On The way (My book)
ON THE WAY......
Raghupati Jha
On the way…
स्वधर्मो
निधनं श्रेयः परधर्मो भयावहः
(Bhagavad Gita, Chapter 3, Verse
35)
It is
better to die performing your own duty; the duty of another is full of danger.
Acknowledgement & Gratitude
I do not claim that these thoughts are
entirely mine. Whatever clarity has come, it has come through many voices, many
seekers, many paths.
Bhagavad Gita:
It showed me that action is not the
problem — attachment is.
Osho:
The only sin human beings can commit is
unawareness. From him, I learned that awareness itself is transformation.
Mandukya Upanishad:
It pointed towards the nature of
consciousness—waking, dreaming, deep sleep, and beyond all these, Turiya (the
fourth state), which is silent, formless, and untouched.
Kabir:
माला
कहे है काठ की, अरे तू क्या फेरे मोय
मन
का मनका फेर दे, सो तुरत मिला दूँ तोय
भला
हुआ मोरी माला टूटी
मैं
तो राम भजन से छूटी रे
मोरे
सर से टली बला
माला
फेरों न कर जपों
और
मुख
से कहूँ न राम
राम
हमारा हमें जपे रे
हम
पायो बिसराम
Ramakrishna Paramahansa:
जतो
मत, ततो पथ
(As many Faiths, so many
paths.)
ON THE WAY......
Raghupati Jha
On the way…
स्वधर्मो
निधनं श्रेयः परधर्मो भयावहः
(Bhagavad Gita, Chapter 3, Verse
35)
It is
better to die performing your own duty; the duty of another is full of danger.
Acknowledgement & Gratitude
I do not claim that these thoughts are
entirely mine. Whatever clarity has come, it has come through many voices, many
seekers, many paths.
Bhagavad Gita:
It showed me that action is not the
problem — attachment is.
Osho:
The only sin human beings can commit is
unawareness. From him, I learned that awareness itself is transformation.
Mandukya Upanishad:
It pointed towards the nature of
consciousness—waking, dreaming, deep sleep, and beyond all these, Turiya (the
fourth state), which is silent, formless, and untouched.
Kabir:
माला
कहे है काठ की, अरे तू क्या फेरे मोय
मन
का मनका फेर दे, सो तुरत मिला दूँ तोय
भला
हुआ मोरी माला टूटी
मैं
तो राम भजन से छूटी रे
मोरे
सर से टली बला
माला
फेरों न कर जपों
और
मुख
से कहूँ न राम
राम
हमारा हमें जपे रे
हम
पायो बिसराम
Ramakrishna Paramahansa:
जतो
मत, ततो पथ
(As many Faiths, so many
paths.)
Contents
Chapter
1: The First Disturbance
Chapter
3: The Pull Towards Silence
Chapter
4: The Conflict of Two Directions
Chapter
5: Can I Trust What I Feel?
Chapter
7: The Many Versions of Me
Chapter
8: What Is Truth Then?
Chapter
9: The Two Ways of Living
Chapter
10: The Desire to Escape
Chapter
11: Staying With What Is
Chapter
12: When Understanding Becomes Another Trap
Chapter
13: The Fear of Losing Myself
Chapter
14: The Ordinary Moment
Chapter
17: When It Doesn't Come Back
Chapter
18: Devotion Without Knowing
Chapter
19: The Pattern I Keep Repeating
Bonus : The Act of Slowing Down
Chapter 1: The First Disturbance
It did not begin with understanding. It began
with something being off.
There was no clear reason for it. Nothing
dramatic happened. Life, from the outside, was moving normally. Conversations
were happening. Work was going on. People were around. Nothing was missing in a
visible way.
Yet something inside did not sit right.
It was not sadness. It was not exactly
anxiety. It was not even confusion in the usual sense. It was more like a
constant background noise.
Something was always running. Even in moments
where everything should have been calm, there was movement inside — not
physical movement, but mental. A kind of inner activity that did not stop.
At first, it was ignored. Like most things
are. Because it did not demand attention strongly. It was subtle. Manageable.
Easy to distract from.
But over time, it became more visible. Not
because it became stronger, but because I started noticing it.
It started with small observations. Sitting
alone, and suddenly realising that the mind is not quiet. There is always
something: a replay of something that already happened, a preparation for
something that has not happened, an imagined conversation, a response to a
question nobody asked.
And it was not occasional. It was continuous.
One moment it was about the past — revisiting
something that had already ended. Not just remembering it, but modifying it.
‘What if I had said this instead?’ ‘What if that moment had gone differently?’
Even when I knew clearly that nothing could be changed, the mind kept trying,
as if it had the power to rewrite reality.
Another moment, it shifted to the future. Not
planning in a practical way, but preparing mentally for situations that may
never happen. Someone asking a question. Someone judging. Someone
misunderstanding. And I would start answering, explaining, defending — all
inside my own head.
This was strange. Because there was no real
situation. Yet the body was reacting. The heart rate would change. There would
be a slight tension, a sense of alertness, as if something important was
actually happening.
This is where the first crack appeared. A
simple but uncomfortable question: if nothing is happening outside, then why is
so much happening inside?
At first, I thought this was normal — that
everyone must be like this. And maybe that is true. But that did not answer the
real question. Normal does not mean understood.
The more I observed, the more I saw a
pattern. The mind does not stay empty. It fills itself. If there is no real
input, it creates its own. And once it creates, it starts believing.
There was also something else — a very subtle
attachment to these thoughts. Even when they were uncomfortable, there was a
tendency to stay with them, to keep thinking, to go deeper. Almost as if
stopping them was not even considered.
It was not just about thoughts. The body was
involved. A thought about something stressful would create a physical reaction.
And that physical reaction would make the thought feel more real. Then the mind
would say: ‘See, this is important.’ And the cycle would continue.
Slowly, it became clear that this was not
random. There was a structure to it — a loop. A thought appears. The body
reacts. The reaction confirms the thought. And the thought becomes stronger.
Once this was seen, something shifted. Not
solved. Not removed. But seen. And that changes something. Because before this,
everything felt like one single experience. Now, there was a small distance — a
slight separation between what is happening and the one noticing it.
This separation was not stable. Sometimes it
was there. Sometimes it disappeared. Sometimes I was fully inside the thought.
Sometimes I could watch it. But once you see something even once, you cannot
completely unsee it.
And that is how it started — not with truth,
not with realisation, but with a disturbance. A quiet noticing that something
inside is always moving.
Chapter 2: The Loop
After the first disturbance was noticed, it
did not take long to see that it was not just random noise. There was a pattern
to it. At first, it looked like thoughts coming and going, as they always do.
But when seen closely, it was not that simple. Thoughts were not just appearing
and disappearing. They were building something, and that something was
repeating.
A thought would appear — sometimes very
small, almost harmless. It could be about something that had already happened
or something that might happen. On its own, it did not seem powerful. But the
moment attention went to it, something changed. The body started reacting: a
slight tightening in the chest, a small shift in breathing, a faint sense of
alertness. Nothing extreme, but enough to be felt.
Then something strange would happen. The
body’s reaction would not stay separate — it would feed the thought. The mind
would look at the sensation and interpret it: ‘If the body is reacting, this
must be important.’ That one conclusion was enough to give the thought weight.
It was no longer just a passing idea. It had become something real — something
that needed to be understood, solved, or controlled.
Once it reached that stage, it did not stop.
The mind would start expanding it. One thought would lead to another, and then
another. The situation would become more detailed, more intense. Conversations
would be imagined. Outcomes would be predicted. Problems would be created and
then attempts to solve them would follow — all of this without anything
actually occurring outside.
At the same time, the body kept responding.
The more the thought expanded, the more the body reacted. The more the body
reacted, the more the mind believed the thought. It became a closed system —
thought influencing body, body confirming thought — with no external check, no
interruption, just a continuous loop feeding itself.
The most confusing part was that it felt
real. Not logically real, but experientially real. Even when there was an
awareness that nothing was actually happening, the feeling did not match that
understanding. The body does not care about logic; it responds to what is being
experienced internally. So even an imagined situation could create real stress,
real fear, real discomfort.
At some point, the loop would become
exhausting. There would be a moment of stepping back — either out of awareness
or simply tiredness — and suddenly everything would drop. The same thought that
felt so heavy a few minutes ago would lose its intensity. The body would calm
down. The urgency would disappear. And then a strange realisation would come:
nothing had actually happened.
But this did not stop the loop from forming
again. It would come back in a different form. Different thought, same
structure. Different story, same pattern. It did not matter what the content
was — whether it was about the past, the future, a person, a mistake, or a
possibility. The mechanism remained the same.
Over time, it became clear that the problem
was not any specific thought. Removing one thought did not change anything,
because another one would take its place. The mind was not dependent on a
particular topic — it only needed something to hold onto. Once it found
something, it would build on it.
There was also a subtle pull to stay inside
the loop. Even when it was uncomfortable, there was a kind of involvement in
it. It was not forced — it was almost voluntary, but not consciously chosen. It
felt like being drawn in, with attention constantly returning to the same
thought as if trying to resolve it. But resolution never came.
This created another layer of confusion. If
it is uncomfortable, why not leave it? If it is clearly not useful, why stay in
it? There was no clear answer, because it did not feel like a decision — it
felt automatic.
At some point, a different kind of
observation began. Instead of focusing on the thought itself, the focus shifted
to the process — not ‘what am I thinking?’ but ‘what is happening right now?’
And in that shift, the structure of the loop became more visible.
The moment attention stayed on a thought, the
loop started. The moment attention moved away — even slightly — the loop
weakened. It did not disappear instantly, but it lost its force. The connection
between thought and body was not permanent; it was being maintained through
attention.
This did not mean control. Thoughts still
appeared, and it was not possible to simply stop them. But there was a
difference between a thought appearing and a thought being followed. That small
difference started to matter.
Gradually, a simple understanding formed —
not as a conclusion, but as something directly observed. The mind creates, the
body reacts, and together they convince each other. It is not one controlling
the other; it is a cycle. And once seen, the question changed. It was no longer
‘how do I stop this?’ but ‘is it necessary to stay in it?’
The loop did not disappear. But it was no
longer completely invisible. And that made all the difference.
Chapter 3: The Pull Towards Silence
After noticing the loop again and again,
something else started happening — not planned, not even intentional. It came
as a natural response. The more the mind was seen in this repetitive movement,
the more there arose a quiet desire to step away from it. Not out of rejection
or frustration, but more like a simple feeling: there must be something beyond
this constant noise.
It was not a dramatic thought. It was softer
— almost like a background pull. A curiosity mixed with tiredness. If the mind
keeps running like this, creating loops and reacting to its own creations, then
what is there when this stops? Or does it ever stop?
There were moments — very small ones — where
the mind was not actively involved in anything. No strong thought, no emotional
pull, no inner conversation. Just a kind of stillness. These moments were not
created; they came on their own. And they did not stay for long. But something
about them felt different. Not exciting. Not emotional. Just quiet. And
strangely, in that quiet, nothing was missing.
The moment the mind noticed the silence, it
would come back almost immediately, as if it could not tolerate that emptiness
for too long. It would bring a thought — any thought — just to fill the space
again. And then the usual process would start. But now there was a contrast.
Earlier, everything felt the same because
there was no reference. Now there were two different experiences: the constant
movement of the mind, and that brief stillness. And because both were seen, a
question naturally followed — what is more real? The noise that keeps changing,
or the silence that does not try to become anything?
This is where reading started to connect —
not as belief, but as comparison. When I came across ideas from the Upanishads,
especially the Mandukya Upanishad, they did not feel completely abstract. They
spoke about states — waking, dreaming, deep sleep, and something beyond.
Earlier, this had sounded like philosophy. But now, in a very small way, it
felt relatable.
There was also this idea that what we usually
experience is not the full picture — that there is something underlying all
states, something that is not constantly changing the way thoughts and emotions
do. I could not say I experienced that clearly, but the direction made sense.
Because whatever I was observing inside myself was always changing. If
something is always changing, can that be the final thing?
At the same time, there was another pull — a
more practical one. Life was still happening: work, people, conversations,
responsibilities. And even if I tried to think about only exploring silence,
something inside did not fully agree. Because the same mind that wanted silence
was also getting involved in life. This created a kind of inner contradiction.
This is where the question about detachment
became stronger. Not as an idea from books, but as a personal confusion. If
silence feels real in those brief moments, should everything else be reduced?
Or is that another movement of the mind trying to escape something it does not
understand?
Even when reading the Bhagavad Gita, it did
not offer a simple conclusion. On one side, there is talk of detachment — of
not being affected by outcomes. On the other side, there is action: not
withdrawal, but participation; not leaving the battlefield, but standing in it.
These questions did not resolve anything
immediately. But they changed the direction of looking. It was no longer just
about stopping thoughts or escaping the loop. It became something deeper —
understanding the place of both movement and stillness. The small glimpses of
silence continued to appear, and disappear. They did not become stable. But
they left an impression — not as something to chase, but as something that
exists without effort. And that was enough to keep the question alive. Not
answered. Just alive.
Chapter 4: The Conflict of Two Directions
As the observation deepened, one thing became
more visible than before — not just the loop of thoughts or the occasional
silence, but something more constant, something that stayed in the background
of everything. A kind of inner conflict. Not loud. Not always disturbing. But
present.
On one side, there was a pull towards
silence. Those small gaps where nothing was running inside had a different
quality — they did not excite, but they also did not disturb. There was no
effort in them, no trying to become anything. Just a simple sense of being
there without movement.
On the other side, life was still moving.
Conversations, work, relationships, responsibilities. Situations that required
attention, involvement, and decision. The mind had to function — think,
respond, act. There was no way to stay completely withdrawn and still
participate.
This created a strange position. Because both
seemed valid. Silence felt true in one way. Involvement felt necessary in
another. And the difficulty was not in choosing one over the other — it was
that both were happening together.
At times, there was a desire to move away
from everything — not out of hatred, but a quiet thought: if I reduce
involvement, maybe the mind will become quieter. But at the same time,
situations will come. People will come. Responsibilities will remain. And
avoiding them does not feel like clarity — it feels incomplete.
In the Bhagavad Gita, there is the idea that
action cannot be avoided, that even not acting is a form of action, and more
importantly, that the focus is not on leaving action but on how action is
performed (Bhagavad Gita 3.5). This shifted the question slightly. Maybe the
problem is not the action itself. Maybe the problem is something within action.
There was also a repeated emphasis on
detachment — not being affected by results, not getting lost in outcomes
(Bhagavad Gita 2.47). But what does that actually mean in experience? Because
when something happens, the reaction is immediate. Emotions come, thoughts
come, the body responds. Detachment cannot simply mean becoming insensitive.
And slowly it became visible that the
disturbance is not in the action itself — it is in the attachment to what comes
from it. The mind does not just act; it also projects. It imagines results,
creates expectations, holds onto possibilities. And when those do not match
reality, disturbance comes.
So the conflict was not just between silence
and action. It was also between expectation and reality. Even in moments of
silence, if there was a subtle expectation — this should stay, this should
deepen — that itself created movement. And in action, if there was a constant
pull towards outcome, the action was never complete in itself.
This is where another kind of seeing started
— not choosing silence over action, not choosing action over silence, but
noticing how the mind moves in both. Both movements come from the same place:
the mind trying to find stability. But stability does not seem to come from
either. The question was no longer ‘which path is right?’ but: is it possible
to live without dividing these two?
Chapter 5: Can I Trust What I Feel?
At some point, the problem was no longer just
thoughts — not even the loop. Something more unsettling started to appear. It
was the realisation that even my own experience might not be fully reliable.
Many times, the body was already in a certain
state before any clear thought appeared. There would be a sudden uneasiness —
no reason, no story, just a shift in the body. And almost immediately, the mind
would try to explain it. It would search for a cause: something from the past,
something about the future, something about a person. It did not matter what it
picked — it just needed something to attach to.
But when seen carefully, that connection did
not always feel true. The body reacted first. The mind explained later. This
created a crack in something very basic — the idea that what I feel must be
correct. Because if the body can react without a clear reason, and the mind can
create a reason afterwards, then how much of what I feel is actually real?
There were moments where this became very
visible. A sudden tension would appear in the body, and the mind would
immediately say: something is wrong. Within seconds, a full story would form
around it. But if attention stayed without jumping into the story, the
sensation would slowly change. Sometimes it would even disappear without any
explanation. Just gone.
Then the question came: if it can disappear
on its own, was it ever pointing to something real? Or was it just a reaction
passing through? This did not mean that everything is false. There are real
situations, real emotions, real consequences. The confusion was not about
denying reality — it was about seeing that not everything that feels real is
actually pointing to something outside.
There were also moments where the reaction
itself became the problem. The discomfort of it, the uneasiness of it. And then
another thought would come: ‘Why is this happening?’ or ‘This should not be
happening.’ Now it was no longer just a reaction — it had become resistance to
the reaction. And that made it stronger.
So there are layers: a sensation, then a
thought explaining it, then another thought resisting it. And all of this feels
like one single experience. But when seen slowly, they are different.
This introduced doubt — not in a negative
way, but in a clarifying way. Doubt about immediate conclusions. Doubt about
the first explanation that comes. And in that doubt, there is a small space.
Less certain. And that uncertainty, in some moments, feels more honest than
false certainty. The body reacts. The mind explains. And somewhere in between,
something watches. Not always. But sometimes. And those moments are enough to
keep looking.
Chapter 6: The Memory of Love
Not all loops come from fear. Some come from
something that once felt very real, very alive, and very complete — and those
loops are harder to see clearly, because they do not feel like disturbance in
the beginning. They feel like something valuable, something worth holding.
There were moments where connection with
someone did not feel like effort — it was just there, naturally. Attention
going towards them without trying. Thinking about them without forcing it.
Wanting to share things, wanting to be seen by them. And somewhere in that,
there was a sense of meaning, as though something in life had more depth than
usual.
Without realising it, the mind started
attaching not just to the person, but to the way it felt to be with them. The
way it felt to be understood. The way it felt to be important in someone’s
life. At that time, it did not look like attachment — it just felt natural.
Like this is how things should be.
But slowly something started changing. Not
immediately, not dramatically — just small shifts. Conversations reduced,
energy changed, misunderstandings happened. And while all this was happening
outside, something inside did not move at the same speed. The mind did not
accept that the experience was changing. It kept holding onto what had been —
replaying moments again and again. And in that replay, the experience almost
felt alive again, even though it was not happening now.
This is where a different kind of loop
started forming. Not like the earlier ones about fear or anxiety — this one was
quieter but deeper. It was not trying to solve anything; it was trying to hold
something, to keep it alive in some form. And there was also a subtle hope
inside it: that maybe it could happen again. Maybe with the same person, maybe
with someone else, but the same feeling, the same intensity.
Without noticing it clearly, the mind was not
just remembering — it was comparing. Everything new was being seen through the
lens of what had already happened. And because of that, nothing felt quite
enough. Something always felt missing.
There were also moments where the mind went
into the past not just to remember, but to change it — thinking about what
could have been done differently. As if by thinking about it enough times,
something might shift. But nothing changed. The situation was already over. Yet
it continued inside, creating a strange state where memory, imagination, and
longing all existed together.
At the same time, this was not something that
could simply be dropped. Letting go felt like losing something important, even
if that thing was no longer actually present. One part could see that holding
on was creating disturbance, while another part did not want to let go. Because
letting go felt like ending something completely.
Even after seeing all this, the pull does not
disappear completely. The memories still come. The feelings still arise. But
perhaps there is a small difference: earlier it all felt like the present; now
sometimes it is seen as something being replayed. Just enough to notice that
what is being held is not actually here anymore. And maybe that is where
something begins to loosen. Not forced. Not decided. Just slowly, through
seeing.
Chapter 7: The Many Versions of Me
At some point, the question was no longer
just about thoughts or emotions. It slowly turned towards something more direct
and uncomfortable: who exactly is the one going through all of this? Because
the more I started looking, the less stable this ‘me’ felt. It did not feel
like one solid thing — it felt like something that keeps changing depending on
the situation, the person, the mood, even the time of day.
There are moments where I feel very clear,
almost as though I understand things. And then there are moments where all of
that disappears completely, and I am fully inside reactions, inside emotions,
inside confusion. Both of these feel like me. But they are completely different
from each other. And this is not just two versions — there are many.
With one person I behave in one way; with
another, completely differently. In one situation I feel confident; in another,
uncertain. In one moment I want silence; in another, I want connection. All of
these feel real when they are happening. But when I look at them together, they
do not form one clear identity — they contradict each other.
This creates a strange question: which one is
actually me? The one who wants to be alone, or the one who wants to be with
someone? The one who understands things, or the one who gets completely lost?
There is no clear answer, because each version feels true when it appears.
There is also the identity given by the world
— the name, the role, the work, the way others see me. Different people see
different things. For one person I am understanding; for another, careless. For
one I am important; for another, just another person. None of these is fully
wrong, but none of them feels complete either.
Then there is the identity I create for
myself — the story I tell myself. But even that keeps changing. Sometimes I
feel like someone who is searching, trying to understand. Sometimes I feel like
I am just confused, going in circles.
This is where something from the Upanishads
starts to come into the picture again — not as something believed, but as
something that connects slightly with what is being seen. The idea that what we
usually identify as ‘self’ is not the complete picture; that there is something
beyond the waking, dreaming, and deep sleep states (Mandukya Upanishad). While
this is not fully understood, it creates a direction of looking.
At some point, a simple observation becomes
clear: ‘me’ is not one thing. It is a collection of movements — thoughts,
emotions, reactions, roles — all appearing and disappearing. And depending on
which one is active, that becomes ‘me’ in that moment. The search is no longer
about defining ‘me’ in a fixed way. It becomes more about watching how ‘me’
keeps forming and dissolving. Not defined. But seen.
Chapter 8: What Is Truth Then?
At some point, after looking at thoughts,
loops, silence, body reactions, love, and even the shifting sense of ‘me’, a
different kind of question started coming up — not about a specific experience,
but about something more fundamental: what is actually true in all of this?
Everything that is seen keeps changing. So if everything is changing, what can
be called truth?
This question did not come from reading alone
— it came from seeing contradiction. Not just in myself, but in what others
have said. Different masters say different things, sometimes even opposite
things. One says the world is illusion; another says the world is real but
misunderstood. One says leave everything; another says live fully. All of them
sound convincing in their own way.
This creates a confusion — not about who is
right or wrong, but about the nature of truth itself. Because if truth is one,
why are there so many different expressions of it?
There was a time when it felt like finding
the right teaching would solve everything. But now it does not feel that
simple, because even in those texts there are layers, different
interpretations, different ways of understanding the same thing. And what I
understand today might change tomorrow.
When reading about silence being the
ultimate, it feels true in moments where the mind is quiet. But when life
becomes active, that same statement feels incomplete. And when reading about
action and duty, it feels relevant in daily life. But when sitting alone, it
feels as though there is something beyond action. So both seem true in
different moments — but not complete on their own.
There is also a line that becomes clearer
over time — not as a belief, but as something that feels reasonable: truth does
not need a perfect messenger, and no messenger deserves complete surrender.
Because if something is true, it should stand on its own, not on the authority
of who said it.
So the approach slowly changes — from trying
to find truth somewhere outside, to observing what is happening directly. Not
rejecting teachings, but not depending on them completely either. Using them as
pointers, not as conclusions. The question ‘what is truth?’ remains open. Not
answered. Not concluded. Because any answer given too quickly starts becoming
another belief.
Chapter 9: The Two Ways of Living
At some point, after moving through all these
observations, one question kept coming back in a very practical way: how should
I live? Because whatever is being seen inside does not stay limited to thinking
— it starts affecting choices, actions, direction, and the way everyday life
feels.
There seem to be two very different
directions. One is to move away from everything — reduce involvement, reduce
noise, reduce desire — and slowly go towards silence. The other is to stay in
life fully. To work, to build relationships, to experience things, to respond
to situations, to take responsibility.
The difficulty is that both directions seem
valid. There are moments where stepping back feels right — where silence feels
more real than anything else. And there are moments where that same idea feels
incomplete, almost like an escape.
The distinction becomes clearer when looking
at it through what has been read. There is the path of the yogi, who leaves,
who reduces, who moves towards the inner completely. And there is the path of
the householder, who stays, who participates, who lives within the world. Both
are valid — but they are not the same. A yogi can afford to step away. A
householder cannot, at least not completely.
This is where the confusion was earlier —
trying to apply one path to another kind of life. Trying to live in the world,
but also trying to function like someone who has left it. That creates
imbalance, because the expectations do not match the situation.
There is also something from the Bhagavad
Gita that keeps coming back — that action is unavoidable, and that what matters
is not avoiding action but how one relates to it (Bhagavad Gita 3.5). And also
the idea of not being completely tied to outcomes (Bhagavad Gita 2.47).
A simple observation starts forming: whatever
role is being played in the moment requires full presence. If working, then
working fully. If talking to someone, then being there fully. And at the same
time, not carrying that role beyond its time, not making it the whole identity.
Because the problem is not the role itself. The problem is becoming the role.
Running away from life in the name of
detachment creates its own conflict. And getting lost in life without awareness
creates another. So neither extreme seems complete. It is not about defining
the right path. It is more about seeing clearly what is happening in each
direction. And slowly, through that, something may settle on its own. Not
decided. Not forced. But understood through living.
Chapter 10: The Desire to Escape
At some point, it became difficult to ignore
a very subtle but strong movement inside — something present in different forms
across all these observations. And that was the desire to escape. Not always
clearly visible, not always admitted, but present: sometimes appearing as a
search for silence, sometimes as a need for clarity. But underneath all of
that, there was a common direction — moving away from what feels uncomfortable.
It did not look like escape in the beginning.
It looked like seeking — seeking truth, seeking peace, seeking understanding.
But when seen more honestly, there were moments where this seeking was not
coming from clarity, but from discomfort. From not wanting to feel certain
things. From not wanting to stay with certain experiences.
For example, when the mind became too noisy,
the immediate pull was towards silence. On the surface, this looked like a
movement towards something deeper. But at the same time, there was also a sense
that it was a reaction to discomfort. Not always. But sometimes.
There is also another form of escape that is
less obvious — escaping into thinking. When something feels uncomfortable,
instead of directly feeling it, the mind starts analysing, understanding,
breaking it down. This feels like progress. But sometimes it is just another
way of not staying with the actual experience. Even the search for truth can
become an escape.
This does not mean that seeking is wrong, or
that silence is not valid. It only shows that the intention behind it is not
always clear. This creates another layer of observation — not just what I am
doing, but why I am doing it.
And slowly, a pattern starts becoming
visible. The mind does not like discomfort. It moves away from it — in
different directions. Sometimes towards pleasure. Sometimes towards
understanding. Sometimes towards silence. But the movement is the same: away from
what is.
Seeing it changes something — not completely,
but slightly. Because earlier, the movement felt like the right thing to do.
Now sometimes, it is seen as a reaction. And in those moments, there is a small
pause. Where nothing is done immediately. No escape. No solution. Just the
discomfort. Those moments are not comfortable. But they are direct. Not moving
away. Not fixing. Just being with what is there.
Chapter 11: Staying With What Is
After seeing the movement of escape in
different forms, there were moments where something slightly different started
happening — not as a practice, not as a decision, but almost as a consequence
of seeing. Instead of immediately moving away from what felt uncomfortable,
there was sometimes a pause. A small gap where nothing was done. And in that
gap, the usual patterns did not start immediately.
This was not something stable. Most of the
time, the old movement continued. But sometimes, just sometimes, there was a
moment where the reaction was seen early enough, and instead of following it,
there was just staying. Not trying to change it. Not trying to understand it.
Not trying to escape it. Just staying with it.
This is not as simple as it sounds. Because
when discomfort is there, the natural tendency is to move — to fix, to reduce,
to distract. So staying feels almost unnatural.
There were also moments where this happened
with body sensations. A sudden uneasiness, a tightness, a restlessness.
Earlier, this would immediately turn into a problem. But in some moments, that
chain did not fully form. The sensation was there, but it was not immediately
converted into something else. And something unexpected happened: the sensation
changed on its own. Without being solved. Without being understood. It came,
stayed, and then slowly reduced.
Staying can easily turn into another form of
doing — trying to stay, forcing attention, making it into a method. And the
moment that happens, it becomes another effort, another control. So even here,
there is something to watch: whether staying is natural, or whether it is being
forced.
Those moments of natural staying are not
special. They do not feel like realisation. They are very ordinary. But in
those ordinary moments, something is slightly different. There is no rush. No
immediate need to change anything. And maybe that is enough for now — not a
solution, not an end, just a different way of being with what is already there.
Without moving away immediately. Just staying. Even if only for a moment.
Chapter 12: When Understanding Becomes Another Trap
At some point, there was a subtle shift that
became visible: even this whole process of trying to understand was taking a
certain shape, and that shape itself had started behaving like a pattern. It
did not feel wrong. In fact, it felt meaningful. But somewhere in between,
there was a slight heaviness that started appearing. Almost like: ‘I need to
figure this out.’
When something uncomfortable would happen,
the mind would immediately go into understanding mode. Why is this happening?
What pattern is this? On the surface, it looked like awareness. But sometimes
it felt like another way of not just being with what was there — turning
everything into something to be understood.
There is a certain satisfaction in
understanding. When something becomes clear, there is a sense of relief. A
feeling that something has been resolved. Even if the actual experience has not
changed. This creates a subtle trap, because the mind starts chasing that
clarity. But every time something is understood, something new appears. Another
layer. Another question. The movement does not end.
The problem is not understanding itself. The
problem is the dependency on it. The need for everything to make sense. Because
life does not always present itself in a way that can be fully understood.
There are things that remain unclear, incomplete, unresolved. And sometimes,
that gap does not need to be filled.
But there were a few moments where this need
to understand was not followed. Where something was unclear, and it was left
that way. Not solved. Not defined. And those moments did not feel wrong. They
felt open.
Understanding still happens. But it is not
forced. Not chased. And maybe that is the difference. Not stopping
understanding, but not depending on it completely. Because if every experience
needs to be understood before it can be accepted, then acceptance never really
happens.
Chapter 13: The Fear of Losing Myself
Somewhere along this whole movement of
observing and questioning, a new kind of fear started appearing — not very
loud, not always present, but noticeable enough. And it was not about anything
outside. It was something more subtle: the fear of losing myself.
It showed up in smaller ways: sometimes as
hesitation, sometimes as a slight resistance, sometimes as a pull to go back to
something familiar. Because as things started becoming less fixed, the sense of
‘me’ also started becoming less solid. Earlier there was at least some idea of
who I am — even if not completely accurate, it was something to hold onto. But
now, with all this observation, that stability was not as strong.
There were moments where this felt freeing —
not being fixed meant not being limited. But there were also moments where it
felt uncomfortable. Almost like something was slipping. And this is where fear
comes in. Not as panic, but as a subtle background question: ‘If I keep going
like this, what will I become?’
There is a practical side to this too. Life
still requires functioning. Decisions have to be made. Actions have to be
taken. Those actions usually come from some sense of self, some identity. So if
that identity becomes unclear, how does one function?
This also connects with something read before
— that the sense of self we usually carry is not the final one, that what we
call ‘I’ is often a combination of thoughts, memories, roles, and
identifications (Upanishads). That something deeper is being pointed to beyond
all this. But that idea, while it sounds meaningful, is not something that is
fully experienced here. It remains more like a direction.
There were also moments where this fear was
not there — where things were just happening, actions were happening, responses
were happening, without constantly referring back to a defined ‘me’. But those
moments did not stay.
At this point, it is not about resolving this
fear. It is more about seeing it clearly — when it appears, how it appears,
what it is connected to. Not removing the fear. Not overcoming it. But not
ignoring it either. Just seeing that even the fear of losing myself is part of
this whole movement. And like everything else, it also comes and goes.
Chapter 14: The Ordinary Moment
After moving through all these questions,
loops, observations, confusions, and small glimpses of clarity, something
unexpected started becoming visible — not something new, not something
extraordinary, but something that was always there and somehow always
overlooked. And that was the ordinary moment.
There was always a tendency to look for
something more. More clarity. More silence. More understanding. Even when
things became slightly clear, the mind would still move ahead, looking for the
next thing. As if what is here right now is not enough.
But there were moments — not many — where
this movement slowed down. Not because something was achieved, but simply
because there was nothing particular happening. No strong thought. No strong
emotion. No problem to solve. Just a normal moment. Earlier, these moments were
ignored. Because they did not feel important. They were just ordinary.
But when looked at closely, there was
something different about them. There was no pressure. No urgency. No need to
become something else. Nothing was missing in that moment — even though nothing
special was present. In that, there is a kind of ease. Not strong, not
immediately noticeable. But there.
It is not something to hold onto — because
the moment you try to hold it, it is no longer ordinary. It becomes something
else. It is also not something that can be created, because it was always
there. Just unnoticed.
This changes something slightly. The constant
search for something more is not as strong all the time. Not because everything
is understood or resolved. But because there is a glimpse that maybe not
everything needs to be different. Life does not always have to feel intense to
be complete. The ordinary moment appears, again and again, quietly, without
asking for attention. And whether it is noticed or not, it remains.
Chapter 15: Nothing Stays
After everything that has been seen so far,
one thing starts becoming difficult to ignore — not as an idea, but as
something that keeps showing itself again and again. And that is this: nothing
stays. Not thoughts. Not emotions. Not clarity. Not confusion. Not even the
sense of understanding.
There were moments where things felt very
clear, where the mind was quiet, where everything felt simple, almost settled.
And in those moments, it felt like this might stay. But it did not stay.
Without any clear reason, the same mind that was quiet became active again.
Thoughts returned. Confusion returned.
The same happens with emotions. There are
moments of attachment, intensity, longing — and they feel strong, almost
permanent. But after some time, they reduce, they change, sometimes they
disappear. And when they are gone, it becomes difficult to understand why they
felt so strong.
This constant change creates a strange
situation. Because the mind keeps trying to hold onto something stable.
Something that can remain. But whatever is chosen, it changes. If a moment of
silence comes, there is a subtle desire to continue it. But this effort itself
creates movement. The moment there is an attempt to hold, there is already
tension.
This makes it clear that maybe the problem is
not that things change. Maybe the problem is the expectation that something
should not change. Because change seems natural — everything that is being
observed moves. So expecting stability from something that is constantly moving
creates conflict.
There were also moments where things were
changing, but there was no resistance to that change. A thought came and went,
a feeling came and went, and there was no attempt to hold or push away. Those
moments felt lighter. Not because something special was added, but because
something unnecessary was not there.
Trying to find something permanent in what is
constantly changing may not lead anywhere. The observation continues — not
towards finding something that stays, but perhaps towards understanding this
movement of change itself. And for now, that is where it remains.
Chapter 16: The Way I Loved
There were moments in life where connection
did not feel like something I was doing — it just happened. Naturally, without
effort. Attention going towards someone without trying. Caring without
planning. And in those moments, it did not feel like something separate from
me; it felt like it was just happening on its own.
It was not just about liking someone. There
was a kind of involvement where their presence affected everything — the way
the day felt, the way conversations happened, even the way I saw myself. And in
that involvement, there was something that felt meaningful, like life had more
depth than usual.
There was also a certain intensity in it —
not always visible from outside, but very present inside. Small things
mattered. And somewhere in all this, I started giving more importance to that
connection than I probably realised at the time.
What started as something natural slowly
became something I was holding onto. Not just the person. But the feeling.
There was also expectation — not always spoken, not always clear, but present.
A certain way things should be. And when things did not move in that direction,
something inside reacted. At that time, it did not feel like expectation. It
felt like care. But now, when I look at it, there was something more — a need.
The connection was not just with the other
person — it was also shaping how I felt about myself. When things were good,
everything felt good. When things were unclear, everything felt uncertain. And
when things did not go the way I expected, the reaction was not just about the
situation. It felt deeper. It felt personal.
There was also a tendency to hold on — to
keep the connection alive through thinking, through remembering. But over time,
it became clear that not everything stays the same. Connections change. People
move. Situations shift. And when that happens, the intensity inside does not
always reduce at the same speed.
Slowly, something becomes visible: that what
is being held is not the person as they are now. It is the experience as it
was. And that is different. Not fully gone. But not completely real in the
present either. The way I loved was not just about the other person. It was
also about how I held that experience. And how I continued to hold it even when
it had already changed.
Chapter 17: When It Doesn't Come Back
After something has been felt deeply once,
there is a quiet expectation that it should come back in the same way — not
always as a clear thought, but as a background tendency. And when it does not
happen like that, something feels off, even if everything looks normal from
outside.
When something similar begins again, there is
a subtle comparison that starts without being invited. The mind checks: does
this feel the same? Is this as deep? And when it does not match exactly, there
is a slight dissatisfaction that is difficult to explain.
There were moments where this became clearer:
that what is being looked for is not the person in front. It is something from
before. An experience. And because of that, the present does not get full
attention — it is being measured.
There is also another layer: hope. Not always
clear, but present. That maybe it will become like before. Maybe with time.
Maybe with effort. And this hope keeps the mind engaged, keeps it thinking. But
reality does not always move in that direction.
There is also a tendency to try to bring it
back — through effort, through attention, through trying to understand the
other person. But what is being tried to bring back is not something that can
be recreated like that. Because it was not created intentionally in the
first place. It just happened.
There is also something else: attachment not
just to people, but to a certain version of experience. And that attachment
makes it difficult to see what is actually here, because what is here is always
being seen through what was.
Life does not repeat experiences — it moves.
And what is here now is not a continuation of what was, but something else.
Whether that is accepted or not is still not clear. But the seeing has started.
And that itself changes something.
Chapter 18: Devotion Without Knowing
There were moments where connection did not
feel like a choice — it felt like something that happened on its own. And in
those moments, there was a kind of involvement that was deeper than usual. Not
just liking, not just interest, but something that felt closer to devotion. Not
devotion in a religious sense. But in the way importance was given. The way
attention stayed.
In that state, giving did not feel like
effort. Caring did not feel like doing something extra. It felt natural. There
was also a kind of openness in it — less calculation, less control, more
involvement. And in that involvement, there was something beautiful. Something
that felt alive.
But at the same time, there was something
else not clearly seen: that in giving so much attention, something inside was
also becoming dependent. Not in a very obvious way, but subtly. The mood
started depending on how things were going. When things were good, everything
felt light. When things were unclear, everything felt disturbed.
There was also not much questioning in that
devotion. Things were taken as they were, accepted as they were. And that felt
good. But the lack of questioning also meant that certain things were not seen
clearly. Patterns were not noticed. Expectations were not fully visible.
At some point, when things changed, the
reaction was not just about that moment. It felt deeper. Because something that
had been held with a lot of openness was now not in the same place. And then
the mind started coming in, trying to understand. But what was being looked at
was not just the situation — it was also the way I had been involved.
One thing becomes slightly visible: that
devotion without awareness can easily become attachment. And attachment brings
its own movement, its own loops, its own disturbances. This does not mean
devotion is wrong. It only shows that when something is given importance
without seeing clearly, it shapes the way everything else is experienced.
Chapter 19: The Pattern I Keep Repeating
After going through these experiences again
and again — in different forms, with different people — something slowly
started becoming visible. Not immediately, not as a clear conclusion, but as a
pattern that keeps repeating. And that pattern was not outside. It was inside
the way I was moving.
There was always a phase of natural
connection where things flowed without effort. Then slowly, without clearly
noticing, something would increase: the importance, the attention, the
emotional investment. And along with that, expectation would come. Then there
would be moments of uncertainty. And that is where the mind would start working
more: thinking, analysing, trying to understand, trying to fix. And from there,
the loop would begin.
At first, it always felt like the situation
was different — that this time something would be different. But slowly, the
similarity started becoming visible. Not in what was happening outside, but in
how I was responding.
There was also a tendency to go deeper
quickly. To invest early. To give importance before things are fully clear. And
at that time, it did not feel wrong — it felt natural. But later, when things
became uncertain, that same involvement would become a source of disturbance.
But at some point, seeing becomes clearer.
That the pattern is not outside. It is about the way I move — the way I attach,
the way I expect, the way I hold. And once this is seen, something changes
slightly. The pattern does not disappear immediately. But it is no longer
completely invisible.
Earlier, it was happening without being
noticed. Now sometimes, it is seen while it is happening. And that creates a
small gap — not enough to stop it completely, but enough to question it. Why am
I going in the same direction again? What am I expecting? What am I holding?
These questions do not stop the pattern immediately. But they slow it down. And
maybe that is how change begins. Not by forcing something different. But by
seeing clearly what is repeating.
Chapter 20: Where I Stand Now
After everything that has been seen so far —
the thoughts, the loops, the body reactions, the silence, the confusion about
truth, the movement of escape, the patterns in love, the repeating cycles —
there is a natural question that comes, not as a conclusion but almost as a
checkpoint: where do I stand now in all this?
It does not feel like I have reached
something. There is no strong sense of ‘I understand everything now.’ In many
ways, things feel more open than before. Less fixed. Less certain. Earlier,
there were clearer assumptions — about myself, about others, about how things
work. Now, those assumptions are not as strong.
The mind still moves. Thoughts still come.
Loops still happen. Nothing has completely stopped. There are still moments of
overthinking, still moments of getting caught, still moments of reacting
without awareness. So in that sense, nothing is fully solved.
But something has changed. Earlier, most of
this was happening without being seen. Now, at least sometimes, it is visible.
The loop is seen. The body reaction is seen. The attachment is seen. The
expectation is seen. Not always. But sometimes. And that ‘sometimes’ matters.
There is also less certainty about
conclusions. Less tendency to say ‘this is the truth’ or ‘this is the way.’
Because every time something feels like a conclusion, something else appears
that does not fit into it. There is also less confidence in the mind’s first
reaction — sometimes there is a pause, a slight question: ‘Is this actually
what is happening?’
There is also something else — a slight
reduction in urgency. Earlier, there was a strong need to figure things out.
Now, that need is still there, but not as strong all the time. Sometimes,
things are just left as they are. Not solved. Not completed. And that does not
always feel wrong.
So where do I stand now? Not at an answer.
Not at an end. But somewhere in between. Seeing some things. Missing some
things. Understanding some parts. Confused about others. Moving — not in a
fixed direction. Just moving. And for now, that seems to be where it is.
Chapter 21: Not a Conclusion
There is a natural tendency to end things
properly — to conclude, to summarise, to arrive somewhere clear after going
through so much. But sitting here after all this, it does not feel like
something has ended. It feels more like something has opened, and is still
open.
There is no final clarity. No statement that
feels complete. No understanding that holds in all situations. If anything,
what has reduced is the confidence in quick conclusions. Whatever is understood
feels partial. Temporary. Context-based.
There are still moments of confusion. Still
moments of getting caught in thought. Still moments of emotional involvement.
Nothing has completely disappeared. But there is a slight shift in how things
are seen. Thoughts are not always taken as truth. Feelings are not always taken
as final. Reactions are not always followed immediately. Not always. But
sometimes.
There is also less urgency. Less pressure to
figure everything out. Less need to reach a final answer. Not because answers
are not important. But because it is seen that answers do not stay.
There are still questions about truth, about
self, about how to live. But those questions are no longer demanding immediate
answers. They remain open. There is no clear identity formed out of all this.
Not someone who knows. Not someone who has understood. Just someone who is
seeing a little more clearly at times. And missing it at other times.
So this is not a conclusion. Because nothing
has concluded. It is more like a pause — a place where things are left as they
are. Not solved. Not completed. Just seen, as much as they can be seen right
now. What comes next is not clear. And maybe it does not need to be. So this is
not an ending. It is just where things are, at this moment. Unfinished. Open.
The Act of Slowing Down
There is something very subtle that I started
noticing: the mind that overthinks is not alone. The body also starts living in
the same pattern — walking fast, eating fast, talking fast, thinking fast.
Everything becomes a rush. And when the body lives in constant hurry, the mind
never learns to slow down.
We keep looking for peace outside — in
places, in people, in situations. But there is no place in this world that can
give you permanent peace. Peace is not outside. It is the state of your system.
When you slow down your body, you are not
just slowing movement. You are sending a signal to your nervous system: ‘There
is no danger. Everything is okay. You can relax.’
And slowly, something starts changing. The
breath becomes deeper. The body becomes lighter. The mind becomes less
reactive. This is not something dramatic. It is very simple. Walk a little
slower. Eat a little slower. Sit without rushing. Breathe without forcing.
And in that slowing down, a different quality
appears — a quietness. And once that quietness is within you, it does not
depend on where you are. Wherever you go, that peace goes with you. You do not
find peace in places. You carry it.
If your body is rushed, your mind will be
rushed. If your body learns to slow down, your mind slowly follows. And maybe
this is where peace begins. Not by searching more. But by slowing down.
Chapter 1: The First Disturbance
It did not begin with understanding. It began
with something being off.
There was no clear reason for it. Nothing
dramatic happened. Life, from the outside, was moving normally. Conversations
were happening. Work was going on. People were around. Nothing was missing in a
visible way.
Yet something inside did not sit right.
It was not sadness. It was not exactly
anxiety. It was not even confusion in the usual sense. It was more like a
constant background noise.
Something was always running. Even in moments
where everything should have been calm, there was movement inside — not
physical movement, but mental. A kind of inner activity that did not stop.
At first, it was ignored. Like most things
are. Because it did not demand attention strongly. It was subtle. Manageable.
Easy to distract from.
But over time, it became more visible. Not
because it became stronger, but because I started noticing it.
It started with small observations. Sitting
alone, and suddenly realising that the mind is not quiet. There is always
something: a replay of something that already happened, a preparation for
something that has not happened, an imagined conversation, a response to a
question nobody asked.
And it was not occasional. It was continuous.
One moment it was about the past — revisiting
something that had already ended. Not just remembering it, but modifying it.
‘What if I had said this instead?’ ‘What if that moment had gone differently?’
Even when I knew clearly that nothing could be changed, the mind kept trying,
as if it had the power to rewrite reality.
Another moment, it shifted to the future. Not
planning in a practical way, but preparing mentally for situations that may
never happen. Someone asking a question. Someone judging. Someone
misunderstanding. And I would start answering, explaining, defending — all
inside my own head.
This was strange. Because there was no real
situation. Yet the body was reacting. The heart rate would change. There would
be a slight tension, a sense of alertness, as if something important was
actually happening.
This is where the first crack appeared. A
simple but uncomfortable question: if nothing is happening outside, then why is
so much happening inside?
At first, I thought this was normal — that
everyone must be like this. And maybe that is true. But that did not answer the
real question. Normal does not mean understood.
The more I observed, the more I saw a
pattern. The mind does not stay empty. It fills itself. If there is no real
input, it creates its own. And once it creates, it starts believing.
There was also something else — a very subtle
attachment to these thoughts. Even when they were uncomfortable, there was a
tendency to stay with them, to keep thinking, to go deeper. Almost as if
stopping them was not even considered.
It was not just about thoughts. The body was
involved. A thought about something stressful would create a physical reaction.
And that physical reaction would make the thought feel more real. Then the mind
would say: ‘See, this is important.’ And the cycle would continue.
Slowly, it became clear that this was not
random. There was a structure to it — a loop. A thought appears. The body
reacts. The reaction confirms the thought. And the thought becomes stronger.
Once this was seen, something shifted. Not
solved. Not removed. But seen. And that changes something. Because before this,
everything felt like one single experience. Now, there was a small distance — a
slight separation between what is happening and the one noticing it.
This separation was not stable. Sometimes it
was there. Sometimes it disappeared. Sometimes I was fully inside the thought.
Sometimes I could watch it. But once you see something even once, you cannot
completely unsee it.
And that is how it started — not with truth,
not with realisation, but with a disturbance. A quiet noticing that something
inside is always moving.
Chapter 2: The Loop
After the first disturbance was noticed, it
did not take long to see that it was not just random noise. There was a pattern
to it. At first, it looked like thoughts coming and going, as they always do.
But when seen closely, it was not that simple. Thoughts were not just appearing
and disappearing. They were building something, and that something was
repeating.
A thought would appear — sometimes very
small, almost harmless. It could be about something that had already happened
or something that might happen. On its own, it did not seem powerful. But the
moment attention went to it, something changed. The body started reacting: a
slight tightening in the chest, a small shift in breathing, a faint sense of
alertness. Nothing extreme, but enough to be felt.
Then something strange would happen. The
body’s reaction would not stay separate — it would feed the thought. The mind
would look at the sensation and interpret it: ‘If the body is reacting, this
must be important.’ That one conclusion was enough to give the thought weight.
It was no longer just a passing idea. It had become something real — something
that needed to be understood, solved, or controlled.
Once it reached that stage, it did not stop.
The mind would start expanding it. One thought would lead to another, and then
another. The situation would become more detailed, more intense. Conversations
would be imagined. Outcomes would be predicted. Problems would be created and
then attempts to solve them would follow — all of this without anything
actually occurring outside.
At the same time, the body kept responding.
The more the thought expanded, the more the body reacted. The more the body
reacted, the more the mind believed the thought. It became a closed system —
thought influencing body, body confirming thought — with no external check, no
interruption, just a continuous loop feeding itself.
The most confusing part was that it felt
real. Not logically real, but experientially real. Even when there was an
awareness that nothing was actually happening, the feeling did not match that
understanding. The body does not care about logic; it responds to what is being
experienced internally. So even an imagined situation could create real stress,
real fear, real discomfort.
At some point, the loop would become
exhausting. There would be a moment of stepping back — either out of awareness
or simply tiredness — and suddenly everything would drop. The same thought that
felt so heavy a few minutes ago would lose its intensity. The body would calm
down. The urgency would disappear. And then a strange realisation would come:
nothing had actually happened.
But this did not stop the loop from forming
again. It would come back in a different form. Different thought, same
structure. Different story, same pattern. It did not matter what the content
was — whether it was about the past, the future, a person, a mistake, or a
possibility. The mechanism remained the same.
Over time, it became clear that the problem
was not any specific thought. Removing one thought did not change anything,
because another one would take its place. The mind was not dependent on a
particular topic — it only needed something to hold onto. Once it found
something, it would build on it.
There was also a subtle pull to stay inside
the loop. Even when it was uncomfortable, there was a kind of involvement in
it. It was not forced — it was almost voluntary, but not consciously chosen. It
felt like being drawn in, with attention constantly returning to the same
thought as if trying to resolve it. But resolution never came.
This created another layer of confusion. If
it is uncomfortable, why not leave it? If it is clearly not useful, why stay in
it? There was no clear answer, because it did not feel like a decision — it
felt automatic.
At some point, a different kind of
observation began. Instead of focusing on the thought itself, the focus shifted
to the process — not ‘what am I thinking?’ but ‘what is happening right now?’
And in that shift, the structure of the loop became more visible.
The moment attention stayed on a thought, the
loop started. The moment attention moved away — even slightly — the loop
weakened. It did not disappear instantly, but it lost its force. The connection
between thought and body was not permanent; it was being maintained through
attention.
This did not mean control. Thoughts still
appeared, and it was not possible to simply stop them. But there was a
difference between a thought appearing and a thought being followed. That small
difference started to matter.
Gradually, a simple understanding formed —
not as a conclusion, but as something directly observed. The mind creates, the
body reacts, and together they convince each other. It is not one controlling
the other; it is a cycle. And once seen, the question changed. It was no longer
‘how do I stop this?’ but ‘is it necessary to stay in it?’
The loop did not disappear. But it was no
longer completely invisible. And that made all the difference.
Chapter 3: The Pull Towards Silence
After noticing the loop again and again,
something else started happening — not planned, not even intentional. It came
as a natural response. The more the mind was seen in this repetitive movement,
the more there arose a quiet desire to step away from it. Not out of rejection
or frustration, but more like a simple feeling: there must be something beyond
this constant noise.
It was not a dramatic thought. It was softer
— almost like a background pull. A curiosity mixed with tiredness. If the mind
keeps running like this, creating loops and reacting to its own creations, then
what is there when this stops? Or does it ever stop?
There were moments — very small ones — where
the mind was not actively involved in anything. No strong thought, no emotional
pull, no inner conversation. Just a kind of stillness. These moments were not
created; they came on their own. And they did not stay for long. But something
about them felt different. Not exciting. Not emotional. Just quiet. And
strangely, in that quiet, nothing was missing.
The moment the mind noticed the silence, it
would come back almost immediately, as if it could not tolerate that emptiness
for too long. It would bring a thought — any thought — just to fill the space
again. And then the usual process would start. But now there was a contrast.
Earlier, everything felt the same because
there was no reference. Now there were two different experiences: the constant
movement of the mind, and that brief stillness. And because both were seen, a
question naturally followed — what is more real? The noise that keeps changing,
or the silence that does not try to become anything?
This is where reading started to connect —
not as belief, but as comparison. When I came across ideas from the Upanishads,
especially the Mandukya Upanishad, they did not feel completely abstract. They
spoke about states — waking, dreaming, deep sleep, and something beyond.
Earlier, this had sounded like philosophy. But now, in a very small way, it
felt relatable.
There was also this idea that what we usually
experience is not the full picture — that there is something underlying all
states, something that is not constantly changing the way thoughts and emotions
do. I could not say I experienced that clearly, but the direction made sense.
Because whatever I was observing inside myself was always changing. If
something is always changing, can that be the final thing?
At the same time, there was another pull — a
more practical one. Life was still happening: work, people, conversations,
responsibilities. And even if I tried to think about only exploring silence,
something inside did not fully agree. Because the same mind that wanted silence
was also getting involved in life. This created a kind of inner contradiction.
This is where the question about detachment
became stronger. Not as an idea from books, but as a personal confusion. If
silence feels real in those brief moments, should everything else be reduced?
Or is that another movement of the mind trying to escape something it does not
understand?
Even when reading the Bhagavad Gita, it did
not offer a simple conclusion. On one side, there is talk of detachment — of
not being affected by outcomes. On the other side, there is action: not
withdrawal, but participation; not leaving the battlefield, but standing in it.
These questions did not resolve anything
immediately. But they changed the direction of looking. It was no longer just
about stopping thoughts or escaping the loop. It became something deeper —
understanding the place of both movement and stillness. The small glimpses of
silence continued to appear, and disappear. They did not become stable. But
they left an impression — not as something to chase, but as something that
exists without effort. And that was enough to keep the question alive. Not
answered. Just alive.
Chapter 4: The Conflict of Two Directions
As the observation deepened, one thing became
more visible than before — not just the loop of thoughts or the occasional
silence, but something more constant, something that stayed in the background
of everything. A kind of inner conflict. Not loud. Not always disturbing. But
present.
On one side, there was a pull towards
silence. Those small gaps where nothing was running inside had a different
quality — they did not excite, but they also did not disturb. There was no
effort in them, no trying to become anything. Just a simple sense of being
there without movement.
On the other side, life was still moving.
Conversations, work, relationships, responsibilities. Situations that required
attention, involvement, and decision. The mind had to function — think,
respond, act. There was no way to stay completely withdrawn and still
participate.
This created a strange position. Because both
seemed valid. Silence felt true in one way. Involvement felt necessary in
another. And the difficulty was not in choosing one over the other — it was
that both were happening together.
At times, there was a desire to move away
from everything — not out of hatred, but a quiet thought: if I reduce
involvement, maybe the mind will become quieter. But at the same time,
situations will come. People will come. Responsibilities will remain. And
avoiding them does not feel like clarity — it feels incomplete.
In the Bhagavad Gita, there is the idea that
action cannot be avoided, that even not acting is a form of action, and more
importantly, that the focus is not on leaving action but on how action is
performed (Bhagavad Gita 3.5). This shifted the question slightly. Maybe the
problem is not the action itself. Maybe the problem is something within action.
There was also a repeated emphasis on
detachment — not being affected by results, not getting lost in outcomes
(Bhagavad Gita 2.47). But what does that actually mean in experience? Because
when something happens, the reaction is immediate. Emotions come, thoughts
come, the body responds. Detachment cannot simply mean becoming insensitive.
And slowly it became visible that the
disturbance is not in the action itself — it is in the attachment to what comes
from it. The mind does not just act; it also projects. It imagines results,
creates expectations, holds onto possibilities. And when those do not match
reality, disturbance comes.
So the conflict was not just between silence
and action. It was also between expectation and reality. Even in moments of
silence, if there was a subtle expectation — this should stay, this should
deepen — that itself created movement. And in action, if there was a constant
pull towards outcome, the action was never complete in itself.
This is where another kind of seeing started
— not choosing silence over action, not choosing action over silence, but
noticing how the mind moves in both. Both movements come from the same place:
the mind trying to find stability. But stability does not seem to come from
either. The question was no longer ‘which path is right?’ but: is it possible
to live without dividing these two?
Chapter 5: Can I Trust What I Feel?
At some point, the problem was no longer just
thoughts — not even the loop. Something more unsettling started to appear. It
was the realisation that even my own experience might not be fully reliable.
Many times, the body was already in a certain
state before any clear thought appeared. There would be a sudden uneasiness —
no reason, no story, just a shift in the body. And almost immediately, the mind
would try to explain it. It would search for a cause: something from the past,
something about the future, something about a person. It did not matter what it
picked — it just needed something to attach to.
But when seen carefully, that connection did
not always feel true. The body reacted first. The mind explained later. This
created a crack in something very basic — the idea that what I feel must be
correct. Because if the body can react without a clear reason, and the mind can
create a reason afterwards, then how much of what I feel is actually real?
There were moments where this became very
visible. A sudden tension would appear in the body, and the mind would
immediately say: something is wrong. Within seconds, a full story would form
around it. But if attention stayed without jumping into the story, the
sensation would slowly change. Sometimes it would even disappear without any
explanation. Just gone.
Then the question came: if it can disappear
on its own, was it ever pointing to something real? Or was it just a reaction
passing through? This did not mean that everything is false. There are real
situations, real emotions, real consequences. The confusion was not about
denying reality — it was about seeing that not everything that feels real is
actually pointing to something outside.
There were also moments where the reaction
itself became the problem. The discomfort of it, the uneasiness of it. And then
another thought would come: ‘Why is this happening?’ or ‘This should not be
happening.’ Now it was no longer just a reaction — it had become resistance to
the reaction. And that made it stronger.
So there are layers: a sensation, then a
thought explaining it, then another thought resisting it. And all of this feels
like one single experience. But when seen slowly, they are different.
This introduced doubt — not in a negative
way, but in a clarifying way. Doubt about immediate conclusions. Doubt about
the first explanation that comes. And in that doubt, there is a small space.
Less certain. And that uncertainty, in some moments, feels more honest than
false certainty. The body reacts. The mind explains. And somewhere in between,
something watches. Not always. But sometimes. And those moments are enough to
keep looking.
Chapter 6: The Memory of Love
Not all loops come from fear. Some come from
something that once felt very real, very alive, and very complete — and those
loops are harder to see clearly, because they do not feel like disturbance in
the beginning. They feel like something valuable, something worth holding.
There were moments where connection with
someone did not feel like effort — it was just there, naturally. Attention
going towards them without trying. Thinking about them without forcing it.
Wanting to share things, wanting to be seen by them. And somewhere in that,
there was a sense of meaning, as though something in life had more depth than
usual.
Without realising it, the mind started
attaching not just to the person, but to the way it felt to be with them. The
way it felt to be understood. The way it felt to be important in someone’s
life. At that time, it did not look like attachment — it just felt natural.
Like this is how things should be.
But slowly something started changing. Not
immediately, not dramatically — just small shifts. Conversations reduced,
energy changed, misunderstandings happened. And while all this was happening
outside, something inside did not move at the same speed. The mind did not
accept that the experience was changing. It kept holding onto what had been —
replaying moments again and again. And in that replay, the experience almost
felt alive again, even though it was not happening now.
This is where a different kind of loop
started forming. Not like the earlier ones about fear or anxiety — this one was
quieter but deeper. It was not trying to solve anything; it was trying to hold
something, to keep it alive in some form. And there was also a subtle hope
inside it: that maybe it could happen again. Maybe with the same person, maybe
with someone else, but the same feeling, the same intensity.
Without noticing it clearly, the mind was not
just remembering — it was comparing. Everything new was being seen through the
lens of what had already happened. And because of that, nothing felt quite
enough. Something always felt missing.
There were also moments where the mind went
into the past not just to remember, but to change it — thinking about what
could have been done differently. As if by thinking about it enough times,
something might shift. But nothing changed. The situation was already over. Yet
it continued inside, creating a strange state where memory, imagination, and
longing all existed together.
At the same time, this was not something that
could simply be dropped. Letting go felt like losing something important, even
if that thing was no longer actually present. One part could see that holding
on was creating disturbance, while another part did not want to let go. Because
letting go felt like ending something completely.
Even after seeing all this, the pull does not
disappear completely. The memories still come. The feelings still arise. But
perhaps there is a small difference: earlier it all felt like the present; now
sometimes it is seen as something being replayed. Just enough to notice that
what is being held is not actually here anymore. And maybe that is where
something begins to loosen. Not forced. Not decided. Just slowly, through
seeing.
Chapter 7: The Many Versions of Me
At some point, the question was no longer
just about thoughts or emotions. It slowly turned towards something more direct
and uncomfortable: who exactly is the one going through all of this? Because
the more I started looking, the less stable this ‘me’ felt. It did not feel
like one solid thing — it felt like something that keeps changing depending on
the situation, the person, the mood, even the time of day.
There are moments where I feel very clear,
almost as though I understand things. And then there are moments where all of
that disappears completely, and I am fully inside reactions, inside emotions,
inside confusion. Both of these feel like me. But they are completely different
from each other. And this is not just two versions — there are many.
With one person I behave in one way; with
another, completely differently. In one situation I feel confident; in another,
uncertain. In one moment I want silence; in another, I want connection. All of
these feel real when they are happening. But when I look at them together, they
do not form one clear identity — they contradict each other.
This creates a strange question: which one is
actually me? The one who wants to be alone, or the one who wants to be with
someone? The one who understands things, or the one who gets completely lost?
There is no clear answer, because each version feels true when it appears.
There is also the identity given by the world
— the name, the role, the work, the way others see me. Different people see
different things. For one person I am understanding; for another, careless. For
one I am important; for another, just another person. None of these is fully
wrong, but none of them feels complete either.
Then there is the identity I create for
myself — the story I tell myself. But even that keeps changing. Sometimes I
feel like someone who is searching, trying to understand. Sometimes I feel like
I am just confused, going in circles.
This is where something from the Upanishads
starts to come into the picture again — not as something believed, but as
something that connects slightly with what is being seen. The idea that what we
usually identify as ‘self’ is not the complete picture; that there is something
beyond the waking, dreaming, and deep sleep states (Mandukya Upanishad). While
this is not fully understood, it creates a direction of looking.
At some point, a simple observation becomes
clear: ‘me’ is not one thing. It is a collection of movements — thoughts,
emotions, reactions, roles — all appearing and disappearing. And depending on
which one is active, that becomes ‘me’ in that moment. The search is no longer
about defining ‘me’ in a fixed way. It becomes more about watching how ‘me’
keeps forming and dissolving. Not defined. But seen.
Chapter 8: What Is Truth Then?
At some point, after looking at thoughts,
loops, silence, body reactions, love, and even the shifting sense of ‘me’, a
different kind of question started coming up — not about a specific experience,
but about something more fundamental: what is actually true in all of this?
Everything that is seen keeps changing. So if everything is changing, what can
be called truth?
This question did not come from reading alone
— it came from seeing contradiction. Not just in myself, but in what others
have said. Different masters say different things, sometimes even opposite
things. One says the world is illusion; another says the world is real but
misunderstood. One says leave everything; another says live fully. All of them
sound convincing in their own way.
This creates a confusion — not about who is
right or wrong, but about the nature of truth itself. Because if truth is one,
why are there so many different expressions of it?
There was a time when it felt like finding
the right teaching would solve everything. But now it does not feel that
simple, because even in those texts there are layers, different
interpretations, different ways of understanding the same thing. And what I
understand today might change tomorrow.
When reading about silence being the
ultimate, it feels true in moments where the mind is quiet. But when life
becomes active, that same statement feels incomplete. And when reading about
action and duty, it feels relevant in daily life. But when sitting alone, it
feels as though there is something beyond action. So both seem true in
different moments — but not complete on their own.
There is also a line that becomes clearer
over time — not as a belief, but as something that feels reasonable: truth does
not need a perfect messenger, and no messenger deserves complete surrender.
Because if something is true, it should stand on its own, not on the authority
of who said it.
So the approach slowly changes — from trying
to find truth somewhere outside, to observing what is happening directly. Not
rejecting teachings, but not depending on them completely either. Using them as
pointers, not as conclusions. The question ‘what is truth?’ remains open. Not
answered. Not concluded. Because any answer given too quickly starts becoming
another belief.
Chapter 9: The Two Ways of Living
At some point, after moving through all these
observations, one question kept coming back in a very practical way: how should
I live? Because whatever is being seen inside does not stay limited to thinking
— it starts affecting choices, actions, direction, and the way everyday life
feels.
There seem to be two very different
directions. One is to move away from everything — reduce involvement, reduce
noise, reduce desire — and slowly go towards silence. The other is to stay in
life fully. To work, to build relationships, to experience things, to respond
to situations, to take responsibility.
The difficulty is that both directions seem
valid. There are moments where stepping back feels right — where silence feels
more real than anything else. And there are moments where that same idea feels
incomplete, almost like an escape.
The distinction becomes clearer when looking
at it through what has been read. There is the path of the yogi, who leaves,
who reduces, who moves towards the inner completely. And there is the path of
the householder, who stays, who participates, who lives within the world. Both
are valid — but they are not the same. A yogi can afford to step away. A
householder cannot, at least not completely.
This is where the confusion was earlier —
trying to apply one path to another kind of life. Trying to live in the world,
but also trying to function like someone who has left it. That creates
imbalance, because the expectations do not match the situation.
There is also something from the Bhagavad
Gita that keeps coming back — that action is unavoidable, and that what matters
is not avoiding action but how one relates to it (Bhagavad Gita 3.5). And also
the idea of not being completely tied to outcomes (Bhagavad Gita 2.47).
A simple observation starts forming: whatever
role is being played in the moment requires full presence. If working, then
working fully. If talking to someone, then being there fully. And at the same
time, not carrying that role beyond its time, not making it the whole identity.
Because the problem is not the role itself. The problem is becoming the role.
Running away from life in the name of
detachment creates its own conflict. And getting lost in life without awareness
creates another. So neither extreme seems complete. It is not about defining
the right path. It is more about seeing clearly what is happening in each
direction. And slowly, through that, something may settle on its own. Not
decided. Not forced. But understood through living.
Chapter 10: The Desire to Escape
At some point, it became difficult to ignore
a very subtle but strong movement inside — something present in different forms
across all these observations. And that was the desire to escape. Not always
clearly visible, not always admitted, but present: sometimes appearing as a
search for silence, sometimes as a need for clarity. But underneath all of
that, there was a common direction — moving away from what feels uncomfortable.
It did not look like escape in the beginning.
It looked like seeking — seeking truth, seeking peace, seeking understanding.
But when seen more honestly, there were moments where this seeking was not
coming from clarity, but from discomfort. From not wanting to feel certain
things. From not wanting to stay with certain experiences.
For example, when the mind became too noisy,
the immediate pull was towards silence. On the surface, this looked like a
movement towards something deeper. But at the same time, there was also a sense
that it was a reaction to discomfort. Not always. But sometimes.
There is also another form of escape that is
less obvious — escaping into thinking. When something feels uncomfortable,
instead of directly feeling it, the mind starts analysing, understanding,
breaking it down. This feels like progress. But sometimes it is just another
way of not staying with the actual experience. Even the search for truth can
become an escape.
This does not mean that seeking is wrong, or
that silence is not valid. It only shows that the intention behind it is not
always clear. This creates another layer of observation — not just what I am
doing, but why I am doing it.
And slowly, a pattern starts becoming
visible. The mind does not like discomfort. It moves away from it — in
different directions. Sometimes towards pleasure. Sometimes towards
understanding. Sometimes towards silence. But the movement is the same: away from
what is.
Seeing it changes something — not completely,
but slightly. Because earlier, the movement felt like the right thing to do.
Now sometimes, it is seen as a reaction. And in those moments, there is a small
pause. Where nothing is done immediately. No escape. No solution. Just the
discomfort. Those moments are not comfortable. But they are direct. Not moving
away. Not fixing. Just being with what is there.
Chapter 11: Staying With What Is
After seeing the movement of escape in
different forms, there were moments where something slightly different started
happening — not as a practice, not as a decision, but almost as a consequence
of seeing. Instead of immediately moving away from what felt uncomfortable,
there was sometimes a pause. A small gap where nothing was done. And in that
gap, the usual patterns did not start immediately.
This was not something stable. Most of the
time, the old movement continued. But sometimes, just sometimes, there was a
moment where the reaction was seen early enough, and instead of following it,
there was just staying. Not trying to change it. Not trying to understand it.
Not trying to escape it. Just staying with it.
This is not as simple as it sounds. Because
when discomfort is there, the natural tendency is to move — to fix, to reduce,
to distract. So staying feels almost unnatural.
There were also moments where this happened
with body sensations. A sudden uneasiness, a tightness, a restlessness.
Earlier, this would immediately turn into a problem. But in some moments, that
chain did not fully form. The sensation was there, but it was not immediately
converted into something else. And something unexpected happened: the sensation
changed on its own. Without being solved. Without being understood. It came,
stayed, and then slowly reduced.
Staying can easily turn into another form of
doing — trying to stay, forcing attention, making it into a method. And the
moment that happens, it becomes another effort, another control. So even here,
there is something to watch: whether staying is natural, or whether it is being
forced.
Those moments of natural staying are not
special. They do not feel like realisation. They are very ordinary. But in
those ordinary moments, something is slightly different. There is no rush. No
immediate need to change anything. And maybe that is enough for now — not a
solution, not an end, just a different way of being with what is already there.
Without moving away immediately. Just staying. Even if only for a moment.
Chapter 12: When Understanding Becomes Another Trap
At some point, there was a subtle shift that
became visible: even this whole process of trying to understand was taking a
certain shape, and that shape itself had started behaving like a pattern. It
did not feel wrong. In fact, it felt meaningful. But somewhere in between,
there was a slight heaviness that started appearing. Almost like: ‘I need to
figure this out.’
When something uncomfortable would happen,
the mind would immediately go into understanding mode. Why is this happening?
What pattern is this? On the surface, it looked like awareness. But sometimes
it felt like another way of not just being with what was there — turning
everything into something to be understood.
There is a certain satisfaction in
understanding. When something becomes clear, there is a sense of relief. A
feeling that something has been resolved. Even if the actual experience has not
changed. This creates a subtle trap, because the mind starts chasing that
clarity. But every time something is understood, something new appears. Another
layer. Another question. The movement does not end.
The problem is not understanding itself. The
problem is the dependency on it. The need for everything to make sense. Because
life does not always present itself in a way that can be fully understood.
There are things that remain unclear, incomplete, unresolved. And sometimes,
that gap does not need to be filled.
But there were a few moments where this need
to understand was not followed. Where something was unclear, and it was left
that way. Not solved. Not defined. And those moments did not feel wrong. They
felt open.
Understanding still happens. But it is not
forced. Not chased. And maybe that is the difference. Not stopping
understanding, but not depending on it completely. Because if every experience
needs to be understood before it can be accepted, then acceptance never really
happens.
Chapter 13: The Fear of Losing Myself
Somewhere along this whole movement of
observing and questioning, a new kind of fear started appearing — not very
loud, not always present, but noticeable enough. And it was not about anything
outside. It was something more subtle: the fear of losing myself.
It showed up in smaller ways: sometimes as
hesitation, sometimes as a slight resistance, sometimes as a pull to go back to
something familiar. Because as things started becoming less fixed, the sense of
‘me’ also started becoming less solid. Earlier there was at least some idea of
who I am — even if not completely accurate, it was something to hold onto. But
now, with all this observation, that stability was not as strong.
There were moments where this felt freeing —
not being fixed meant not being limited. But there were also moments where it
felt uncomfortable. Almost like something was slipping. And this is where fear
comes in. Not as panic, but as a subtle background question: ‘If I keep going
like this, what will I become?’
There is a practical side to this too. Life
still requires functioning. Decisions have to be made. Actions have to be
taken. Those actions usually come from some sense of self, some identity. So if
that identity becomes unclear, how does one function?
This also connects with something read before
— that the sense of self we usually carry is not the final one, that what we
call ‘I’ is often a combination of thoughts, memories, roles, and
identifications (Upanishads). That something deeper is being pointed to beyond
all this. But that idea, while it sounds meaningful, is not something that is
fully experienced here. It remains more like a direction.
There were also moments where this fear was
not there — where things were just happening, actions were happening, responses
were happening, without constantly referring back to a defined ‘me’. But those
moments did not stay.
At this point, it is not about resolving this
fear. It is more about seeing it clearly — when it appears, how it appears,
what it is connected to. Not removing the fear. Not overcoming it. But not
ignoring it either. Just seeing that even the fear of losing myself is part of
this whole movement. And like everything else, it also comes and goes.
Chapter 14: The Ordinary Moment
After moving through all these questions,
loops, observations, confusions, and small glimpses of clarity, something
unexpected started becoming visible — not something new, not something
extraordinary, but something that was always there and somehow always
overlooked. And that was the ordinary moment.
There was always a tendency to look for
something more. More clarity. More silence. More understanding. Even when
things became slightly clear, the mind would still move ahead, looking for the
next thing. As if what is here right now is not enough.
But there were moments — not many — where
this movement slowed down. Not because something was achieved, but simply
because there was nothing particular happening. No strong thought. No strong
emotion. No problem to solve. Just a normal moment. Earlier, these moments were
ignored. Because they did not feel important. They were just ordinary.
But when looked at closely, there was
something different about them. There was no pressure. No urgency. No need to
become something else. Nothing was missing in that moment — even though nothing
special was present. In that, there is a kind of ease. Not strong, not
immediately noticeable. But there.
It is not something to hold onto — because
the moment you try to hold it, it is no longer ordinary. It becomes something
else. It is also not something that can be created, because it was always
there. Just unnoticed.
This changes something slightly. The constant
search for something more is not as strong all the time. Not because everything
is understood or resolved. But because there is a glimpse that maybe not
everything needs to be different. Life does not always have to feel intense to
be complete. The ordinary moment appears, again and again, quietly, without
asking for attention. And whether it is noticed or not, it remains.
Chapter 15: Nothing Stays
After everything that has been seen so far,
one thing starts becoming difficult to ignore — not as an idea, but as
something that keeps showing itself again and again. And that is this: nothing
stays. Not thoughts. Not emotions. Not clarity. Not confusion. Not even the
sense of understanding.
There were moments where things felt very
clear, where the mind was quiet, where everything felt simple, almost settled.
And in those moments, it felt like this might stay. But it did not stay.
Without any clear reason, the same mind that was quiet became active again.
Thoughts returned. Confusion returned.
The same happens with emotions. There are
moments of attachment, intensity, longing — and they feel strong, almost
permanent. But after some time, they reduce, they change, sometimes they
disappear. And when they are gone, it becomes difficult to understand why they
felt so strong.
This constant change creates a strange
situation. Because the mind keeps trying to hold onto something stable.
Something that can remain. But whatever is chosen, it changes. If a moment of
silence comes, there is a subtle desire to continue it. But this effort itself
creates movement. The moment there is an attempt to hold, there is already
tension.
This makes it clear that maybe the problem is
not that things change. Maybe the problem is the expectation that something
should not change. Because change seems natural — everything that is being
observed moves. So expecting stability from something that is constantly moving
creates conflict.
There were also moments where things were
changing, but there was no resistance to that change. A thought came and went,
a feeling came and went, and there was no attempt to hold or push away. Those
moments felt lighter. Not because something special was added, but because
something unnecessary was not there.
Trying to find something permanent in what is
constantly changing may not lead anywhere. The observation continues — not
towards finding something that stays, but perhaps towards understanding this
movement of change itself. And for now, that is where it remains.
Chapter 16: The Way I Loved
There were moments in life where connection
did not feel like something I was doing — it just happened. Naturally, without
effort. Attention going towards someone without trying. Caring without
planning. And in those moments, it did not feel like something separate from
me; it felt like it was just happening on its own.
It was not just about liking someone. There
was a kind of involvement where their presence affected everything — the way
the day felt, the way conversations happened, even the way I saw myself. And in
that involvement, there was something that felt meaningful, like life had more
depth than usual.
There was also a certain intensity in it —
not always visible from outside, but very present inside. Small things
mattered. And somewhere in all this, I started giving more importance to that
connection than I probably realised at the time.
What started as something natural slowly
became something I was holding onto. Not just the person. But the feeling.
There was also expectation — not always spoken, not always clear, but present.
A certain way things should be. And when things did not move in that direction,
something inside reacted. At that time, it did not feel like expectation. It
felt like care. But now, when I look at it, there was something more — a need.
The connection was not just with the other
person — it was also shaping how I felt about myself. When things were good,
everything felt good. When things were unclear, everything felt uncertain. And
when things did not go the way I expected, the reaction was not just about the
situation. It felt deeper. It felt personal.
There was also a tendency to hold on — to
keep the connection alive through thinking, through remembering. But over time,
it became clear that not everything stays the same. Connections change. People
move. Situations shift. And when that happens, the intensity inside does not
always reduce at the same speed.
Slowly, something becomes visible: that what
is being held is not the person as they are now. It is the experience as it
was. And that is different. Not fully gone. But not completely real in the
present either. The way I loved was not just about the other person. It was
also about how I held that experience. And how I continued to hold it even when
it had already changed.
Chapter 17: When It Doesn't Come Back
After something has been felt deeply once,
there is a quiet expectation that it should come back in the same way — not
always as a clear thought, but as a background tendency. And when it does not
happen like that, something feels off, even if everything looks normal from
outside.
When something similar begins again, there is
a subtle comparison that starts without being invited. The mind checks: does
this feel the same? Is this as deep? And when it does not match exactly, there
is a slight dissatisfaction that is difficult to explain.
There were moments where this became clearer:
that what is being looked for is not the person in front. It is something from
before. An experience. And because of that, the present does not get full
attention — it is being measured.
There is also another layer: hope. Not always
clear, but present. That maybe it will become like before. Maybe with time.
Maybe with effort. And this hope keeps the mind engaged, keeps it thinking. But
reality does not always move in that direction.
There is also a tendency to try to bring it
back — through effort, through attention, through trying to understand the
other person. But what is being tried to bring back is not something that can
be recreated like that. Because it was not created intentionally in the
first place. It just happened.
There is also something else: attachment not
just to people, but to a certain version of experience. And that attachment
makes it difficult to see what is actually here, because what is here is always
being seen through what was.
Life does not repeat experiences — it moves.
And what is here now is not a continuation of what was, but something else.
Whether that is accepted or not is still not clear. But the seeing has started.
And that itself changes something.
Chapter 18: Devotion Without Knowing
There were moments where connection did not
feel like a choice — it felt like something that happened on its own. And in
those moments, there was a kind of involvement that was deeper than usual. Not
just liking, not just interest, but something that felt closer to devotion. Not
devotion in a religious sense. But in the way importance was given. The way
attention stayed.
In that state, giving did not feel like
effort. Caring did not feel like doing something extra. It felt natural. There
was also a kind of openness in it — less calculation, less control, more
involvement. And in that involvement, there was something beautiful. Something
that felt alive.
But at the same time, there was something
else not clearly seen: that in giving so much attention, something inside was
also becoming dependent. Not in a very obvious way, but subtly. The mood
started depending on how things were going. When things were good, everything
felt light. When things were unclear, everything felt disturbed.
There was also not much questioning in that
devotion. Things were taken as they were, accepted as they were. And that felt
good. But the lack of questioning also meant that certain things were not seen
clearly. Patterns were not noticed. Expectations were not fully visible.
At some point, when things changed, the
reaction was not just about that moment. It felt deeper. Because something that
had been held with a lot of openness was now not in the same place. And then
the mind started coming in, trying to understand. But what was being looked at
was not just the situation — it was also the way I had been involved.
One thing becomes slightly visible: that
devotion without awareness can easily become attachment. And attachment brings
its own movement, its own loops, its own disturbances. This does not mean
devotion is wrong. It only shows that when something is given importance
without seeing clearly, it shapes the way everything else is experienced.
Chapter 19: The Pattern I Keep Repeating
After going through these experiences again
and again — in different forms, with different people — something slowly
started becoming visible. Not immediately, not as a clear conclusion, but as a
pattern that keeps repeating. And that pattern was not outside. It was inside
the way I was moving.
There was always a phase of natural
connection where things flowed without effort. Then slowly, without clearly
noticing, something would increase: the importance, the attention, the
emotional investment. And along with that, expectation would come. Then there
would be moments of uncertainty. And that is where the mind would start working
more: thinking, analysing, trying to understand, trying to fix. And from there,
the loop would begin.
At first, it always felt like the situation
was different — that this time something would be different. But slowly, the
similarity started becoming visible. Not in what was happening outside, but in
how I was responding.
There was also a tendency to go deeper
quickly. To invest early. To give importance before things are fully clear. And
at that time, it did not feel wrong — it felt natural. But later, when things
became uncertain, that same involvement would become a source of disturbance.
But at some point, seeing becomes clearer.
That the pattern is not outside. It is about the way I move — the way I attach,
the way I expect, the way I hold. And once this is seen, something changes
slightly. The pattern does not disappear immediately. But it is no longer
completely invisible.
Earlier, it was happening without being
noticed. Now sometimes, it is seen while it is happening. And that creates a
small gap — not enough to stop it completely, but enough to question it. Why am
I going in the same direction again? What am I expecting? What am I holding?
These questions do not stop the pattern immediately. But they slow it down. And
maybe that is how change begins. Not by forcing something different. But by
seeing clearly what is repeating.
Chapter 20: Where I Stand Now
After everything that has been seen so far —
the thoughts, the loops, the body reactions, the silence, the confusion about
truth, the movement of escape, the patterns in love, the repeating cycles —
there is a natural question that comes, not as a conclusion but almost as a
checkpoint: where do I stand now in all this?
It does not feel like I have reached
something. There is no strong sense of ‘I understand everything now.’ In many
ways, things feel more open than before. Less fixed. Less certain. Earlier,
there were clearer assumptions — about myself, about others, about how things
work. Now, those assumptions are not as strong.
The mind still moves. Thoughts still come.
Loops still happen. Nothing has completely stopped. There are still moments of
overthinking, still moments of getting caught, still moments of reacting
without awareness. So in that sense, nothing is fully solved.
But something has changed. Earlier, most of
this was happening without being seen. Now, at least sometimes, it is visible.
The loop is seen. The body reaction is seen. The attachment is seen. The
expectation is seen. Not always. But sometimes. And that ‘sometimes’ matters.
There is also less certainty about
conclusions. Less tendency to say ‘this is the truth’ or ‘this is the way.’
Because every time something feels like a conclusion, something else appears
that does not fit into it. There is also less confidence in the mind’s first
reaction — sometimes there is a pause, a slight question: ‘Is this actually
what is happening?’
There is also something else — a slight
reduction in urgency. Earlier, there was a strong need to figure things out.
Now, that need is still there, but not as strong all the time. Sometimes,
things are just left as they are. Not solved. Not completed. And that does not
always feel wrong.
So where do I stand now? Not at an answer.
Not at an end. But somewhere in between. Seeing some things. Missing some
things. Understanding some parts. Confused about others. Moving — not in a
fixed direction. Just moving. And for now, that seems to be where it is.
Chapter 21: Not a Conclusion
There is a natural tendency to end things
properly — to conclude, to summarise, to arrive somewhere clear after going
through so much. But sitting here after all this, it does not feel like
something has ended. It feels more like something has opened, and is still
open.
There is no final clarity. No statement that
feels complete. No understanding that holds in all situations. If anything,
what has reduced is the confidence in quick conclusions. Whatever is understood
feels partial. Temporary. Context-based.
There are still moments of confusion. Still
moments of getting caught in thought. Still moments of emotional involvement.
Nothing has completely disappeared. But there is a slight shift in how things
are seen. Thoughts are not always taken as truth. Feelings are not always taken
as final. Reactions are not always followed immediately. Not always. But
sometimes.
There is also less urgency. Less pressure to
figure everything out. Less need to reach a final answer. Not because answers
are not important. But because it is seen that answers do not stay.
There are still questions about truth, about
self, about how to live. But those questions are no longer demanding immediate
answers. They remain open. There is no clear identity formed out of all this.
Not someone who knows. Not someone who has understood. Just someone who is
seeing a little more clearly at times. And missing it at other times.
So this is not a conclusion. Because nothing
has concluded. It is more like a pause — a place where things are left as they
are. Not solved. Not completed. Just seen, as much as they can be seen right
now. What comes next is not clear. And maybe it does not need to be. So this is
not an ending. It is just where things are, at this moment. Unfinished. Open.
The Act of Slowing Down
There is something very subtle that I started
noticing: the mind that overthinks is not alone. The body also starts living in
the same pattern — walking fast, eating fast, talking fast, thinking fast.
Everything becomes a rush. And when the body lives in constant hurry, the mind
never learns to slow down.
We keep looking for peace outside — in
places, in people, in situations. But there is no place in this world that can
give you permanent peace. Peace is not outside. It is the state of your system.
When you slow down your body, you are not
just slowing movement. You are sending a signal to your nervous system: ‘There
is no danger. Everything is okay. You can relax.’
And slowly, something starts changing. The
breath becomes deeper. The body becomes lighter. The mind becomes less
reactive. This is not something dramatic. It is very simple. Walk a little
slower. Eat a little slower. Sit without rushing. Breathe without forcing.
And in that slowing down, a different quality
appears — a quietness. And once that quietness is within you, it does not
depend on where you are. Wherever you go, that peace goes with you. You do not
find peace in places. You carry it.
If your body is rushed, your mind will be
rushed. If your body learns to slow down, your mind slowly follows. And maybe
this is where peace begins. Not by searching more. But by slowing down.
Comments