Being caught up in the self-improvement loop is better than indulging self-destructive alternatives. Still, you’re fundamentally operating from restlessness—wherein: Rather than letting the truest impulses find you, you are busy rushing things. Your mind compels you to bulletproof and forcefeed:

  • your ’’brain’’ with knowledge and information
  • your ’’persona’’ with newsletters, updates & feeds on social
  • your muscles and tendons with (over)corrective stretches and excessive exercise
  • your ’’gut’’ with supplements and supposedly nutritious foods
  • your ’’soul’’ with spiritual teachings


All too busy deferring and buffering against the very wholeness that you seek.




Terrified of negotiating your truest terms and asserting your deepest values, of letting the truth speak and letting the inevitable conflicts arise, of letting contrasts emerge and sparks fly and collisions occur, to see the ripple effects of the frustration of others rub off on you. Terrified of being abandoned, of being waked up from.

Walk the Talk

Transparency is the key that unlocks your contraction and absolves you from becoming the battered site of conflicting ego-vectors. The less you act (transparent) the more you feel compelled to retract and hide behind a camouflage or a fireworks of bombastic, barren words.


Feel your fear, heed the bitter, sour sounds of your fear, listen to its rumbling voice, follow it to its deepest reaching root, where it actually stems from, ferret out the seed of it and let it shoot into the story, the stalk, your character role, see the unfolding plot, the whole picture of it, spot the projected belief and sniff at the foul fragrance, the strong stench it emits, let it bloom full and drop its petals, one by one, all of those pale blue petals, and then, let it wither, on the spot, and rot.


When you engage outside the pattern of collective neurosis you risk rapport constantly as you trick them into forgetting and surrendering themselves out of the safety of the familiar personal form before they remember to flip out and squirm and resort to try and guilt and shame you into assuming proper character or a relatable role on the neurotic terms of ego and so you get triggered and you spew fuckoff yall smallminded mo fos inside I wont play by no rules of yours I wont play no victim shit I wont engage no power hour no manipulation no emotional chess no drama whatso ever I wont budge to the pull of no expectation I wont play no part NO FUCKEN PART wont abandon the truth for noonessake for crissakes wont take your crap on wont take it serious wont take it personal and I wont be responsible I wont harbour no false conscience fuckoffyall closedminded controlfreaks all you uptight frustrated troll bitches fuckoff yall narcissistic insecure pussies am ready to lose face, respect, rapport and touch, am ready to mess up, to let down, to abandon and be abandoned, am ready to be mocked, dissed and ridiculed, I ain’t nobody for anybody any longer FUCK YOU is all I got to say to you FUCK YOU, FUCK YOU, FUCKTHEFUCK YOUALL is all I get to say as on the tailend it frays and fizzles out and the aperture widens and what trickles is love nevertheless instead the love that shines with no flinch and no wince an open pupil that dilates the love that pulls all in and through out, irresistible, real, for real

Uncongeal on the Go

Heed—the fear-mongering, reverberating-berating, annoying noise rising from the rumbling belly of your ego-chamber. Witness the sinking, the slippage into a lower vibration, fear taking over and saturating your heart, with guilt, shame and anxiety rising, as you turn small-minded, heavy, dense, compacted and contracted, an ego with a narrow vantage, a victim, an underdog, desperate to protect and prove itself—and the instant you see it, regroup and reground on the spot, shake free of the cushy coils of the asphyxiating trance, the congealing quicksilver of self-image, the particular role you’ve obliviously assumed once again, let it all slough off as you reunite with the truth. Practice—to find your poise in the eye of any kind of psychological storm.

Rumbling Heart

There’s a constant tug of war inside—feeling guilty of falling short, of letting down, of disappointing others—feeling ashamed of proving to be an unworthy and undeserving spineless jello of a man, a self-absorbed prick, a wimp, a limp dick, posing as a stiff one, the cool motherfucker who is actually severely crippled by fear, terrified of ridicule and humiliation, of arousing more pity than love in others—feeling desperate to prove, to earn, to be liked, admired, etc. All this noise tearing up the depthless lake of stillness in the heart of my heart. Conscience is a reckless luxury, a moronic habit to cultivate.