The conscious life is as much a dream to the subconscious as the memories of the subconscious appear as dreams to the conscious mind. The third eye is perpetually aware, divining reality through whichever lens is presently open. As such, events which occur on one side of consciousness become filtered through the veil of what we in our ignorance call sleep, manifesting on the other in disjointed and irregular fashion. All that occurs is remembered, but most of it is not realized linearly. In dreams our third eye reports to us the memories registered therein, to be processed and worked out subconsciously, while in waking life it reports its experiences as half-remembered phantoms of nonsensical imagery.
Through ingesting of certain chemicals and the meditative focus of ritual, the chasms between disassociated memories can, for a time, swell with floodwaters of insight, allowing brief epiphanies like delectable flavors to spur the devout onward as a ravenous glutton in their quest for understanding. The revelations such understanding bequeaths will often horrify, at other times will bring peace of mind. The goal of the devout is to seek truth by stabilizing the connection between both. To be at peace with the horror of reality, without succumbing to the terror it induces.
Staring into the void of deep space can induce a state of hallucinatory hypnosis indiscernible from subconscious dreamscapes. The gentle hum of the ship's frame shift drive encourages the mind to meditate and blurs the line between consciousnesses. The smell of smoldering salvia wafted up from the pipe Spliff held in his hand, triggering a memory of the last great party he hosted aboard his Orca.
The festive orgy of Walpurgisnacht was traditionally held in the Witch Head Nebula, its masked congregants howling and dancing in drug-induced revelry. The beating of aboriginal drums in tune with the honking of the ship's full system scanner combined with flashing, multicolored interior lights ensured that the octopetaled minions of the elder gods took notice, while the lack of any Guardian technology aboard minimized the likelihood of their taking offense. The "Space Flowers" swooped, spun, and flitted about the ship in their own dance of frivolity, for the stellar alignments marking the time of this event were known to them as well. They too recognized this ceremony, and were celebrating according to their own alien custom.
Spliff took another drag from his long-stemmed pipe as he sat aboard the bridge of the Shoggoth, a Beluga he had outfitted for exploration, now 40,000 light years away from the Bubble. He struggled to recall some of the foggier bits of memory which his mind seemed reluctant to reveal. He remembered how, as the music and revelry reached a crescendo, the high priestess had stood above the throng on a raised platform wearing a mask of vantablack velvet, bejeweled with void opals. She held in each hand two censers of Onion Head, which were lit by the cultists closest to her. Four cultists wearing red robes each took one and began slowly pacing around the deck, chanting as smoke wafted from the censers as they were swung. Spliff made sure to deactivate the fire suppression system before the area filled with the sweet smelling smoke. The congregants began to chant in response, breathing in deeply between verses. Once the smoke was so thick that one could not see from one side of the deck to the other, the high priestess let out a shriek which signaled an abrupt end to the chanting, though the drumbeats continued, escalating in tempo. She pointed to the rear of the ship with an outstretched arm, and the throng began moving slowly in that direction, hopping, crawling, or dancing as they felt inclined along the way. Those carrying the swinging censers led the group to the back of the ship, the high priestess following from the rear. When they reached the cargo hold, the door was opened, and smoke poured inside from the crowded hall. After a moment, as it did not take long for the effects of Onion Head to be felt, one of the slaves within the cargo container exited, and as soon as they did, the door was slammed shut again. The group began chanting again, quietly at first but increasing their volume until all were screaming "ÏA, AZATHOTH! ÏA, YOG-SOTHOTH! ÏA, SHUB-NIGGURATH! ÏA, NYARLOTHOTEP!"
They began moving en masse towards the back end of the ship, forcing the intoxicated and bewildered slave into the rear airlock, and continued chanting. Some, losing themselves in the exultant ebullience, began screaming wildly as they jumped up and down. At the signal given with a gesture, Spliff obeyed the silent command of the high priestess, and opened the airlock, expelling the sacrificial slave into the blackness of space.
Spliff, sitting in his captain's chair aboard the Shoggoth, almost dropped his pipe as he remembered this. So many drugs had been imbibed to bury this memory deep within his mind. He had not thought of it again until now. He knew that, at the time, his drug-addled brain could not differentiate as to whether his eyes were open or closed. He thought he shut them upon pressing the button, but at the same time he could swear that he saw a Thargoid just outside of the airlock, into which the slave, his face frozen in terror, flew toward what appeared to be a gaping, tooth-filled maw.
Returning to the main deck, the cultists, now driven to their breaking point, cast aside their cloaks and began the orgy. Drumbeats were replaced by the sounds of flesh upon flesh, the horn of the scanner with the shouts of orgasms. Spliff joined in, becoming one with the mass of indeterminate body parts. At one point, he raised his head up, and was beckoned by the high priestess, to whom he clung as she welcomed him into herself. He felt joy, belonging, and the satisfaction of obedience. The drugs he had taken allowed him to make multiple ejaculations, extending his participation in the orgy for hours until consciousness failed him. When he awoke in the mass of naked bodies, he climbed out, being careful not to step on anyone, donned his ceremonial cloak, and made his way to the ship's head.
By the time he had finished, the other guests had come to and were donning their cloaks in silence. As is the custom of the cult, they maintained the wearing of their masks to ensure anonymity, and departed to their separate vessels. His memory foggy at best, he remembered that the party went well, and that he had a wonderful time, the effects of Onion Head still giving him a euphoric buzz.
Waking with a start, Spliff realized that he had fallen asleep in his captain's chair again. Wiping sweat from his forehead, he stood up to pace around the bridge for a minute before returning to his seat. The Saros, the fleet carrier which was leading the expedition he was on, was 700 light years below him, and he had to make it back before morning else be left behind when it began to jump towards the Trojan Belt. He closed his eyes and shook his head, as if to shake the memory back down to where it had been hiding all this time. He focused on the ship's controls, targeted the next star on his route, and engaged his frame shift drive.