On an empty stomach, the come-up is less than 15 minutes. This stuff is permeable, much more so than muscimol evidently (due to the presence of the piperidine ring, as per my speculation). A light stiffness is clinging to various parts of my body, starting from the neck and trickling down. My notes on robotripping refer to this as “DXM neck”, just one of a few curious parallels between the physicality of DXM and Gaboxadol. Nearing the peak (30 min), even walking is quite DXM-like. Not quite a stroll through thick mud, but definitely not a fluid gait.

Gravity pulls in all directions, switching said directions rapidly; walking is not advised beyond this point. The visual periphery is infiltrated by flickering lights, tracers, but OEV’s aren’t noteworthy otherwise. The continuity of perceived time progression and spatial awareness is disrupted, crumbling into the jagged movement of a flea (more on this in my previous post). A single fixated-upon frame at any given moment appears to be part of a snapshot of spacetime already experienced. Immediately recent past is mistaken for the immediate future, which is mistaken for the present. Things appear to appear several steps ahead, in time.

Once the stimuli of the outside world are behind the veils of closed eyelids, the truly ineffable mind-fuckery blooms. A rapidly changing slideshow of random scenes contoured by yellow neon lines, each scene springing into the next with the lines unbroken. In between the scenes, or perhaps as a constant transparent overlay, hangs the Halo: a quivering circular rainbow stretching across the visual field, and an uncannily consistent aspect of Gaboxadol’s CEV gamut.

The rings of the Halo pulsate independently in a disorganized, white-noise fashion. At doses lower than 45 mg, only a faint rigmarole of rainbow lines can be seen against the backdrop of closed eyelids, without a discernible structure. Neither the slideshow nor the aggressive kaleidoscope fade, as I inadvertently slip out of consciousness.

Lying down, eyes closed. No rapidly changing scenes, no Halo, not a sliver of color on the horizon. I feel propelled forward — inside a tunnel, or some other kind of narrow space — amidst oncoming torrents of floating debris. This debris is, in fact, the collection of thoughts that form in the backdrop of this immensely aggressive propulsion. I can not only formulate a thought — I can see it dart past my subjective awareness. If a thought becomes salient, it is momentarily “swatted out of the way” by whatever is carrying me forward. Not only is my train of thought, therefore, completely hijacked — the train is replaced by an interstellar vessel carrying me through the asteroidal mist of my own thoughts. All of this is not even strictly metaphorical, and I am not just visualizing. I am seeing this moving caricature of my hijacked thought process, the bizarre tunnel flight that culminates in an easily predictable state.