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The Gravity of Real Surrender

James Williams

A couple of weeks ago, me and a friend took some mushrooms on a stormy Thursday night. She had wanted to go sit at the rooftop bar of the Indigo Room hotel, and the weather was not about to waver her decision. So, we popped a cap and a half each of Psilocybe Cubensis and headed downtown.

By the time we found a parking spot and got out of the car, I was feeling the effects of a body high: I felt like Gumby, lurching my way down the wet streets, a warm gelatinous structure that was only able to move through the momentum heaved from each step before. The teal neon sign of the hotel illuminated the puddles that congregated in the uneven creases of the cobblestone road. She grabbed my hand and led me into the lobby, past the attendants at the check in counter, and into the elevators. She smelled like garlic roasting on the stove. We were kissing and laughing all the way up the eight stories to the rooftop of the hotel.

My eyes scanned and took in the view of a city I had seen before, but never from this perspective. From my vantage point nearly 100 feet up in the air, I could see the bay, the Caloosahatchee River, every street light, every neon sign, and every raindrop. Giant clouds hung over the river, titanic monsters, hovering over the still, dark water, hurling lightning bolts horizontally across the universe. Music from the speakers at the bar, and the laughing conversations of the other patrons all sounded muddled, as if
I was underwater, eavesdropping on a private party below the surface. I could not trust my senses, so instead surrendered to them.

Surrendering, giving up control, is a form of freedom.

With her on her tippy-toes, we stood leaning against the wall of the patio, hanging over the edge of the hotel, pointing to places below us that held memories of past nights with other friends. We talked about God, the importance of good mothers, and anything else that touched our hearts; Ideals, principles, secrets, supernatural gifts we could not explain to anyone else. Things that need to be discussed, but seldom are.

Our conversations in the rain flowed naturally. There was no fear of sounding like either one of us was bragging, or trying to one up the other. Everything was accepted and believed. The relief of heavy rain clouds surrendering their substance knew how we felt.

Soaking wet, head to toe, we decided to leave the rooftop and go find some pizza and beer downtown. while we walked around aimlessly, I noted the importance of freedom, of feeling at ease next to the person you’re with. For a relationship to work out, you must be able to say your stupid opinions about gods, you must be free to feel like Jello, and trust that who you are in moments of vulnerability will not compromise your relationship. You must be able to feel like falling rain: the freedom to fall and surrender should not end in destruction, but congregation. With the help of a good friendship and the barrier breaking effects of mushrooms, I was able to gain a new perspective on what a personal relationship with someone else really should be like.

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