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.

J e s u s

When people tell me that they don’t understand the things I write/talk about I know that the only reason they don’t get me is that they don’t understand themselves in the first place. When dealing with me some feel confused about me, some feel frustrated by me, some dislike me, some quite like me—but if they cared enough most of them, I think, would be somewhat fascinated by (their idea of) me. Paradoxically, the less separate I feel from them (us) the more separate they seem to feel from me. The less there is of me and the more I loosen & relax into (us as) life they tend to project more and more of their issues onto me. In other words, people relate to people like me exactly the way they relate to life. It’s not personal at all. It’s just weird.

but ONE

You say that you’re heartbroken over ’’moving on’’ because you’ve grown truly fond of the forms—the places, the faces—you’ve encountered. But let’s be honest: do  you get as attached to plants too? Do you feel dejected when you see a blooming flower in April and think about the fleeting nature of your encounter?—Now, is this a silly comparison? Why? What is the extent of the difference? Isn’t it but all about forms? forms that you can appreciate for their unique flair or fail to do so. One thing’s for sure, we go easy on the plants because they cannot engage in our drama, but when it comes to people we turn into weird, needy little desperate Gollums clinging, grasping, claiming and demanding—no matter how passively—we proceed, in effect, to project the love that we are onto their form—their peculiar face and their bodily rhythms, gestures, postures and style of engaging—because we expect them to be someone for us so we can get to be someone for them.

Someone but One.


All my life I’ve been trying to soften the blow of the truth. I’ve been putting tremendous emotional pressure on myself to spare others [and myself] from the pressure of dealing with the truth of my preferences and haphazard impulses. I was in a chronically contracted state almost all the time, in a desperate attempt to apply tourniquets on the leaky fabric of the truth of the moment. I’ve been both emotionally and metabolically constipated—conditioned to be agreeable and to seek compulsively to please and to act as a cushion and act as a buffer and pamper and therefore resent others. I’ve been routinely putting myself down and letting myself be bullied into being a resentful victim or occasionally the unwitting perpetrator of passive aggression. In short, I choose to be weak to reassure the weakness in one another. /Until the day I got truly tired of it.

C O i L

I remember as children we used to swing back and forth on all fours sitting on our shins in the bed with my brother to lull ourselves asleep every evening. In retrospect I see it as a compensation [for the unmet need of a parental ’’lullaby’’ or something] that arose naturally and organically.

Last night I went to bed quite early, I felt sleepy but I couldn’t fall asleep. I was tossing and turning and there was an escalating urge, essentially, to reach. In other words, I wanted to escape the situation: to preoccupy myself with some [more productive & useful] activity and get distracted from the pressure of this dead-end moment… So, what did I do next? You bet: I inquired.

Here’s the swift gist of the flow:

What’s here?

—Pressure. Lots of pressure. In fact, there is pain here, in this empty, depthless, pitch-black space of endless idling. It hurts, actually.

Where does it hurt? Locate it in the body.

—I don’t know. It hurts everywhere. It’s diffuse. I just want out. It’s weighing heavy on me and it just feels so ’distressing’. It’s everywhere: In my neck, in my back, in my gut. I want out.

—What is it telling you Márk?

And roughly this is what it told me: First, it told me that I wanted to be held [like a little child] because I felt stranded in the dead of night. Then it told me that in reality the indistinct, diffuse pain I felt was nothing else but pure energy which finally got enough room to be noticed and acknowledged, and which I finally recognized for what it actually was. To put it bluntly, I sensed that this energy—as all energy, always—is the energy of love gently but persistently pressing against the foil of my mask, my persona, my denial—like a repressed spring pushing against fraying upholstery. I understood that this is the very same energy that all my life has been transmuted & transformed into a subtle form [a hormonal cocktail] of anxiety and that has compelled me to compulsively exhaust myself through various means of surrogate activities to find momentary relief before the next impending ’’nightfall’’. What drove me to swing myself to sleep as a child was this [emotionally un-expressed] energy too. I realized that this is indeed the same energy that pushes us all to prove ourselves and achieve things in life to find some measure of release in the approval of others. And I also saw that this energy is the same energy that could transform into the most wonderful chemical drug on the planet too when we merge—as we’ve all had a few times in our life when we felt seen, accepted, unconditionally met, accomplished, etc.—with the moment in ecstasy, when it freely bounces and flows and floods everything and time stops as we melt into the moment like butter melts on hot steak. In brief, I realized that what I was dealing with was nothing else but the movement of energy. And given the shift in the intent it could be transformed into a narcotic agent [state of mind] in an instant. It’s just energy and the way I choose to relate to it, or it chooses to relate to itself, rather. And it has always been just that. Energy. All the rest a play of shadows.

Become The Weakest Version of Yourself

The concept of becoming a stronger or even worse the strongest version of yourself is a recipe for disaster, if it’s taken literally. To resolve & transcend the issues that plague one’s messed up persona(lity) is an impossible mission from the get-go. You’ll always manifest your neuroses & hangups until you relate from the vantage & confines of a persona(lity). The only way you can engage in real, ’’healthy’’ & robust energetic transactions with the world and other people is when you relate from your true essence, the impersonal realm beyond or rather in front of your thoughts & feelings; when you relate from in front of your persona(lity), in front of your conditioned, functional & dysfunctional PATTERNS of relating; when you relate from the truth of the moment, that is. That’s the only way. The alternative is but silent struggle.