A couple hours after ingesting the psychedelic plant I thought,"The world is full of children. There's not a genuine adult in all the bunches in all the countries around."

A few days later I revisited this psychedelic idea and agreed with myself.

The stories we're told as children, as childish and unreal as they are, seldom leave us and when we are alone to think about our true desires it's a beautiful time, but like a dream. Before long we're caught in the childish world again. We lie to our children. Why are we lying to our children?

The truth doesn't come out of the mouths of anyone I haven't met in the flesh. I'm talking about religion of course. I'm talking about people who choose to believe what a stranger said rather than think in the moment for themselves - like children. The truth I know grows from the ground! The real ground, the dirt where seeds for thought blossom in sunshine and rain. The real ground forgotten.

The world is full of children, children who believe in stories they did not create themselves. Language is a vast store of words. We don't give it much thought.

We should use some of the security we have to think about the world which exists. Otherwise we remain lost in the fantasy of a stranger we've never met. Just because I have a big brain doesn't mean I should make room for everybody.