It’s the morning of the Winter Solstice, and I’m sitting here with a warm cup of cacao, feeling the weight of the shortest day of the year settle into my bones. Today’s oracle casting from the TrueSight DAO ecosystem landed on 49 – Revolution, with the judgment: “On your own day, you are believed.” There’s something about that line that hits deep—like a quiet nudge to trust myself, especially on a day like this. Traditionally, in our community, the solstice marks the rotation of governors, a seasonal shift in leadership. But for me, it’s also a personal marker—a day for a deep reset, often with about 5 grams of psilocybin to guide the way.
I remember a moment from a few days back in Quartzsite, Arizona, as Cheetarah was getting ready to head to San Diego. A group of nomads had gathered in a circle, passing around a joint as they often do. When it came to me, I passed, as usual. “Too early for me,” I mumbled. Cheetarah leaned over to Olivia and whispered, “It’s not too early—Gary doesn’t even smoke joints.” I laughed and clarified, “I only do psilocybin, and only about 5 grams during equinoxes and solstices.” Her eyes went wide. “You must be high as fuck,” she said, half-laughing, half-shocked. I shook my head. Contrary to what people assume, I don’t hallucinate during these sessions. If anything, it’s a doorway to a profoundly meditative state—a systematic review of my shortcomings, the errors in my ways over the past season. I come out the next morning with a to-do list of what’s been messed up, and I spend the next three months rectifying it. Rinse and repeat.
Cheetarah called it a “bad trip,” this kind of thorough reckoning. I get why she’d say that. I told her about my first time with psychedelics at Burning Man years ago. Someone offered me something—I don’t even remember what—and at first, I started hearing voices, judgments from people who weren’t even there. It felt almost schizophrenic, the tension rising in my body. But instinctively, I switched into meditation mode. I told everyone around me, “I’m gone. Don’t try to bring me back. I’ll be out for a while.” What could’ve been a classic bad trip turned into a deeply inward, meditative experience. Cheetarah nodded, mentioning a friend who does something similar with psilocybin—how what looks like a bad trip is really just the start of a deep dive if you let yourself go there. Then someone—Just, I think—interrupted with a random tangent about vegetables, and the conversation drifted. Silence fell for a moment, then Olivia pivoted to something else. No one seemed keen to dig deeper into this topic, even though I found it gripping, worth a few more cycles of thought.
Cultural Disconnects and the Urge to Interject
That moment stuck with me. Here in the USA, I’ve noticed people don’t often wait for someone to finish their thought before jumping in with whatever’s on their mind. It’s a cultural dynamic that surprises me—how does any deep connection or understanding form when we’re all just waiting for our turn to speak? Key observation: listening, really listening, while resisting the impulse to interject isn’t common. Even being aware that a conversation is happening between others and holding back until it’s done—exercising that patience—is rare. It’s something I’m reflecting on as I sit here, especially leading up to this solstice. Even without any substances in my system the past few days, I’ve felt my body shift into states not unlike those meditative psilocybin sessions. It reminds me of Carlos Castaneda’s “The Teachings of Don Juan,” where the Yaqui shaman talks about psychoactive plants as temporary aids—tools to jolt perception until you can access those states on your own. Don Juan himself stopped needing them, calling the ally “at will.” I wonder if I’m inching toward something similar.Tribe, Family, and the NPC Lens
This morning’s meditation felt like a continuation of an earlier exploration I’ve been playing with—viewing myself as an NPC, a non-player character in some grand game, just observing the narratives playing out. I was interrupted by a text from Jet on Facebook Messenger, asking if I was in the desert. I said yeah, and she replied she’s coming, excited to reunite with her family. Shortly after, Jason texted about breakfast at the DMT camp, mentioning it’s “by our people.” A couple of nights ago at the DMT drum circle, Wen introduced me to some nomads dancing by the fire, saying, “He’s part of the tribe.” These words—tribe, family—keep circling back. I remember during the pandemic, visiting Sonya and Mulan at her parents’ place. Sonya told me, no matter what happens between us as a couple, we’ll always be family. Last night at the campfire, cooking bacon with Jason’s invite, Michael and Leah were there. Michael, who I barely spoke to back in Slab City two years ago, seemed to feel some connection. Leah sat beside me, asking how my week’s been. I froze for a second, not sure how to answer. The concept of “me” didn’t feel relevant. What’s more natural is just the passing phenomena of the last seven days—nothing to do with this label called “me.”Back to the meditation—using the NPC lens as both a perspective and a scalpel, I noticed lingering narrative frameworks in my mind. When I cut into them, I felt a physical clinging, a muscular tension around my sternum. As soon as the narrative collapsed, that tension released. Even labels like “tribe” and “family”—just lingering sensations in the body—dissolved under that scalpel. Once they’re cut, the impulse to move or act evaporates too. This NPC just sits, chills, does nothing. There’s no compelling reason to be anywhere else.
Are We Just Programs in an Infinite Loop?
Think about it—aren’t we, in a way, just programs? From the moment we’re born, we’re conditioned to feel something in response to certain stimuli. A loud noise makes us cry, a smile gets us cooing, a scolding makes us shrink. And then we layer meaning on top of those sensations, interpreting them as desirable or undesirable based on the community around us. A pat on the back means “good job” because that’s what we’ve been taught. A rejection stings because we’ve learned it signals we’re not enough—or at least, not in the way the collective wants us to be. But step back for a second, and it’s like watching NPCs interact with other NPCs in this infinite loop. The meaning we assign to a handshake, a ritual, or even a solstice reset like the one I’m doing today—it only exists because we’ve bought into the collective narrative. It’s just… there, because it happens to be.This got me thinking about the stuff we do every day—or even the bigger rituals, like my Winter Solstice reset. On one level, these actions only have significance because of the lens we view them through, the shared story we’ve agreed to live by. Rotating governors in the TrueSight DAO ecosystem today means something because we’ve decided it does—it’s a symbol of renewal, of shifting energy. My own reset, where I list out my shortcomings and plan to fix them over the next three months, feels profound because I’ve tied it to a narrative of growth. But strip away the collective context, and what is it? Just a guy sitting in the desert, taking a substance, scribbling notes. Just an NPC running a script.
And yet, there’s something freeing about seeing it this way. If it’s all a loop, if the meaning is just a construct, then I can choose to step out of it—or at least, observe it without getting caught up. I think back to that moment in Quartzsite with Cheetarah. Was I just playing out a role, an NPC sharing a pre-programmed story with another NPC? And when someone interrupted with a random tangent about vegetables, breaking the flow, was that just another glitch in the loop?
Reflections for the Day: Breaking the Narrative Loop
So here I am on the Winter Solstice, feeling the revolution of the oracle’s words—“On your own day, you are believed.” Maybe it’s about trusting the process of letting go, whether through psilocybin resets, meditative dives, or just observing the narratives we cling to. I’m left wondering about those labels—tribe, family, me. What are they but stories we tell ourselves, tensions we hold in the body? And if we’re just programs running in an infinite loop, conditioned to feel and interpret based on collective scripts, then what happens when we cut them loose? During my meditation today, once I sliced through those lingering arches of meaning, the impulse to do anything at all just evaporated. This NPC can just sit, chill, exist. No script needed.What about you—are there narratives or loops you’ve noticed in your own life that feel more like programming than truth? Do you have labels or rituals you’re ready to release this solstice? Or a reset practice that helps you step out of the collective story? I’d love to hear your take.