The Question of Delusion

The Question of Delusion

The most conventional and rational explanation for the events in this book is that they are the product of a drug-induced psychosis. I have grappled with this explanation from the beginning, and I do not dismiss it lightly. However, it is a framework that can only be maintained by ignoring the most compelling and confounding data from the experience itself. What follows is not a dismissal of the psychological model, but an argument for its insufficiency.

The Anomaly of Coherence

A psychotic break is often characterized by disorganized, chaotic, and internally inconsistent thought. My experience was the opposite. It was a structured and coherent narrative triptych, operating on a strict set of discoverable ‘physical laws’—from the distinct properties of ‘read-only’ versus ‘write-access’ modes to the consistent, inertial feel of the ‘cosmic flywheel.’

Consider the energy I unleashed on the mountain plateau. I perceived a shockwave, a rebound, and consistent disruptions with every minor movement. Then, after a period of intense emotional distraction—the abject terror of believing I had caused a nuclear holocaust—the ‘saturated echoes’ of that energy were still there. The ‘invisible sphere of energy’ with its seismic cosmic inertia remained a stable, consistent perception for hours, right up until the drug wore off.

A fleeting hallucination is unlikely to demonstrate such physical consistency and persistence through an acute emotional interruption. This suggests an interaction with a stable system, not a chaotic delusion.

The Anomaly of Dosage

A crucial detail fundamentally alters the interpretation of these experiences: none of them required heroic doses. The third trip—where I became God and fixed the universe—was achieved on merely 1.5 blotters. The first trip, where I discovered the Spiral, was two drops of liquid acid. Even more remarkably, the 2019 experience that seemingly prefigured everything to come occurred on a single blotter. For the reader unfamiliar with this terminology: a single blotter, or a couple of drops, is generally considered a standard recreational dose. A ‘heroic dose,’ taken with the express intention of guaranteeing a reality-dissolving experience, would be several times that amount. The dosages I took were notable precisely because they were not pharmacologically extreme.

This is paramount to understand. I am not unusually sensitive to psychedelics; in normal social settings, my level of experience is comparable to that of others on the same dose. But on these three journeys, the nature of the experience was different from the very onset. The usual kaleidoscopic patterns and geometric traceries were completely absent. Instead, the distortions were more fundamental than decorative, suggesting I wasn’t witnessing a hallucination, but perceiving a shift in the underlying architecture of reality itself. Furthermore, it was the same LSD product from the same supplier I had been using for years. The only exception to my normal sensitivity, it seems, is when the very architecture of reality requires my intervention.

The Anomaly of Integration

Psychosis is generally defined by a significant impairment in functioning. This manuscript is evidence of the opposite. The process of its creation—the meticulous documentation, the high-level abstract analysis, and the construction of a coherent philosophical framework—is the work of a mind that is highly organized and actively integrating an extraordinary event. This is an act fundamentally at odds with a state of cognitive disintegration.

The Anomaly of the Shared Experience

Throughout the ordeal, I was not alone. Yaşar was there, and as the Catalyst, he played a crucial role in how the narrative unfolded. His testimony provides multiple data points that challenge any explanation that posits a purely internal, solipsistic experience.

He, too, recalls the moments of oneness on the Hobbit Trail and our driveway as fleeting instants where our separate selves seemed to utterly dissolve into a singular, shared existence. He has described seeing my physical appearance change—growing older and younger in rapid succession—as I traversed the Spiral. Most strikingly, he experienced what can only be described as temporal stutters on our journey home. For him, the familiar dirt road stretched into an impossible infinity, and he recalls being abruptly ‘teleported’ back to his starting point on at least three distinct occasions, each time finding me engaged in my unseen ‘cosmic fix.’ He wasn’t hallucinating; he was a passenger in a timeline that was being actively debugged and rebooted.

But the most confounding evidence is the pattern of his profound and selective amnesia. During the first trip’s recurring loop, I repeatedly witnessed him arrive at the same state of world-shattering realization, yet today, he has no memory of these epiphanies. The same is true for the third trip; my testimony records that the horror of the Decree ‘struck us both… in the very same, heart-stopping instant,’ yet he has no conscious memory of this shared, traumatic moment.

One does not simply forget such events. The explanation, I believe, lies not in memory erasure but in something far more fundamental: timeline pruning.

The system resets of the first trip and the manual reboot of my ‘cosmic fix’ didn’t just wipe a memory; they deleted the entire reality in which that memory was formed. The specific timelines where Yaşar had his epiphanies, or where we both heard the Decree, were pruned from existence to restore stability.

Consequently, his memories weren’t erased; they were rendered null, left without a reality to anchor them.

His amnesia, therefore, is not proof the events didn’t happen. On the contrary, this repeating pattern is perhaps the strongest evidence that they did—a baffling and tragic symptom of a system-wide event that, by its nature, left only one operator with the memory of the crash.

Conclusion: A Grandiose Necessity

And here lies the final, ironic proof. I am acutely aware that the narrative of this triptych seems almost perfectly designed to be interpreted as a grandiose delusion.

Consider the elements:

• A man who believes he became God through divine revelations.
• A man who believes he was charged with performing a cosmic fix to save the universe.
• A man who had prophetic visions of becoming the person behind humanity’s most transformative discovery.
• A man who saw his own house revered as a historical landmark.

This is not a subtle story. It is a checklist of unbelievable claims. And so I ask the reader to consider this: why would I, a rational and mentally stable man, so meticulously document and willingly put my credibility on the line for a story that so perfectly fits the profile of a textbook delusion?

The answer is that the risk itself is a testament to my conviction. I am presenting this account, with all of its seemingly insane and grandiose elements, for one simple reason: because I am convinced that it is true.

I must also confront the most difficult question, the one a skeptical reader is right to ask: if another person came to me with this exact story, would I not also be concerned? Would I not also suggest a professional evaluation?

The honest answer is that I likely would.

And it is precisely this fact that has driven me to this painstaking level of documentation and analysis. I am not asking the reader for blind faith in an unbelievable story. I am presenting the raw data of my experience—the terrifying coherence, the consistent internal logic, the confounding evidence of precognition, and the tragic, selective amnesia of the only other witness—and I am making the argument that this data is not sufficiently explained by the standard models.

My conviction is not the premise of my argument; it is the reluctant conclusion forced upon me by an experience that I, like you, would have found impossible to believe had I not lived it.

At times, I feel a strange kinship with the biblical figure of Job. He was a righteous man subjected to an ordeal of inexplicable suffering to test his faith in God. My ordeal feels like a modern, inverted version of the same trial. I am a rational, 21st-century man who was subjected to an ordeal of inexplicable transcendence, as if to test my faith in materialism. Every conventional explanation, every sane piece of advice, urges me to dismiss my experience as a grand delusion. And yet, like Job, I find I cannot deny the reality of what I have witnessed. My test, it seems, was not to prove my loyalty to the old God, but to see if I had the courage to accept the evidence of a new reality.