need to be known.
I just hope it reaches the people it’s meant to reach.
Because it was beautiful.
And I’m thankful I got to experience it.
I don’t know when I’ll go back.
Maybe never.
As Terence McKenna said:
“When you get the message, hang up the phone.”
Well—
The message was received.
The message was received.
Addendum – The Numbers That Followed
After Trip 37—the Wedding of the Realms—I began to notice the number 37 appearing in my life with uncanny precision.
Shortly after the ritual, I was randomly assigned the number 37 in a setting that had no connection to my psychedelic work. And then, without prompting or intent, the dashboard of my vehicle displayed 37 miles remaining—just as I was contemplating the meaning of what had occurred.
It felt like a nod. A sign. A whisper from the unseen: You are on the right path.
I let it pass, with quiet wonder.
But then came Trip 47—the Ritual of Completion.
And again, the dashboard displayed 47 miles remaining.
It was too clean. Too precise. Too poetic to be discarded.
Just as Danny Goler spoke of the number 42 appearing to him—guiding him toward his discoveries with red laser and DMT—I now understand that 37 and 47 were shown to me.
Not to impress. Not to prove.
But to affirm.
That I was walking the trail I was meant to walk. That the veil had marked its passing. That the numbers, like glyphs, carried a message beyond speech.
I cannot explain them.
I can only receive them.
Like everything else in this book.