Chapter Fourteen - The Dimensional Prankster

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The Dimensional Prankster

SALVIA

YOU THINK you’re ready.
You sit down. You hit it.
And for half a second, nothing happens.

Then the floor disappears.
Your name falls off.
And the wallpaper becomes your grandmother.

Salvia doesn’t take you on a journey.
She folds you.

Like a piece of paper someone crumpled too fast.
Like reality pressed through a funhouse mirror mid-sneeze.

And she does it with a smirk.

Salvia divinorum is a plant. Legal in some places, misunderstood in all.

She’s not social.
She’s not gentle.
She doesn’t care about your expectations.

She’s the trickster.
The jester in the cosmic court.
The glitch in the renderer.

And if you think you’re in control?

That’s adorable.

Salvia doesn’t just alter your perception.

She flips it.

You don’t feel “high.”
You feel gone.
Like a sock in a washing machine of dimensions.

You might become a tree.
You might turn sideways and never come back.
You might meet beings made of linoleum who speak in triangles.

Time collapses.
Identity dissolves.
And for 5 to 10 minutes, you don’t even remember what a “you” is.

Then you’re back.
Sweating. Confused. Laughing. Crying. Wondering if you were just a fence post in 1953.

You weren’t ready.

No one is.

So, WHY?

Curiosity.
Boredom.
A dare.
Or the deep, strange pull toward complete ego disintegration.

Salvia doesn’t offer insights like other plant teachers.

She offers nonsense.
And in that nonsense?

Sometimes, if you’re listening, there’s clarity.

Or maybe it was just absurdity all along.
And maybe that’s the point.

This isn’t fun.

It might be funny.
But it’s not fun.

Salvia doesn’t hold space.
She throws space.
She flips it inside out and makes you sit in the folds.

People have cried.
People have screamed.
People have lived entire lives in three minutes, then come back wondering what just happened.

And there’s rarely a “message.”

Just madness.

But sometimes, madness is medicine.

Salvia teaches that reality is paper-thin.

That identity is a costume.
That stability is performance.
That the veil isn’t some grand mystical thing, it’s a layer of pixels that can be swiped away with a grin.

She reminds you that you don’t know as much as you think.
That control is an illusion.
And that sometimes you have to laugh at the absurdity just to stay sane.

She doesn’t say much.

But if she did, it might sound like this:

“Oh, you thought this was solid?”

Then she’d cartwheel into a kaleidoscope and leave you blinking on the floor.