text: This is a short story, and a true story. &#x200B; I would like to preface this story with a warning. Tripping in public can get you into serious trouble, obviously. Do not try this at home unless you have some experience with psychedelics. That being said, I myself can't trip at home. When I try I end up leaving as soon as the come up is over because I feel the need to go out into the world and see it with new eyes. I had been preparing for this experience for some time, I had done something similar with a friend before. But at a small museum at a low dosage (of shrooms). This was a very different kind of place. This was the most popular fine arts museum in the whole region, and naturally, I was a bit nervous. I took the pills in the museum bathroom, for those of you who don't know what exactly 4-aco-dmt is, it's a novel psychedelic that converts to psilocin when ingested, so it's almost indistinguishable from mushrooms. During the come up, I walked around a part of the museum I had already seen (sober). They were mostly masterpieces by old European renaissance painters. Mostly stately portraits of stern gentlemen of status, which was why I figured this would be better to do before the trip actually started. When it did hit me though it hit me like a truck, I had never taken this much of the substance before and suddenly my attention shifted from the art to the other visitors. They seemed almost like wax automatons capable only of awe and nothing else, they slumped and staggered while they looked at the masterpieces which were the results of lifetimes of work by exceptionally gifted individuals that were far beyond a normal person's ability and understanding. I snickered quietly because well, first of all I was one of these beings, which was hilarious, but I also realized that everyone would be far too occupied with the pieces to notice that I was on another planet right now. This calmed me, I could do this. Now that the trip had set in I decided to go to a different section of the museum, one dedicated to the art of ancient central American and African cultures. For this I would have to go outside first, and it was raining. I figured I was no wuss and would not need to get my coat, the rain felt light and made me ready to go into the next phase. I only had to ask for directions on the way to the building once which I considered a great success. Upon entering I was first greeted by a section of art that dealt mostly with household items and furniture. I felt kind of insulted, I had not come here to spend time in a sort of glorified Ikea. It took me some time to find where the actual old, ethnic and religious art was located. But when I did, oooh boy. I stomped around a little because there was no one else in this section right now. A glass box with about 30-35 masks marked the crown jewel of the mesoamerican art exhibit and it made me think about the roles we choose to play in society, and a new appreciation for the antiquity of the idea of, say, different 'flavors' of people. In my mind, every mask represented an ancient equivalent to modern professions, or something like a cluster of Jungian personality types. But which one was I? What mask would I have donned in one of those ancient ceremonies? I did not know the answer. And it set me off a little. A looming aggression began to boil. Then I laughed at how obvious I was, the aggression wás the answer, clearly I would have been a warrior. With the warrior spirit in mind I walked into the next section, which was an African exhibit, mostly of wooden effigies but also of old black and white pictures of the people that belonged to the tribes where figures like this had been traditionally made. Now these men, they had been warriors, not by choice but by necessity, and the greatest of them had had their likeness carved into wood and clay, and their images and spirit had survived through the ages. I felt weak and ashamed. I used to be in better shape than this and at a time had been disciplined enough to have earned that epithet of warrior. But I had grown complacent, sedentary in my job, trading hard runs for sunny-day walks and grueling sparring sessions for doing a few squats and calling it a day. But I still felt a strength within me. 'I'm still young,' I thought to myself. 'There is still time to become a better, stronger and smarter me.' I felt liberated, I could see a clear path ahead of me. I had to stop eating crap, stop drinking every weekend, and dedicate myself to physical and mental training, for my own sake. Surely this had been the peak of the trip, surely this was the revelation of the entheogen. Little did I know, we were only getting started. I went back to the main building. Took a little break and drank some water, I was starting to feel a little more normal again. I passed a section dedicated to Chinese porcelain. There was a woman explaining the process of the lost art of true traditional porcelain making to an uninterested but polite teenager. She was at least seventy years old but she moved her hands when she spoke and everything she said was full of passion and vigor. I decided that she was, or had been, a teacher in some sort of capacity. To talk about a subject in such depth and to make others enthusiastic about an arcane subject requires a certain skillset that I was sure she had developed over a long career. She was almost comically short, but not because she was hunched over. She looked very healthy for her age and I'm sure she used to be a beautiful woman in her prime. She caught me listening in on her little lecture and she lost the thread of what she was saying. The look in her eyes said: it's been years since a man has looked at me that way. It didn't take her long to recoup and continue her story after a few umms and I left for the next exhibit, a little embarrassed, but also somewhat amused. The next exhibit featured more modern paintings, mostly from the last century, and statues as well. And I understood why people had made these things, to enrich their own lives and the lives of those who might enjoy their work. Some of the works held such passion that I found myself wondering what would have happened to the person that had made it if they had never picked up a paintbrush, would they have sunk slowly into depression and lived a life without purpose? Or were the people that had made these works so exceptional that they would have excelled at whatever path they might have chosen in life? It was an impossible question. I remember standing in front of a painting by an artist I had never heard of before for what seemed like hours, his name was E.J. Hughes. It was a scene of a grey beach with a stream and a treeline, there were all sorts of hidden treasures in the painting but I have not been able to find it on the internet, sadly. It was one of the best modern paintings I have ever seen and I could imagine myself stepping into the painting and living on a cottage besides that beach for the rest of my days. I was sure this E.J. Hughes and I would have been great friends. Sadly, upon reading the information next to the painting (which in my state was no small feat mind you), I found out the man had died in 2007. I exclaimed an audible 'FUCK' through the gallery. People were looking at me, including the floor's security guard. Part of me wanted to say: 'What, are you not moved by art? Then why do you come here?' But I knew that drawing more attention to myself than necessary would be a very bad idea. I moved on to the next exhibit. When I entered there was a recording of music by Mozart playing. And the leftmost wall was completely cluttered with paintings. I felt tired and sat down on the bench facing the wall so I could take it all in. Most paintings were scenes of Austria and Germany. A horse pulling a carriage through snow, a maid churning butter. The music and visuals of brilliant rays of sun that shone from the paintings lifted me above myself somewhat. It made me think of my youth and teenage years in Europe and the stories my grandmother used to tell me, I could feel myself slipping away and I think I even cried a little. THIS was the peak, of that I was sure, either that or I was about to trade the physical for the ethereal forever and die on the spot. I remember being afraid of dying but I did not panic because if it were to happen there was nothing I could do about it, and why waste my last moments on thoughts of panic and fear, why not enjoy the beautiful music and sights that reminded me of my home country that I had (perhaps foolishly) left behind? I remember thinking: 'Don't close your eyes, whatever you do, don't close your eyes, for as long as you can. Make the moment last.' An overweight Russian man and his family sat down next to me and the spell was broken. I felt relatively normal again and stood up to go get some water. I was glad I had survived. I went to do a last round of the classical paintings, one biblical scene was so intricate that all I could do was wonder how a person could make this with mere hands of flesh. A man my age who stood next to me seemed to share my opinion, we exchanged looks and for a moment I wondered whether he was as high as I was, but I dared not ask. Security came in and requested us to leave, the museum was about to close. I had been inside the museum for over seven hours, but to be honest it felt like I had been there for half a week. There is no good way to end this story. It's been a little over a week now and I still think about certain moments from that day sometimes. I haven't told anyone about it because I feel like no one would understand. They might think I'm a damn lunatic. So instead I decided to share the story on Reddit.