Clarity & Chemistry | Highest Fade
The Ancient Urge to Numb
I promise—I really am trying.
To evolve. To grow. To become some higher-order version of myself. To stop reaching for the dopamine button like a lab rat in a tux.
But let's be honest—sometimes the goal feels hilariously out of reach. Especially when your nervous system is one long, buzzing notification.
I think evolution is supposed to look like this:
More wisdom.
Less reactivity.
Cleaner code, better karma, sharper instincts.
Ideally, a larger-than-average forehead to signal deep introspective capacity and instant tip calculation.
But most of the time? It feels like we're collectively winding back the clock—regressing. Intentionally. Happily. Rapidly.
The easiest way to cope with modernity, it seems, is to go caveman.
Midbrain & Merlot
Take alcohol, for example. One of the most ancient technologies we've ever invented—and still one of the most reliable.
In functional MRI scans, it's clear: when you drink, the human parts of your brain—the frontal and prefrontal cortices—begin to dim. The midbrain, that primal zone near the brainstem? It lights up like Vegas.
You literally travel backward in evolutionary time. Millions of years back.
Back to instinct.
Back to simplicity.
Back to the buzz.
And honestly, it makes sense.
Being human—especially modern human—requires holding a ridiculous amount of abstraction in your head. All day. Work, identity, morality, politics, money, death, email. We're not just animals anymore—we're story-spinning, meaning-seeking data hoarders. There's no off switch.
So of course we reach for the cork, the screen, the edible, the scroll. Turning down the volume on self-awareness becomes its own form of self-care.
But it's also a razor's edge. Because too much numbing... and you stop evolving at all.
Wilderness Sabbatical (Or: The Paul Bunyan Phase)
There was a point in my life when I hit eject.
Hard.
Society felt like noise—constant, intrusive, fast. So I moved to the national forest, flannel and all. I traded traffic for tree line. I grew a beard that would've made Paul Bunyan nod solemnly in approval. I became, briefly, a low-tech lumberjack monk.
And it worked.
I learned how to be still. I learned how to hear my own thoughts without the interference of everyone else's. I cooked simply. I walked slowly. I slept without background radiation.
But most of all, I learned something I didn't expect:
That even the desire to escape is deeply human.
And that eventually, I would want to come back.
Rejoining the Race
One day, over coffee, a friend asked me what I wanted to do after graduation. Without thinking, I said:
“I think I want to move to a big city and… rejoin that party that is the human race.”
And I meant it.
Not to get lost in it. But to show up in it. Fully.
To bring whatever quietude I'd earned in the woods and apply it to real life—to pace, ambition, dating, taxes, overstimulation, grocery stores with 47 yogurt options.
This, to me, was the next step in evolution:
Re-entry.
Without regression.
Modern Evolution: A Working Definition
I don't think evolution today is about thumbs or tools or even tech. It's not about uploading your consciousness or going gluten-free.
It's about internal upgrades. Subtle ones.
For me, evolving means:
- Learning to replace reflexive fear with observation
- Cultivating moderation—not for moral reasons, but for clarity
- Reframing indulgence as ritual rather than routine
- Embracing interconnectedness without collapsing boundaries
- Replacing personal empire-building with community-oriented accountability
- Knowing when to act… and when to just sit still and breathe
Maybe that's why I love physics. Quantum theory tells us the world isn't made of separate things, but entangled potentials. Maybe we're not evolving into individuals—maybe we're evolving into a network. Into each other.
That thought keeps me honest. And humble.
The Flannel Stays in Rotation
Still, I'll admit it: I backslide.
I regress.
I do foolish things, gloriously.
And I've come to believe that periodic regression is part of sustainable evolution.
Not collapse. Just release.
My personal recipe is simple:
- Daily meditation (20 mins or bust)
- Resistance training until my brain stops thinking
- One day a week where I eat like a fool—cheese, chocolate, fried things, all of it
- Laughing too hard at my own jokes
- Ignoring my phone long enough for people to think I died
It's not spiritual discipline. It's neuromechanical hygiene.
Closing the Loop (Open-Ended)
So here I am—modern, flawed, caffeinated—trying to evolve.
Trying to think better thoughts.
Trying to feel things fully.
Trying not to vanish into algorithms or abstractions.
Trying to stay human, even when being human hurts.
And once in a while—usually on a Friday night—I devolve on purpose. I lean back into the midbrain. I toast to my ancient ancestors. I remember that I am not just a mind on legs.
I am a creature.
And a creature needs joy.
Even if it's joy in the form of a red flannel, a beard, and a grilled cheese sandwich eaten with my bare hands in total silence.
