It was around the time the second edible kicked in that I had realized I knew everything. I had lifted the veil and kissed the godhead. The ideas started to burst and bloom in my skull, demanding my attention. It all made perfect sense, so intricately plotted, yet so simple.

I stood up from my sofa and gently glided, as if on a skateboard, over to my computer, my mind buzzing.

I was fully immersed in the greatest flow state of my life. I furiously typed in my phone’s notes app. The ideas coming fully formed like Athena from the head of Zeus. Alternating between my phone and my computer, opening browser tab after browser tab. My dopamine surged. I occasionally cackled, smiling like a madman. This was it, I’d finally done it. I was finally, at long last, a real writer, with a great idea and one I could see through to completion.

This tale was so clever, I was reflecting a mirror back on the human condition, it was timely, yet timeless, and oh so relatable.

That was last night.

In the harsh light of day, I slumped into my chair confused. I don’t remember writing any of this and I can’t make heads or tails of it.

Now, as I wade through my notes and the open browser tabs of “research,” I have to solve a mystery. A mystery where I am the detective, the victim and the perpetrator.

What does any of this even mean? Who was the person who dreamed this up? A genius or an idiot? Last night, my tether to the ideas seemed so strong, and more importantly, clear.

Last night every thought was a revelation, and every thread connected back in on each other, everything working in perfect harmony like a glorious cosmic symphony.

Today this symphony feels out of tune and discordant, like each member of the orchestra received different sheet music.

As I try to piece together these notes. I’m left with:“Yakuza dinosaurs love grapes. It all comes back to the grapes. Remember, grapes are the key. ” The key to what? Lowering my cholesterol?

How does “Yakuza dinosaurs grapes” connect to the browser tabs I have open on the Canadian criminal justice system, norse mythology, and artificial intelligence?

And what does it all have to do with an eBay listing for a live bootleg of alternative rock band Sonic Youth?

Okay, that one might be an erroneous tab.

Some of these notes aren’t even words. “He looked snaftiblefast at ugeederflippen.” If only I could connect myself to the mind that typed it out, I think there’s something there.

Last night these notes were a holy text, the seeds of my great American novel, my magnum opus. These “research” tabs the fundamental building blocks of authenticity.

Today, I’m left with a puzzle whose pieces include grapes, dinosaurs, the Japanese mafia, Norse mythology and this note: “That selfsame android, adrift on the desert ocean, finds refuge in the Flower.”

Is it possible these are just the stoned rantings of a weed addled mind? No, impossible. It’s the “today me” who is wrong. I’ve just lost that divine insight, my conductor’s baton.

I can get it back. I know what I have to do. Now, where did I leave those edibles?