My long depressed friend Alfred, born in Amsterdam and living in a beautiful first floor flat on one of those glorious central canals, gave me an initial report on his experimentation with psilocybin.
Reluctant to report until some progress had been made, he felt this morning he had news to impart.
He has been cautiously working up to a full microdose, starting at a vanishingly small 0.05 grams and ending this morning on the generally agreed 0.25 grams. A standard-ish microdose of dried magic mushrooms.
Unashamedly lying in bed late into the morning, the sun peering through his windows (busy old fool, unruly sun) Alfred was listening to Brahm’s Geistliches Lied when he became unmistakably aware that his remedy of choice was working as advertised.
An hour after ingesting his home grown medicine, the world was taking on a softer hue, an unaccustomed warmth. The glow was velvety, enveloping. The music alone is enough to bring epiphany to the listener in a receptive mood but the effect of the mushrooms was palpable, unmistakable and kindly. Warm, glowing. Peace, beauty the world as it should be seen, experienced.
So perhaps for once the fanfare is justified. Perhaps this natural remedy is all it has recently been cracked up to be.
Alfred is feeling cautious but optimistic. Perhaps the epiphany will spread its warmth, its sense of certitude and rightness to all the days of Alfred’s life.