Melancholy is a great way to bypass the truth (of the moment): Feels so good to wallow in self-pity and to feel the me being dissed, pissed, frustrated, misunderstood, abandoned, disturbed, annoyed, perturbed, inconvenienced and other ways victimized by fortuitous circumstances—jilted by girls, misjudged by other egos, bothered by noisy neighbours and enervating nocturnal emissions, etc.—it keeps everything deeply personal. It keeps the world revolve around me.

Without struggling and constant frustration nothing else remains but this moment, constantly, that turns on a dime, instantly—no guarantees, no hope, no prospects, nothing, really.


Only by losing (the image of) it do I actually see it for what it is

What hurts me is not that I’ve lost her but that I am losing the image I’ve cherished about her.

It’s painful to see this because it means that I am losing the image I’ve cherished about myself too.

Without the hope (the projected image) of getting her back there is noone to suffer for and there is noone to suffer.


I’ve started the practice—the admittedly quaint practice I should say—of looking at people as if I was looking at flowers (partly as a countermeasure to the chronically clingy nature of my strategically aloof personality). Whenever a cute girl, for instance, turns me on and I feel a surge of an urge to pick (up) and possess or at the very least fixate on her from a safe distance I know that in a sense I enact the death of (the spirit in) both of us—as in: (neurotic) attachments retard relations (the dynamic unfolding of authentically relating to self & other): an image of ’her’ and an image of ’me in relation to her’ takes the place of the truth of the volatile moment. By making a mental note of this I manage to curb my fervid enthusiasm.

And gradually it’s starting to dawn on me for real what my spiritual savvy ego-mind has been telling me for a while now: that there really is nothing inside us. Nothing. We are truly empty—plain, hollow forms undulating, just like flowers or blades of grass in the fluctuating flesh of the air—we simply exist. In other words: there is no-one but ’only’ some body to us, we are no-one but some body. There is a subtle but all the more poignant sense of this creeping up on me now that just blows my mind—I wonder what happens when the recognition descends deeper into the heart and the gut: Nobody is special. There is no substance to (the idea of) anyone.

And yet, there is me and there is the emotional attachments plaguing me. There is me and there are the compromising (social, financial, health) conditions of me. There is me and his recognitions—A face grasping against the mystery of its abysmal depthlessness.

How come?

Whose Freedom Actually?

Whose freedom am I protecting so desperately?

Outside the cloistered world of private practices such as ’sittling’ (sitting in/with stillness), journaling and strolling in solitude I tends to feel about to be engulfed and hemmed in by the demands, errands and duties of social existence. Outside its airtight little bubble—in an effort to make a living I gets caught up, much like a fly in a spider’s web, in interpersonal strings attached, unavoidably. I constantly seeks to fend off binding communal duties and obligations to offer phony terms of endearment. But then, this I that struggles so desperately for its precarious sense of peace & freedom is but an idea that needs constant maintenance too, and even though it’s merely an idea (that is entertained to keep the ’me’ feel real & separate) it’s, in effect, quite a costly one, in that it takes tremendous internal tension and lots of gut-wrenching & constipating melancholy to maintain. Which stands to reason, of course, given that outside its (buffering) practices the I as such would cease to exist. Now, imagine how devastating would that be? The prospect of no more suffering. It’s just too much to take, I guess.

At any rate, I still tries to reason its way out of its irrational ways and so it occasionally reminds itself that: No matter the type of reality tunnel one happens to inhabit it too will have its ups and downs, its inherent opportunity cost. The idea of protecting one’s freedom is totally nonsensical in this respect. Inside the insides of one’s sprawling rabbit hole there will be joys and there will be sorrows and the desire to protect one’s privacy and delicate freedom just as much as in any other rabbit hole out there. It’s all the same from an ego’s point of view. We all play the same human game. All the tension over the mental noise echoing and reverberating off the walls of our private holes, however, is completely redundant and meaningless.

The very effort to protect anything is what creates the reason for that thing to exist in the first place—it only exists in the effort but not beyond it.


Show your true colors. Be naked. Radiate your aroma: Like a flower its peculiar fragrance. Why hold back when there is nothing at all to lose. The only trace there is to leave in this world is the delicate scent of your fleeting existence. Be the humble flower that you are rather than the anxiously spreading creeper that you’ve been conditioned to become. Don’t be the creeper—that hopeless critter—that tries to get hold of the other [i.e. the other people, the world] by adapting yourself to what you think the other thinks and what you wish the other is like—wishful-thinking as it were your way into the redeeming embrace of the (projected) other—while, by the same token, choking the daylight out of everything. Be the flower that you are. This is your contribution. This is your call. Give back what you’ve been given. Relax into your truest color.


You get what you go with. You either go with what you think or you go with what you want. If you go with what you are thinking—which for the most part is fear-based anxiety and worries—that’s what you’ll end up enacting. If you go with what you want that’s what you’ll get.

The truth is what you want.

It’s simple, it’s felt. You either follow it or you rationalize and intellectualize your way around it. If you refuse your impulses, you suffer. Your impulses are the call of life to grow and evolve.

Life happens outside the thoughts in your head, it happens in the moment of engaging what you truly want.

We all have a different truth that is pulling us to want certain things. Our truth and our wants evolve—provided we step on their path. If we remain tethered to fear (our thoughts) we’ll stagnate and suffer and enact a reality of dis-ease and scarcity as the thinking mind operates on the logic of scarcity. Your truth on the other hand flows from a place of abundance.

You want freedom.

Freedom is to go with the pull of your truth without guilt over the consequences. Freedom is going with your truth even at the expense of others’ good opinion and at the expense of your agreeable self-image. You are free once you feel ready to let down and disappoint and break rapport with your self and others. Guilt or shame won’t move you any more, only move through you.

You are here to speak your truth. You are here to evolve.

The Fat of The Land

the secret to life is taking ownership of it
which is only possible if you let life
take ownership of you first

this is something I realized looking at the plant in the office where I work (and also the giant African snail of my roommate earlier that same day)

it suddenly struck me: it’s all a matter of taking responsibility or rather CARE of the things of my world

so long as I tend to the “inherited” things I will feel some form of resistance and resentment

but as I begin to claim and extend my care to the things of my own choosing
I am good to go