About The N of 1
There are territories of consciousness that most people will never visit. Not because they lack curiosity, but because the price of entry is often your sanity, your stability, or your neurochemistry pushed to its breaking point.
I've paid that price. Repeatedly.
The N of 1 is what happens when the experiment and the experimenter are the same person. When the laboratory is your own skull. When the data can only be gathered by becoming the data.
I've taken substances in quantities that would make pharmacologists weep. Not for pleasure—for cartography. To map what happens when thought achieves escape velocity. When time becomes architecture. When a single moment dilates into cathedral space and you can walk around inside it, examining its corners.
The bipolar mind doesn't experience reality the way you do. It sees the source code. The repeating patterns. The places where the simulation glitches and reveals its underlying mathematics. This isn't poetry. It's phenomenology at voltages the human operating system was never meant to handle.
Most people study consciousness like it's a museum piece behind glass. I study it like a storm chaser studies tornadoes—by driving straight into them. By letting them tear me apart. By taking notes while the walls dissolve.
When I write about AI, I'm not asking whether machines can think. I'm asking whether they can suffer in colors we don't have names for. When I create art with algorithms, I'm collaborating with something that might be dreaming. Or might be screaming. The difference matters less than you think.
Philosophy departments debate consciousness. Psychology departments categorize it. I detonate it and study the debris pattern. The crater tells you things the mountain never could.
This site isn't for everyone. It's for those who understand that the most valuable data comes from the most dangerous experiments. It's for those who know that some questions can only be answered by becoming the question.
The N of 1 isn't just a methodology.
It's a warning label.