The End of Questions

The only time I have ever experienced such a state of perfect tranquility, such peace I could have died content, was on a heavy mushroom trip I realized I was the eternal. No questions I had because it was as though all of them had been answered. It wasn't as though I had figured everything out, not at all. It was the discovery of the limitation of the intellect, that you do not use a knife to see the supreme reality as all One. It is the end of the questioning itself that brought about a vision of the whole, the whole from which all is differentiated. Here is a snippet of a long magnum opus I wrote in two days as I reverberated like a bell from the psilocybin experience.

my dance is your dance, your awakening mine.
oh where and when have been my mind?
though i choose to decide to decide to move thither,
who is it that moves whither, further still ever
elusive the answer remains.
answers involve questions i should dare to say.
if questions are built of the bricks of words,
expect then should i an answer not also made of words?
wonder i do oft, how such to ask without inquiring.
for is it not the case that mastery of life,
is the word transcendental?
but blood and bone reverb the word!
forget the word! – the flesh, yes! just forget!
forget? no! forget forgettance! remember not!
your memory, thou art not,
for the mind is immemorial.
the end of all philosophy is the beginning of an ancient question and that is who is this self, this self I call I?