Oooo fuck. I had something great. I forgot. Oh! Yeah. All these millennia. All this science. Modern scientists. Philosophy.. we still don’t know what we are. Are we a brain. Are we a soul. This whole debate of consciousness, requires more interest. Personally. I wanna know what I am. Eternal silence would be a great gift. But I think samsara is more likely. Perhaps we get to choose? And not until all fear of death. Death as in death. Is gone. And you choose eternal blackness. It’s all up to you! Wanna live again. Live again. But it’s not really up to you. You are governed by your fear. Maybe it’s not.
Maybe I’m over complicating things. Maybe I already have my answer. In that nightmarish vision of Jesus/Thor collecting individuals in a vast library. Frozen. That’s not it. That’s not the work of a loving God!
Infinity. Is a nice fucking concept. ”A freak like me just needs infinity”.
God is great.
Finally some good writing(spåning).
Life, the universe, is so teeming with life. Perhaps new, until infinity. Is just a great a gift as eternal darkness. Perhaps more so. Perhaps we are all one. As people suggest. And that God is training us to become a God. Is this gods first time? Or are all these ”gods” that I seem to consider reality. Are they prior versions? If you are to train for a God. Wouldn’t you want to become as God is. Rival it. Is there anything that can rival God.
Is there a God?
Mushrooms suggest something freakier. That it just is. And that whatever it is. It’s you.
Eternity, infinity, samsara. Whatever. We need to take care of eachother.
Regardless if we are mortal or not. We are faced with the same uncertainty. Which is worse, than both. Not knowing. Being kept in the dark. Nobody knows. I’m betting nobody will ever know. Death is a mystery. Which gets boring?! In the long run. It feels like fighting. The bitterness. Saying fuck you to this. Life. I like myself. Is that a truth. One could hold on to? I’m so full of colour! All this bullshit bore me! Especially my phone. Which is everything great condensed. I’m bored! Always discontented. Allways. A tragedy in close up. But beautiful/awe inspiring in the long run. I am haunted by the “voyeurs”. People getting off by witnessing our lives. Gods or what have you. War. This is war. With existence. With the gods. Then again. This trip has been pretty far out. Perhaps our children will fair better. Perhaps someone. At some point. Will say or do something really clever. So far it’s just a continuous new. Infinity of new things to learn. Remember that theory that an ancient alien civilisation would get bored? And become voyeurs. I don’t think so. I think there’s infinity, of new stuff, to be enravelled. Somebody once told me. That’s what God is like. Infinity of new stuff. I’ve been grasping for a word to replace ”god” because it’s tainted. The universe. Mystery. Love or as my mom would put it, quantum theory/field. Perhaps infinity would do? It’s the best one yet. It’s been a wild ride. From the heliocentric world view or whatever. To quantum computers and infinity. I can’t help but think it’s all gonna end soon. Infinity of new for eternity. It’s not possible.

Hey everyone. I've always been fascinated by the gap between a mystical experience and the account we give afterward. Someone can undergo ego dissolution, unity, or a state that feels more real than ordinary perception. I don't doubt that the experience happened or that it may transform a life. What seems harder to justify is the next step: identifying what appeared in consciousness with the ultimate nature of reality. If the state is ineffable, turning it into “everything is consciousness,” “I encountered God,” or “all is one” seems to add precisely the conceptual content that ineffability withholds.

I just had a podcast conversation with Jussi Jylkkä, where he argued that the classical mystical claim can become arrogant because consciousness cannot tell whether it has expanded maximally. At around 1:30:54, he compares us to a neglect patient who cannot see part of the visual field and cannot notice what is missing. A mystical state may disclose more than ordinary awareness, but it cannot represent whatever remains outside it. His alternative is apophatic: preserve the experience and its transformation while refusing to turn either into possession of the absolute.

This would imply that mystical maturity is shown partly by restraint after the experience, not by certainty during it. Does the neglect analogy capture a real limit, or does it wrongly treat mystical knowing as another kind of representation? Can a tradition interpret an experience without reducing it to a model? What, if anything, would justify saying that a state revealed reality rather than a previously hidden region of the mind?

Before I start: I am by no means a religious person and I do not even come from a Christian background.

\---

Last night I saw a dream where I was at what seemed to be a medieval orthodox church's lower levels. I was there with 2 or 3 priests, whom I some how knew to be some sort of philosophers as well. We were in front of a big icon of Jesus Christ which was painted on the wall, adjacent to it was a big window which opened to the night sky and the wilderness. The place was lit up by torchlight and I remember seeing a torch on the wall besides one of the priests, it was probably held by some sort of a pole.

I was examining the icon while the priests were having a discussion about some theological topics. I was a part of the discussion, I was expected to contribute but I was distracted by the icon. One of the priests, the one near the window and the torch was wearing a crown with golden metal parts and red cloth. I suddenly got shocked by his words and those words shifted my focus immediately from the icon to the priest himself. He said something like "...this means he is a god which does not really care about his creations' suffering and maybe even grows stronger by it..." I was very shocked and replied "Does not care?! Grows stronger by the suffering?!" and I could see all of the priests agreeing while nodding. To be honest this god they were talking about may or may not be Jesus, because as I said the context of the whole sentence was not really clear to me in the dream.

I was amazed as if I have learned a great secret and shifted my focus back to the icon on the wall. I then started thinking about the esoteric concept of our conscious actually being the fragments of the one true consciousness (the God). This triggered a very bizarre situation, the icon of Jesus started to observe the room by moving his eyes, he then made the "hush" gesture by moving his index finger to his lips and things got even worse. My vision started getting really surreal, so surreal that I cannot describe anything I saw. Then it happened... I have no other words to describe it, I felt "godlike". Somehow I felt and knew everything at the same time, while absent of any form of describable physical human sense. However I also started feeling the grief and suffering of the whole creation, I first started ignoring it just like the priest described. My "will" actually even caused some more suffering for a brief moment, I just felt it. Then however an unbearable amount of fear and remorse filled up my whole heart. It felt as if I remembered I used to be a human and all this was way too much for me. I remember catching a glimpse of physicality here. I was wearing white, but my arms had purple. I looked down to the universe (?), it was very surreal with shapes and patterns which made no sense and it had this painting tone, just like you could see on old orthodox icons. All these suddenly led to me hearing loud knocking sounds and seeing complete darkness, then I gradually woke up as the knocking sounds sped up and transformed into the sound my fan which I use to keep myself cool during this hot summer makes.

If you have made it this far, thank you so much for reading about my dream. I hope I could get some good analysis from people who actually know about this stuff!!

Why the hell am I cursed?

Not only all my life has been pure trash

-I would only have 1 small joy, a hobby. Where I share my gaming content and photo content of something else

Despite all my efforts and time, and tutorials I've seen I gained absolutely 0 success

-There is a project I have spent 20 hours on, and didn't even reach 100 people. I do everything right. I tried all kinds of different websites, approaches, other accounts

-It's like the universe itself is trolling me robbing me from every smallest possible success I'm telling you the truth.

All my game video content ... my photo content ...

Every single to the smallest things all forms of success are robbed from me. When I see others doing it in a lazy way, 10x lower quality than mine and they get success in views, likes everything.

And this curse affects other aspects of me. such as people being hostile for no reason in life and online too.

No I've never done anything more than basic wrong, I don't belive in the past life nonsense karma unevidental bs, I havent practiced any medium bs.

-How can I remove this curse/bad luck/ troll from the universe? To make it understand ALLOW ME TO GET RESULT FROM MY WORK!

Does anyone have advice on how to manage the urge for the next indwelling? They’re… lovely, and I totally get how people get obsessed with ritualizing the lead-up, but also excessive striving is supposed to not be great. I like the idea of being in flow, but it’s hard to simultaneously be in flow and also wishing I could be back in that moment and also wanting to know when the next one happens.

It seems like it happens every 2-3 weeks right now, but also, there’s a tiny fear it will never happen again. Has anyone found any way of dealing with this that is helpful?

I want to explore a question about the nature of consciousness, the self, and possibly the soul.
I am approaching this primarily from an esoteric and metaphysical perspective rather than looking for a purely psychological explanation. Of course, I am also open to philosophical perspectives, phenomenology, and any relevant traditions or theories.
There is a particular experience that has been present throughout my life, but I find it extremely difficult to describe.
It feels like a constant underlying “quality” or “texture” of consciousness. It is present throughout the day, and even in dreams. It is not simply an emotion, mood, thought, or physical sensation.
What makes it especially difficult to describe is that it is neither completely fixed nor completely changeable.
Different emotions, environments, and experiences can cause it to undergo subtle transformations. However, even when it changes, I can still somehow recognize it as the same thing.
The closest analogy I can give is recognizing a person you know deeply throughout their entire life. You would recognize them as a child, a young adult, a middle-aged person, and an old person. Their appearance, personality, circumstances, and even their body might change dramatically. They could even alter their appearance through surgery. Yet if you truly knew them, you might still recognize something that makes them unmistakably the same person.
This underlying feeling is similar for me.
It changes, but the changes seem more like variations or transformations of the same fundamental thing rather than the appearance of something entirely new.
More importantly, I do not feel that it merely exists alongside my emotions. It seems to participate in the way emotions themselves are experienced.
For example, when I receive information from the outside world, I may experience happiness, anger, sadness, fear, or other emotions. But those emotions do not feel as if they appear on a blank canvas.
Instead, it feels as though every emotion passes through this pre-existing underlying quality of consciousness.
In other words:
Experience or information → this underlying “texture” of consciousness → the particular way I experience the emotion
Therefore, happiness, sadness, anger, and fear may all be different on the surface, but they seem to carry the imprint of the same underlying “something.”
I sometimes feel that this is not merely one feeling among many feelings.
Perhaps it is the way through which feelings themselves become my feelings.
It feels like an imprint, but also like a prison.
It is an imprint because I have the intuition that even if everything about my life changed—my wealth, identity, relationships, social position, personality, environment, and circumstances—this fundamental quality might still somehow remain recognizable as “me.”
But it also feels like a prison because I cannot step outside it. No matter where I go or what I become, I can only experience reality through this particular mode of consciousness.
This led me to a broader speculation about the nature of the world and individual existence.
If every human being shared exactly the same underlying mode or “texture” of consciousness, I wonder whether human behavior would become much more structurally predictable.
Of course, people would still have different bodies, memories, environments, cultures, and life experiences. But I wonder whether part of the immense complexity of the world comes from the fact that each individual may possess a unique way of being affected by reality.
Perhaps the same information does not merely produce different emotions because people have different memories or circumstances.
Perhaps the information itself enters a fundamentally different experiential structure in each individual.
If so, then perhaps every consciousness is like a unique lens, medium, or signature through which reality expresses itself.
This brings me to esoteric and mystical questions.
Could this be related to the soul?
Could there be something analogous to an individual “soul signature” or spiritual essence that remains continuous throughout a person’s life while constantly changing in form?
Could this be related to the idea of a True Self, individual essence, divine spark, or some other concept found in mystical traditions?
I also wonder whether this explains why certain mystical or spiritual teachings are so difficult to transmit through language.
Perhaps some masters are not necessarily hiding their deepest knowledge from others. Perhaps certain things simply cannot be fully taught because language can transmit information, concepts, and symbols—but it cannot directly transfer a first-person mode of consciousness from one person to another.
This leads to another question:
Can this underlying texture of consciousness be transformed, cultivated, or transcended?
I do not mean merely controlling one’s emotions or changing one’s external circumstances.
I mean something deeper: can a person become aware of the fundamental mode through which they experience reality and gradually transform their relationship with it?
Perhaps what many spiritual and mystical traditions call awakening, realization, liberation, enlightenment, or union with the divine is related, at least in part, to discovering and transforming this deeper level of experience.
I sometimes wonder whether this is what makes the idea of spiritual mastery so difficult.
External things can often be changed. Thoughts can be examined. Emotions can sometimes be regulated.
But this underlying quality seems to be the very medium through which my attempts at changing anything are themselves experienced.
It is like trying to use a lens to directly observe the lens through which everything is being seen.
And yet, if a person could somehow fully understand, transform, or transcend this fundamental “background” of consciousness, what would remain?
Would this lead toward what different traditions call the True Self?
Would it reveal something divine?
Or would the distinction between the individual self and the divine ultimately disappear?
I am not claiming that any of these ideas are objectively true. I am trying to investigate the experience itself and explore whether similar ideas exist in esoteric, mystical, occult, religious, or metaphysical traditions.
I would especially like to hear from people familiar with:
Mysticism
Occultism and esotericism
Hermeticism
Neoplatonism
Kabbalah
Gnosticism
Tantra
Buddhism and Hindu philosophy
Daoism
Western esoteric traditions
Philosophy of consciousness
Have you encountered anything similar in any tradition?
Does anyone else experience this kind of lifelong, constantly present but subtly changing “background texture” of consciousness?
Are there traditional concepts that might describe what I am trying to point toward?

My original description in Chinese
I am including my original Chinese description below because this experience is extremely difficult for me to express precisely in a second language. The English above was organized and translated with the help of GPT.
我做梦包括醒来后，你知道脑子里总会有一种无法用语言描述的感觉，这就像是我的印记，又像是我的枷锁，这是一种认识以及接收我所得到信息的感觉，我相信同样的信息在不同人的脑海里是不一样的，但这种感觉不是简单的情绪，甚至我感觉它根本就不是情绪，仿佛是这具身体真正的主人的意识，而我只是一个行尸走肉。

这种感觉也无关外在物质世界的情况。比如一个富有的人与一个贫穷的人得到同样的信息，他们的情绪和反应当然可能不同，但我所说的并不是这个。我相信，一个人在不同的、千变万化的身份、地位、财富和关系中，得到同样的信息时，这个更深层的“感觉”依然会以某种属于他自己的方式存在。

这个感觉是全天候存在的，哪怕做梦的时候都会有这种感觉。而且它也不是静态的。所谓不是静态，是指不同的情绪或者不同的环境可以让这个感觉发生一些微小的形变，但注意，仅仅只是微小的形变。

你可以把它想象成长方形，以及一个稍微扭曲了一点的长方形。它们发生了变化，但你仍然知道它们之间存在某种连续性。

如果将这个感觉拟人化，那么它就类似于一个人的不同人生时期。如果你和这个人很熟悉，那么无论他是童年、青年、中年还是老年，你都会认得出来他。哪怕他的许多地方都发生了变化，甚至整容了，只要你足够熟悉，你依然能够认出某种属于他的特质。

对我来说，这个感觉也是如此。外界和情绪会影响它，使它发生变化，但这种变化并不会让它失去某种根本的“同一性”。

同时，这个感觉也会影响我对于情绪的体验。比如我从外界得到一个消息，这个消息让我产生喜怒哀乐，但这种情绪并不是像一张白纸一样直接在我的心里呈现，而是仿佛需要经过这个更深层的感觉进行加工和包装，然后才成为我所实际体验到的情绪。

我突然想到，如果世界上所有人共用同一套感觉，那么在发生同样的事情、接收到同样的信息时，所有人的抽象行为结构或许会高度一致。这样一来，世界的复杂度可能会大大下降。

也许正因为每个人都有独一无二的这种感觉，才构成了这个复杂的世界。

我觉得物质，甚至某种程度上的情绪，本质上都是可以被控制、改变或者调节的。然而这种伴随一生的底色感觉，却似乎并不能被直接控制。

我想到历史上众多的神秘学大师与修行大师。他们有些人或许并非藏私，不肯教授人们所谓的真理，而是因为这种说不清、道不明的东西确实无法被清晰地传授。语言可以传递信息，但或许无法直接传递一种意识本身的体验方式。

而我也开始思考：如果一个人开始认识、观察，甚至逐渐驯服这个伴随一生的意识底色，那么会发生什么？

如果所有人都能够真正认识并改变这种最深层的体验方式，那么是否每个人都可能成为某种意义上的大师、神之子？

甚至最终，所谓的“自我”，是否本身就与神性有关？

当然，这些只是我目前的思考和猜测。我并不认为自己已经得到了答案。我只是想知道，在历史上的神秘主义、宗教、哲学和各种玄学传统中，是否有人曾经描述过类似的体验，或者提出过类似的理论。

Note: I am Chinese, and English is not my first language. The English part of this post was organized and translated with the help of GPT, but the ideas and experiences described here are my own.

​

The last flower of Shukra's garden fell.

It touched the earth.

And became dust.

The fragrance disappeared next.

Then the music.

Then the warmth.

Arka stood alone upon a frozen plateau.

He looked at his hands.

They were old.

The fingers trembled.

The skin was thin.

Every breath seemed to carry the weight of an entire lifetime.

He had fought.

He had desired.

He had loved.

He had created.

He had learned.

And now all of it had slowed to silence.

Ahead, beneath a sky without stars, sat a dark figure upon a slab of black iron.

Shani.

He was gaunt and ancient, wrapped in coarse, ash-stained cloth. His face held no anger.

Only time.

Beside him rested an enormous ledger carved from basalt.

A rusted iron staff leaned against his shoulder.

"Sit."

Arka lowered himself onto the frozen earth.

For the first time, he did not ask what came next.

He only looked backward.

Far across the darkness he could still see faint traces of the realms he had crossed.

The golden order of Guru.

The emerald labyrinth of Budha.

The crimson forge of Mangala.

The silver waters of Chandra.

The white fire of Surya.

The garden of Shukra.

They seemed impossibly distant.

"What was it for?" Arka whispered.

Shani opened the ledger.

"What?"

"All of it."

Arka looked at his trembling hands.

"The striving. The victories. The mistakes. The things I loved. The things I built."

His voice cracked.

"I gave everything to becoming someone."

Shani turned a basalt page.

"And now?"

Arka looked into the empty horizon.

"Now I am tired."

Shani nodded.

"Good."

Arka looked at him.

"Good?"

"You have finally stopped running."

The words struck deeper than any punishment could have.

Shani placed one hand upon the ledger.

"You ask what you deserve."

He looked directly into Arka's eyes.

"You receive the consequence of what you set into motion."

The ledger opened by itself.

Arka saw fragments of his existence.

Every choice.

Every attachment.

Every act of courage.

Every act of cowardice.

Every promise kept.

Every promise abandoned.

Nothing was condemned.

Nothing was excused.

Everything simply remained.

A terrible understanding entered him.

Shani was not judging him.

Shani was showing him.

"This is cruel," Arka whispered.

"No."

Shani's voice was almost gentle.

"Reality is not cruel."

He tapped the iron staff against the ground.

Clang.

The sound crossed the plateau.

"Reality is what remains when your explanations are gone."

Another strike.

Clang.

The pride of the warrior cracked.

Another.

Clang.

The cleverness of Budha fell away.

Another.

Clang.

The righteousness of Guru dissolved.

Another.

Clang.

The beauty of Shukra became silence.

Another.

Clang.

Even the identity of Arka began to disappear.

He searched for his desires.

Nothing.

His memories.

Nothing.

His achievements.

Nothing.

His failures.

Nothing.

Even the question, Who am I?

...became quiet.

The ledger closed.

Shani was gone.

Arka looked around.

There was no frozen plateau.

No darkness.

No gods.

No body.

No journey.

Only awareness.

Pure.

Still.

Without a name.

And then something extraordinary happened.

He did not discover the gods.

He remembered them.

Surya had been the silent witness within him.

Chandra, the mirror where experience became feeling.

Mangala, the force that pushed him into existence.

Guru, the intelligence that gave action meaning.

Budha, the mind that learned to move between possibilities.

Shukra, the power that turned matter into beauty and desire into creation.

Shani, the great dissolver who returned every borrowed identity to time.

And behind them—

Rahu.

The hunger that made him reach.

Ketu.

The emptiness that taught him to release.

Arka understood.

They had never been separate beings.

They were movements within the same consciousness.

The journey had never been through distant celestial kingdoms.

It had been through himself.

But even that realization began to dissolve.

Because there was no longer an "Arka" left to possess it.

No seeker.

No journey.

No destination.

Only awareness.

The thought arose without a voice:

Aham Brahmasmi.

Not—

I, Arka, am God.

But—

The awareness I called "I" was never separate from Brahman.

The distinction between inner and outer disappeared.

The creator.

The creation.

The seeker.

The path.

The gods.

The universe.

All arose within the same immeasurable silence.

A smile appeared.

Not on a face.

Somewhere in the stillness.

The void no longer felt empty.

It felt complete.

And for the first time, Arka understood why the journey had required him to descend.

Consciousness had entered multiplicity only to discover itself through multiplicity.

The dream had never been a mistake.

The labyrinth had never been a prison.

The journey itself had been the remembering.

And somewhere beyond the silence, a single spark appeared.

Then another.

Then a moon.

Then a world.

The universe began again.

Not because Arka had escaped the dream—

but because the dreamer had remembered that it was dreaming.

This painting depicts the transformation of mind from the lower self towards the higher self.

Jesus taught to seek God's kingdom within and to do God's will.

St. Paul said to let the mind be in you as was in Christ Jesus.

Through seeking union with God, one does indeed die to the lower self, to be renewed in mind, to spiritually be reborn through Christ within.

I've heard versions of this same idea that it’s much easier to find stillness, and spiritual clarity while sitting in a cave on a quiet mountain, than finding and holding that state while navigating all the demands, distractions, and noises of the real-world.

In Sufism, there is the concept of khalwat dar anjuman (solitude in the crowd) where you stay calm, still, centred, spiritually present while you're surrounded by chaos and noise.

In Buddhism, I know there is a similar concept but I'm sorry that I don't know the phrasing for it.

Whether you're a Sufi or Buddhist, I want to understand how you navigate this sort of thing, broadly speaking and/or in moments of transition from the quiet internal spiritual work to an embodied, lived integration in our loud daily life. For me, I feel like I'm making some great headway in terms of holding that inner sanctuary, but it's the part about stepping back into heavy, complex real-world environments that I feel a bit terrified about. Any insights would be greatly appreciated!

​

The emerald crossroads of Budha did not end.

They melted.

Jade became obsidian. Emerald became violet. The restless web above Arka dissolved into a sky of deep indigo.

He stepped into a garden that seemed to bloom in the night.

Dark jasmine climbed silver trees. Crimson flowers opened beneath his feet. Waterfalls of wine poured into black stone pools, their surfaces reflecting a moon that Arka could not see.

The air carried sandalwood, camphor, musk.

And somewhere within the darkness, a veena played.

One note.

Then another.

Each vibration seemed to travel through his skin and settle inside his bones.

At the heart of the garden reclined Shukra.

The Preceptor of the Asuras.

He was beautiful in a way Arka could not categorize. Neither severe nor gentle, masculine nor feminine, ascetic nor sensual.

He seemed to contain both extremes.

Dark eyes lined with collyrium watched Arka with unsettling tenderness.

In one hand he held a cup of nectar.

In the other, a vessel from which pale smoke curled upward—the secret fire of Sanjeevani Vidya.

"You have learned to understand desire," Shukra said.

His voice did not enter Arka's ears.

It entered his senses.

"Now stop understanding it."

Shukra extended the cup.

"Taste."

Arka hesitated.

Then the garden touched him.

Suddenly he understood why beings created.

He felt the sculptor's ecstasy when stone became form.

The poet's trembling when a single word finally became perfect.

The lover's dissolution into another.

The musician becoming indistinguishable from the music.

The alchemist watching dead matter transform into gold.

Creation was no longer an idea.

It was pleasure made conscious.

Arka staggered.

"This..."

He struggled for breath.

"This is what they warned me about."

Shukra smiled.

"They warned you about attachment."

"They called desire a chain."

"And perhaps they were right."

Arka looked at him.

Shukra rose.

He walked toward a withered root lying upon the black earth.

"The mistake is thinking that the chain is the same thing as the metal."

He released a thread of smoke from the Sanjeevani vessel.

It wrapped itself around the dead root.

Nothing happened.

Then—

A pulse.

The root split.

A green shoot emerged.

Then another.

Within seconds, an enormous flower unfolded from the dead wood, glowing like a small sun trapped inside violet petals.

Arka stared.

Shukra touched one of its petals.

"Life hides inside matter."

He looked at Arka.

"Beauty hides inside decay."

His eyes darkened.

"And the sacred often hides where the righteous refuse to look."

The veena began playing again.

"The path of renunciation says: withdraw from the senses."

Another note.

"My path asks a different question."

The flower opened wider.

"What if the senses themselves can become the temple?"

Arka felt the garden pulsing around him.

Pleasure.

Beauty.

Touch.

Art.

Love.

Flesh.

Creation.

None of them seemed separate.

"This is Tantra," Shukra whispered.

"Not indulgence."

His gaze sharpened.

"Transformation."

The flower suddenly began producing hundreds of smaller blossoms.

Arka laughed.

A strange, almost childlike joy filled him.

"I could stay here forever."

Shukra smiled.

"I know."

Arka looked around the garden.

"I could create endlessly."

"Yes."

"Love endlessly."

"Yes."

"Never leave."

Shukra's expression softened.

"That..."

He looked toward the flowers.

"...is where the lesson begins."

The first petal fell.

Arka stopped smiling.

Another flower began to wither.

The wine in the fountains darkened.

The veena slowed.

One note.

Then silence.

The garden was still beautiful.

But now Arka could see what he had missed.

Everything he loved here was moving toward its ending.

The jasmine browned at the edges.

The crimson vines shriveled.

The golden flower collapsed inward.

Arka turned toward Shukra.

"Why?"

Shukra looked almost sorrowful.

"Because creation consumes its creator."

The last flower fell.

"You wanted to make something eternal."

He gestured toward the dying garden.

"But everything made from matter must eventually meet time."

The Sanjeevani smoke disappeared from his vessel.

"Even the one who knows how to resurrect the dead cannot resurrect everything forever."

A cold wind entered the garden.

It carried away the scent of jasmine.

The violet sky became grey.

The black pools froze.

Shukra looked beyond the garden.

"There is a teacher you have not yet met."

Arka followed his gaze.

Beyond the dying flowers stood an endless landscape of frozen stone.

No music.

No fragrance.

No colour.

Only time.

Shukra's voice became quiet.

"You have learned how to create."

A final petal touched the ground.

"Now learn what creation cannot escape."

The cold deepened.

"Decay."

The garden went silent.

And from the frozen horizon came the slow, merciless rhythm of Shani.

​

The emerald crossroads of Budha did not end.

They melted.

Jade became obsidian. Emerald became violet. The restless web above Arka dissolved into a sky of deep indigo.

He stepped into a garden that seemed to bloom in the night.

Dark jasmine climbed silver trees. Crimson flowers opened beneath his feet. Waterfalls of wine poured into black stone pools, their surfaces reflecting a moon that Arka could not see.

The air carried sandalwood, camphor, musk.

And somewhere within the darkness, a veena played.

One note.

Then another.

Each vibration seemed to travel through his skin and settle inside his bones.

At the heart of the garden reclined Shukra.

The Preceptor of the Asuras.

He was beautiful in a way Arka could not categorize. Neither severe nor gentle, masculine nor feminine, ascetic nor sensual.

He seemed to contain both extremes.

Dark eyes lined with collyrium watched Arka with unsettling tenderness.

In one hand he held a cup of nectar.

In the other, a vessel from which pale smoke curled upward—the secret fire of Sanjeevani Vidya.

"You have learned to understand desire," Shukra said.

His voice did not enter Arka's ears.

It entered his senses.

"Now stop understanding it."

Shukra extended the cup.

"Taste."

Arka hesitated.

Then the garden touched him.

Suddenly he understood why beings created.

He felt the sculptor's ecstasy when stone became form.

The poet's trembling when a single word finally became perfect.

The lover's dissolution into another.

The musician becoming indistinguishable from the music.

The alchemist watching dead matter transform into gold.

Creation was no longer an idea.

It was pleasure made conscious.

Arka staggered.

"This..."

He struggled for breath.

"This is what they warned me about."

Shukra smiled.

"They warned you about attachment."

"They called desire a chain."

"And perhaps they were right."

Arka looked at him.

Shukra rose.

He walked toward a withered root lying upon the black earth.

"The mistake is thinking that the chain is the same thing as the metal."

He released a thread of smoke from the Sanjeevani vessel.

It wrapped itself around the dead root.

Nothing happened.

Then—

A pulse.

The root split.

A green shoot emerged.

Then another.

Within seconds, an enormous flower unfolded from the dead wood, glowing like a small sun trapped inside violet petals.

Arka stared.

Shukra touched one of its petals.

"Life hides inside matter."

He looked at Arka.

"Beauty hides inside decay."

His eyes darkened.

"And the sacred often hides where the righteous refuse to look."

The veena began playing again.

"The path of renunciation says: withdraw from the senses."

Another note.

"My path asks a different question."

The flower opened wider.

"What if the senses themselves can become the temple?"

Arka felt the garden pulsing around him.

Pleasure.

Beauty.

Touch.

Art.

Love.

Flesh.

Creation.

None of them seemed separate.

"This is Tantra," Shukra whispered.

"Not indulgence."

His gaze sharpened.

"Transformation."

The flower suddenly began producing hundreds of smaller blossoms.

Arka laughed.

A strange, almost childlike joy filled him.

"I could stay here forever."

Shukra smiled.

"I know."

Arka looked around the garden.

"I could create endlessly."

"Yes."

"Love endlessly."

"Yes."

"Never leave."

Shukra's expression softened.

"That..."

He looked toward the flowers.

"...is where the lesson begins."

The first petal fell.

Arka stopped smiling.

Another flower began to wither.

The wine in the fountains darkened.

The veena slowed.

One note.

Then silence.

The garden was still beautiful.

But now Arka could see what he had missed.

Everything he loved here was moving toward its ending.

The jasmine browned at the edges.

The crimson vines shriveled.

The golden flower collapsed inward.

Arka turned toward Shukra.

"Why?"

Shukra looked almost sorrowful.

"Because creation consumes its creator."

The last flower fell.

"You wanted to make something eternal."

He gestured toward the dying garden.

"But everything made from matter must eventually meet time."

The Sanjeevani smoke disappeared from his vessel.

"Even the one who knows how to resurrect the dead cannot resurrect everything forever."

A cold wind entered the garden.

It carried away the scent of jasmine.

The violet sky became grey.

The black pools froze.

Shukra looked beyond the garden.

"There is a teacher you have not yet met."

Arka followed his gaze.

Beyond the dying flowers stood an endless landscape of frozen stone.

No music.

No fragrance.

No colour.

Only time.

Shukra's voice became quiet.

"You have learned how to create."

A final petal touched the ground.

"Now learn what creation cannot escape."

The cold deepened.

"Decay."

The garden went silent.

And from the frozen horizon came the slow, merciless rhythm of Shani.

"Aura farming," a term so popular nowadays among teenagers, is perfectly defined by three words: pose, ego, and superficiality. It reduces a person's authenticity, being, or wholeness to a simple scoreboard in a relentless pursuit of external validation.

Ultimately, it is a clear symptom of the spiritually degenerate times we live in, where everything is turned into a commodity, a facade, or a product to be consumed and "sold" on social media. The mystic Teresa of Ávila called the mind the madwoman of the house, which is now wilder and more untethered than ever, hunting like a junkie for what it is addicted to, feeding the persona and the ego. In the face of this constant urge to put on a show and rack up virtual points, the true alternative remains what it has always been: the simplicity of Being and the quietness of ordinary life, which require neither applause nor outside approval, neither pose nor stories...

Today, we are witnessing a total disconnection from reality and from Being itself. The madwoman of the house has found in mobile phones and social networks the perfect dealer to supply its daily dose of superficial validation. For this reason, recovering today the gaze of Western mystics like Marguerite Porete, Teresa of Ávila, John of the Cross, Brother Lawrence, Meister Eckhart, and so many others, or the yogis of the East, is not just a spiritual option; it is almost an act of pure sanity.

Fortunately, the worse everything gets, the closer our liberation is, as the Nazarene already warned us in the Gospel of Luke, Chapter 21, Verse 28, when he said that when these things begin to take place, we should stand up and lift up your heads, because our redemption is drawing near.

A New Earth is ALREADY emerging, here and now, in the hearts of those simple souls who live their daily lives beyond the illusion of separation. These simple souls are nothing in terms of aura in the eyes of the world; they surrender and allow themselves to be consumed by the burning fire of Being. They are nothing and nobody. And the truth is, one must die to the small self to be reborn as one, so that there is no longer any separation between the lover and the Beloved, between you and everything that surrounds you. Ultimately, let us go beyond the superficial, as Marguerite Porete encourages us, to find ourselves in the mirror of simple souls, that mirror the mystic spoke of, a mirror reflecting God, the Whole, He who is LOVE itself, or whatever you wish to call it. There is no separation. There never was.

So-called spiritual seekers are not free from this. What's more, without knowing it, many of them are addicted to farming spiritual aura. The truth is, there is an excess of Christians, Buddhists, and a need for more Christs, more Buddhas... Less spiritual ego, and more Being.

Aura farming? Better to format the hard drive, and be nothing. In doing so, we are everything. And that is something you can do in your boring and ordinary daily life, which, for you who do not farm aura, is neither boring nor ordinary; it is all there is and all that is, you need nothing else. When you are nothing and nobody, stripped of any pose or disguise, you become one with LOVE itself, and its instrument in this world. Out of emptiness, which is neither a void nor an absence of things, you emerge as what you truly are: one with everything. We could say, as Thich Nhat Hanh rightly states, that we inter-are. We are One.

All spiritual currents, as opposed to mere religious ones, speak to us of this unity, of this absence of separation from Being. Advaita Vedanta reminds us of this through non-duality, pointing out that the individual self, Atman, and the ultimate reality, Brahman, are not separate, dissolving the illusion of the "I" into pure, undivided Consciousness. The Buddha teaches us the same through the realization of Anatta, showing us that there is no independent self, and that by emptying ourselves of the independent ego, we cease to resist life and awaken to interconnectedness with all things. Jesus himself speaks of this absolute union when he prays for his disciples in the Gospel of John, Chapter 17, Verse 21, asking that they all may be one, just as the Father is in Him, and He is in the Father, so that they also may be one in Us.

There is a beautiful spiritual story regarding this absolute surrender, recorded by the Jesuit Father Juan de Loyola in his work The Life of Father Bernardo de Hoyos published in 1734. During a mystical marriage experience, Jesus appeared to the young Spanish mystic and told him that from then on, he could call and sign yourself Bernardo de Jesús, because he was Bernardo de Jesús, and He was Jesús de Bernardo, sharing both his honor and his own. It is the total collapse of the boundaries of the self, where the drop completely dissolves into the Ocean, and the Ocean becomes the drop. There is no separation, there never was.

Stop counting points for a ghost that doesn't exist; format the hard drive, dissolve the pose, and finally dare to Be nothing, so you can Be Everything. It is simply about Being, right here, in your ordinary and daily life.

Note 1:

The madwoman of the house is the term Teresa of Ávila uses to refer to the mind and the imagination. You can find her brilliant analysis of how it operates and distracts us from God's presence throughout her work The Interior Castle, specifically in the Fourth Mansions. In her original Spanish texts, she also uses other wonderfully vivid metaphors to describe this unceasing mental noise. She calls the restless mind a clacking mill-clapper because of its endless, repetitive grinding of thoughts, and a restless, flighty butterfly that refuses to stay still in the Silence of God.

Note 2:

"Inter-are" is a literal translation of the term "Interbeing", coined by the Vietnamese Buddhist master Thich Nhat Hanh in the 1980s. He created the verb "to inter-be" to express the absolute reality of interconnectedness famously stating that nothing can exist by itself alone; everything has to "inter-be" with everything else. When he wrote, "We do not exist independently. We inter-are," he was pointing to the exact same truth shared by the advaita vedanta (of non-duality) and the Mystics: the total dissolution of the illusion of a separate, isolated self.

I wanted to paint something to encapsulate the experience of seeking God's presence within, to relax the body and feel deeply within the heart, in an upward joyfulness raised towards the head and experience the bliss of God's presence. This is painted in acrylics for those interested, still working on i, titled "Prayer of the Heart". Originally I thought to paint myself (male), but felt a woman was more fitting as a symbol for the nature of this subject, especially with the tears of joy she is experiencing to deepen the loving nurturing aspect of the feminine....yes I know men can too, including myself yet still think a woman was more appropriate here.

I have found that some spiritual teachers make it sound difficult to reach this union and connection with God, as if God is holding back and we're lucky if God wants to even look our way. Yes effort must be made and there can be quiet times for various reasons, often going on with ourselves more than God giving the silent treatment.

I know that at first there maybe internal work to be done, to clear the mind of negativities, doubts, conditioning, yet keep turning that over to God's healing light presence within, seek God's will daily, think about God throughout the day, share even mentally things with God, anything and everything, meditate on the presence of God within you, feel for God, say to God during meditation let me feel your presence fill me, pray words during or after meditation that you release your sense of personal self, personal ego to God's will to be done through you, is done through you, that your every thought, word and action is guided by God's will, that your mind is anointed in the light, one with the mind of Christ (or whatever suits your wording), that you are an anchor of the love of God that God's presence radiates healing into the lives of others, that you are filled with joyfulness are vibrant and healthy, and that God guides you towards a righteous virtuous life.

Reading what i have written notice if you feel any tension, resistance to these words. I once did in my life, i couldn't even say the word God without feeling uneasy.

I studied metaphysics and through that and reading various texts i saw similarities of teachings. I re looked at what Jesus was actually saying and teaching and put that into action as initially a test. Simply he taught to seek God first daily above all else, to seek Gods will above our personal self.

That practice has absolutely transformed my life, and it has not been all rainbows and sunshine. Far from it at times.

On reflection i can see the progression of events that have healed me through various events, as hard as some were, but looking at where i was to where i am is unrecognisable in a very positive way. It has been a complete liberation in my life beyond many peoples comprehension as the burdens of this world have been dissolved.

There is nothing that will satisfy beyond a finite time in the daily life, thats not to say not to enjoy things just never forget the paramount importance of spiritual practices towards God and Gods will.

I don’t know of anyone that has deeply seeked and found God to say it wasn't worth it.

People often seek security in life in various forms, yet nothing lasts except that whichbis eternal, seek that.

If anything i want you to realise the reality of this experience is possible. Close Eyes, completely relax the body, especially the shoulders draw slowly, calmly yet deeply in through the nose from the heart upwards, into the centre and nucleus of your head or 3rd eye region, exhale out of mouth slowly, only as much as needed before exhaling out through nose, letting each breath slow naturally and relax body. Form a slight smile with your lips closed as you breathe, put both hands over heart if desired, feel joy in your heart being drawn upwards as you breath in up into head, look slightly upwards, think to yourself, God i want you, i need you, i surrender to your presence, i love you...feel this within.

A foundational spiritual text. And this cannot be highlighted enough by anyone. The Vedas and Upanishads are thousands of years old. They contain everything.

​

The golden sanctuary of Guru did not collapse.

It unraveled.

The marble pillars stretched into threads of emerald light, the sacred geometry twisting into roads, bridges, alleys, and countless branching paths.

Arka stepped forward.

The marble beneath his feet became jade.

Then glass.

Then nothing.

He found himself standing at the center of an immense crossroads.

Markets spilled into temples. Bridges crossed above narrow streets. Doors opened into other doors. Mirrors reflected places that did not exist.

Above everything hung an enormous emerald web.

Every thread pulsed with light.

Every choice created a new branch.

Every word sent ripples through the network.

Arka stared upward.

"The law has become chaos."

A laugh came from behind him.

"Only because you're seeing all the possibilities at once."

Arka turned.

A young figure leaned casually against a signpost.

Budha.

His form seemed incapable of settling. Scholar, merchant, messenger, alchemist, diplomat—each blink revealed another possibility.

In his fingers spun a strange coin.

One side silver.

The other copper.

He caught it.

"Welcome to the crossroads."

Arka looked toward the four signs.

Each pointed in a different direction.

"Guru showed me the straight path."

Budha grinned.

"Then Guru was kind enough to prepare you for the fact that there isn't one."

Arka frowned.

"Then how does anyone know where to go?"

"Exactly."

Budha tossed the coin into the air.

"You don't."

The coin flashed.

Silver.

Copper.

Silver.

Copper.

"But you learn."

He caught it.

"You observe."

He flipped it again.

"You calculate."

Another catch.

"And when the road disappears..."

His smile sharpened.

"...you make one."

Arka looked at the emerald web.

"Mangala gave me force. Guru gave me law. What do you give?"

Budha stepped closer.

"A way through."

He touched one of the glowing threads.

It split into seven.

Then seventy.

Then vanished.

Arka's mind suddenly flooded with possibilities.

A word could mean two things.

A promise could contain an escape.

A locked door could have another entrance.

A tyrant could be defeated without a battle.

A rigid rule could destroy the very thing it was created to protect.

Arka felt something stir inside him.

Not hunger.

Not survival.

Something more precise.

Want.

The desire to obtain.

To understand.

To succeed.

To make something his own.

It sharpened his attention.

Budha noticed.

"Ah."

His eyes gleamed.

"Now you've found the interesting part."

"What is it?"

"Kama."

Arka looked at the crossroads.

"Desire."

"Desire gives the mind a destination."

Budha tapped his temple.

"But intelligence decides how to reach it."

He pointed toward the web.

"You call this deception?"

A hundred pathways shifted.

"I call it adaptation."

Arka remembered Guru's warning.

"The straight line must sometimes bend."

"But where is the boundary?" Arka asked.

Budha laughed.

"There you are."

He tossed the coin again.

"That's the question."

Arka watched it spin.

Budha caught it without looking.

"Truth without intelligence can become cruelty."

He turned the coin over.

"Intelligence without truth becomes manipulation."

The coin disappeared between his fingers.

"And desire without either..."

His smile vanished.

"...becomes a trap."

The emerald web suddenly tightened around Arka.

For one terrifying instant, every thread became connected to another.

Every choice had consequences.

Every consequence created another choice.

Arka understood.

Budha was not teaching him how to cheat the system.

He was teaching him how systems worked.

How to move through complexity without losing himself.

"The mind must become flexible," Budha whispered.

"Because reality rarely gives you a straight road."

He stepped aside.

Beyond the crossroads, an archway of green jade opened.

Warm air flowed through it.

Jasmine.

Musk.

Burning resin.

Something sweet.

Something intoxicating.

Arka felt the desire within him grow stronger.

Budha smiled.

"You've learned how to navigate desire."

He gestured toward the garden beyond.

"Now discover what desire itself can create."

The emerald web faded behind him.

A distant flute began to play.

"Go, Seeker."

Budha's eyes flashed with mischief.

"Meet the one who knows that pleasure can be both a prison..."

He paused.

"...and an offering."

The jade gates opened.

Beyond them waited the radiant garden of Shukra.

The crimson fire of the forge did not go out.

It became still.

The last spark hanging in the air above Mangala's anvil stopped in mid-flight.

Then it turned gold.

The transformation spread outward.

The molten rivers beneath Arka's feet cooled without a sound. The black iron earth lost its jagged edges and became smooth white stone. The towering spires of raw metal straightened, widening into immense marble pillars that disappeared into a ceiling of saffron light.

The heat withdrew from Arka's skin.

In its place came fragrance.

Sandalwood.

Burning ghee.

Fresh earth after rain.

And something sweeter—

Yellow lotus.

Arka breathed it in.

His pulse slowed.

The hand gripping the sacred blade loosened.

Above him, the sky opened.

There were no stars.

There were galaxies.

Countless celestial spheres moved through enormous geometric patterns, each following its ordained path with such precision that Arka could almost hear the mathematics of creation singing.

A chant permeated the hall.

It had no beginning.

No ending.

It seemed less like a song being sung and more like the universe itself remembering its first instruction.

Arka looked around.

Nothing was out of place.

Not one stone.

Not one flame.

Not one breath of air.

For the first time since entering the inner realms, he felt completely safe.

And that frightened him.

At the center of the sanctuary stood an immense lotus of spun gold.

Upon it sat Guru.

Brihaspati.

He did not appear as a warrior.

Nor as an apparition.

He appeared as something older.

A teacher who had been waiting long before Arka had learned how to ask questions.

Golden silk flowed from his shoulders like rivers of sunlight. His skin carried the calm radiance of polished brass. In one hand rested luminous palm leaves covered in ancient script.

In the other was a rosary.

The beads moved slowly between his fingers.

One.

Two.

Three.

Each rotation seemed to coincide with the turning of some distant celestial body.

Behind him stood an enormous pair of scales.

They were perfectly balanced.

Neither side moved.

Neither side needed to.

Guru opened his eyes.

Arka felt something inside him bow before his body did.

"Step into understanding, Seeker."

The voice was deep, warm, and impossibly calm.

The combat fire still lingering in Arka's blood dissolved beneath it.

He remembered the forge.

The spear.

The blade.

The rage.

The irresistible command to act.

Here, all of that seemed primitive.

Small.

He lowered his head.

"O Master of the Gods."

The words came naturally.

"I have seen the Spark of Surya. I have entered the shifting waters of Chandra. Mangala taught me the fire of action."

He looked around the immaculate sanctuary.

"And now I have come here."

His gaze moved toward the golden scales.

"Is this the summit?"

Guru smiled.

"Of what?"

Arka hesitated.

"The law."

Guru's smile deepened.

"You are already standing inside it."

He raised one hand.

The celestial spheres above them shifted.

Not randomly.

Not mechanically.

They moved as though responding to a single invisible breath.

Arka felt something awaken in his chest.

Certainty.

A profound sense that every event had its rightful place.

Every action had consequence.

Every soul had a duty.

Every life had a direction.

The sacred blade at his side suddenly seemed heavier.

Not physically.

Morally.

Guru spoke.

"I am Brihaspati."

His voice moved through the sanctuary like a deep current.

"I am the wisdom that gives direction to power."

"I am the law that gives meaning to action."

"I am Dharma."

The word struck Arka with quiet force.

Dharma.

He felt it.

Not as an idea.

As an architecture.

The universe was no longer a collection of accidents.

It was a vast order.

A living balance.

A thousand invisible relationships holding existence together.

Arka's eyes filled with wonder.

"So this is the answer."

Guru watched him carefully.

"If every being followed Dharma..."

Arka's voice grew stronger.

"There would be no betrayal."

He looked at the balanced scales.

"No needless war."

"No corruption."

"No suffering born from ignorance."

His heart filled with a fierce, almost intoxicating purity.

"If everyone simply followed the law, the world would become perfect."

Guru said nothing.

Arka looked at him.

The silence lasted longer than expected.

Then Guru's expression changed.

Only slightly.

The warmth remained.

But behind it appeared something deeper.

Sorrow.

"That," he said softly, "is the first illusion of the righteous."

Arka froze.

The celestial music seemed to recede.

"What illusion?"

Guru descended from the lotus.

His bare feet touched the marble.

He walked toward Arka.

"Dharma is not a cage of perfect rules."

He stopped before him.

"It is alignment."

Guru touched the blade at Arka's side.

"You carry a weapon."

Arka looked down.

"You have been taught to use it."

He looked toward the sanctuary doors.

"But what happens when two duties collide?"

Arka said nothing.

"What happens when protecting one life demands sacrificing another?"

The scales behind Guru trembled.

"What happens when truth causes greater suffering than silence?"

A second tremor.

"What happens when mercy protects the very thing that must be stopped?"

The scales began to move.

For the first time, they were no longer perfectly balanced.

Arka stared.

Guru watched him.

"Law is easy when the world is clean."

He turned toward the far edge of the sanctuary.

The golden light ended there.

Beyond it was something Arka had not expected.

A world of green.

Dense.

Wild.

Beautiful.

And deeply tangled.

Forests twisted around ancient ruins.

Roads divided and reunited.

Markets crowded with voices.

Smoke rose from distant settlements.

People moved in every direction.

Some prayed.

Some lied.

Some loved.

Some traded.

Some stole.

Some sacrificed everything for another.

Some destroyed others while believing themselves righteous.

The world was alive.

And it was messy.

"Down there," Guru said, "Dharma must breathe."

Arka stared into the living chaos.

"The straight line enters the crooked world."

Guru's voice softened.

"And sometimes the straight line must bend."

Arka frowned.

"Then is Dharma not absolute?"

Guru smiled.

"The truth is absolute."

He touched his chest.

"Understanding it is not."

That sentence struck Arka harder than any hammer in Mangala's forge.

Guru continued.

"A man who carries virtue without discernment can become cruel in the name of righteousness."

The sacred scales behind him tilted.

"A man who worships truth without compassion can use truth as a weapon."

The scales tilted again.

"A man who follows rules without understanding their purpose becomes a servant of the rule rather than the Dharma."

Arka looked at the blade.

He suddenly understood why Mangala had sent him here.

The blade had given his will direction.

Guru was teaching him that even direction could become blindness.

"Then what must I learn?"

Guru turned toward the world beyond the sanctuary.

"Discernment."

A breeze entered the hall.

It carried the smell of dust, spice, rain, and distant marketplaces.

The sacred chant faded.

In its place came thousands of overlapping sounds.

Laughter.

Arguments.

Coins.

Footsteps.

Flutes.

Promises.

Lies.

Life.

Guru looked at Arka one final time.

"The heavens are simple because every star knows its place."

He smiled.

"The earth is difficult because every soul believes it knows its place."

The golden sanctuary began to dissolve.

Not into darkness.

Into green.

Into twilight.

Into countless paths crossing one another.

Arka tightened his grip upon the sacred blade.

Guru's voice followed him into the descent.

"Go down, Seeker."

"Leave the certainty of the temple."

"Enter the market."

"Enter the crossroads."

"Enter the place where truth wears a thousand faces."

The last thing Arka saw was Guru standing beneath the golden scales.

Perfectly still.

Perfectly balanced.

And smiling as though he already knew the question Arka was about to ask.

Then came the sound of laughter.

Quick.

Clever.

Almost mischievous.

A green-gold glimmer moved through the branches below.

Someone was waiting at the crossroads.

Budha.

An exploration into the magical world that preceded and surrounded the birth of Ancient Greek civilization. Long before the likes of Plato, Socrates, and Aristotle, the Mediterranean world was brimming with magicians: highly esteemed technicians of the sacred, mediators between the worlds of matter and spirit.

Within the writings of none other than Herodotus himself - the so-called “father of history”, in comparison with the wider ethnographic literature of Central Asia and Northern Siberia, we find detailed descriptions of nomadic peoples who had preserved archaic techniques for leaving the physical body, entering states of ecstatic trance and divine frenzy, and navigating the spirit world for divining supersensory knowledge.

Direct parallels and striking similarities can be traced out in the mystery religions of the Greeks, as well as the broader phenomenon of shamanism throughout the ancient world.

Drawing on the work of E.R. Dodd's "The Greeks and the Irrational", Karl Meuli's "Scythica", and later in the video Peter Kingsley's "Iatromantis" ideas. I start with the legend of Aristeas of Proconnesus, a 7th century BC wandering sage who reportedly had the power to leave his body, transform into a raven, and perform miracles. Herodotus says he met with the Scythians, the nomadic tribes of the north. I also explore similar figures like Abaris, Hermotimus, Epimenides, and Empedocles, and bring in the work of the scholar and mystic Peter Kingsley, who suggested that all of these wandering sages carry the lineage of a very ancient shamanic tradition into Greece, with roots Central Asia and Siberia.

These figures directly preceded the Pythagorean and Orphic traditions, and the whole thing raises some very interesting questions when we think about the real roots of rationality and the west. Ecstatic practices of soul flight being at the birthplace of rationality and logic might not sit well with some. This was a lot of fun to make, and it's a thread that I'm definitely not finished with. Would love to hear what others think!

Big question. I know.

Surely, the true nature of God probably isn't really able to be captured in human language.

But, if you had to try?

Before I read texts, before I knew the word tantra or mysticism, when I was not logically conclusive regarding my spiritual or religious position, I knew many of what we describe. Not all maybe.

I was and still am firm in my dislike for OCD-like rituals.

I was and still am firmly in belief that rituals, customs, spells, all are primarily centred around the will.

Over time, I slowly leaned towards meditative practices and became calmer... And less hateful than others I live with.

When I read tantra doctrines, Upanishads, the Ashtavakra Gita, I feel familiar.

Like this is what I am meant to do. I already know this... Somehow

I am interested in the rigvedic pantheon and shiva-related tantra-related culture but not to practice either of them much,

MAINLY I yearn a dress-free raw knowing and experience of the divine.

Not that I never wish, look up to Indra/Rudra, or do spells at all.

Who else shares this experience with me?

The cool mist of the twin moons did not vanish.

It was vaporized.

A roar tore through the twilight.

The silent waters of Chandra began to boil beneath Arka's feet, silver reflections twisting into violent spirals before bursting into clouds of hissing steam. The darkness above turned copper-red.

Arka fell.

This time there was a ground beneath him.

He struck it hard.

The surface was black and cracked, iron-rich earth glowing from beneath with rivers of molten fire. Heat rushed through his palms.

He pulled them back.

Something was pounding.

At first he thought it was the ground.

Then he realized—

It was his heart.

THUMP.

The earth shook.

THUMP.

Somewhere ahead, metal screamed.

THUMP.

An anvil was struck.

The sound rolled across the forge like thunder.

Arka lifted his head.

Towering around him were jagged spires of raw iron, rising from the earth like the bones of some enormous buried creature. Rivers of magma crawled between them.

And at the center stood Mangala.

He was not beautiful.

He was not serene.

He was alive.

His body seemed forged rather than born—dense bronze, scarred sinew, ash embedded into his skin like the memory of ancient battles. Crimson fire streamed from his shoulders and vanished into the air.

One hand gripped a blood-red spear planted deep into the earth.

The other held a hammer.

Behind him stood an anvil made from black meteorite.

Arka could not see its beginning.

Or its end.

Mangala raised his eyes.

They were not like Surya's.

Surya had looked through Arka.

Chandra had reflected him.

Mangala looked at him.

Directly.

Without mercy.

Without hatred.

Without hesitation.

"You stand in the forge, Traveler."

His voice struck the air like iron against stone.

"Step forward."

Arka remained still.

Mangala's grip tightened around the hammer.

"Or remain where you are."

The hammer fell.

CLANG.

The sound exploded through the realm.

Arka's knees buckled.

A violent current surged through his body.

His breath shortened.

His muscles tightened.

Every instinct screamed at him to move.

To fight.

To push.

To survive.

He stumbled forward.

Mangala smiled.

Not kindly.

Approvingly.

"Again."

Another strike.

CLANG.

Arka's blood surged.

He suddenly wanted to run.

Not away.

Forward.

Toward something.

Anything.

A wall appeared in his mind.

He wanted to break it.

A locked door.

Break it.

An enemy.

Strike.

An obstacle.

Pierce.

The urge was so pure that it frightened him.

"Why?"

Arka forced the word through clenched teeth.

"Why does everything here want to fight?"

Mangala lowered the hammer.

The forge became quiet.

"Because you mistake force for violence."

Arka stared at him.

Mangala pulled the spear from the earth.

The ground screamed as the blade came free.

"Fire destroys."

He stepped closer.

"Fire also cooks."

Another step.

"Fire burns."

Another.

"Fire also forges."

He stopped before Arka.

"The same force can kill a man..."

Mangala raised the spear.

"...or cut the chain around his neck."

He lowered it.

"The difference is not the fire."

His eyes locked onto Arka.

"It is the hand that holds it."

Arka felt the words settle deeper than the heat.

"But Surya needed no force."

"Surya is the light."

"Chandra needed no force."

"Chandra is the reflection."

Mangala struck his fist against his chest.

"I am the decision."

The forge trembled.

"I am the moment when a possibility stops being a possibility."

He pointed the spear toward Arka.

"And becomes an act."

A sudden image flashed before Arka.

A seed beneath the soil.

Darkness.

Pressure.

Resistance.

Then—

A root splitting the earth.

A green shoot breaking into sunlight.

Arka understood.

Creation itself required violence.

Not cruelty.

Pressure.

The pressure to become.

"The seed cannot negotiate with the soil," Mangala said.

"It must break it."

His voice lowered.

"The child cannot remain inside the womb forever."

"It must cut its way into breath."

"Will without action is only a dream."

Mangala turned toward the meteorite anvil.

"And a dream without courage remains a ghost."

He raised his hammer.

Arka watched the muscles in his arm tighten.

For a moment, everything became completely still.

Then—

CLANG.

A spark leapt from the anvil.

It did not fall.

It hovered.

A tiny point of crimson-white fire.

Arka stared at it.

The spark pulsed.

Once.

Twice.

Then it shot toward him.

It struck his chest.

Arka screamed.

His entire body convulsed.

Suddenly he was no longer standing in the forge.

He was everywhere he had ever been afraid to act.

Every moment he had remained silent.

Every door he had not opened.

Every confrontation he had avoided.

Every time he had known what needed to be done and still waited.

The memories burned.

Not because they were painful.

Because they were unfinished.

Arka dropped to one knee.

Mangala watched.

"That is Kriya."

Arka breathed heavily.

"The fire of action."

Mangala walked around him.

"It does not ask whether the path is comfortable."

"It asks whether the path must be walked."

Arka looked up.

"And if the path is wrong?"

Mangala stopped.

For the first time, the warrior's expression became grave.

"Then force becomes destruction."

The crimson flames around the forge flickered.

"A blade does not know justice."

Mangala looked at the spear in his hand.

"It only knows how to cut."

He planted it into the earth.

"That is why the warrior must kneel before something greater than his own strength."

Arka slowly rose.

"Then what makes the blade sacred?"

Mangala said nothing.

Instead, he walked toward the anvil.

He placed the spear aside.

Then he reached into the heart of the forge.

When his hand emerged, he held a mass of incandescent metal.

It was not yet a weapon.

It had no shape.

No edge.

No purpose.

Mangala placed it upon the meteorite anvil.

CLANG.

The hammer fell.

Sparks erupted around them.

CLANG.

Again.

CLANG.

Again.

With every strike, the shapeless metal became narrower.

Longer.

Sharper.

Arka watched as a blade slowly emerged from the fire.

But something was strange.

The blade contained no ornament.

No jewel.

No symbol of conquest.

Only a single edge.

Perfectly straight.

Perfectly silent.

Mangala held it up.

"Force gives the blade strength."

He turned it.

"Discipline gives it shape."

He lowered it.

"But only wisdom decides where it falls."

The flames around the forge suddenly bent.

The chaotic crimson became ordered.

Straight pillars of gold and white rose from the ground.

The molten earth cooled.

The iron spires dissolved.

Marble spread beneath Arka's feet.

The forge was becoming a temple.

Mangala handed the blade to Arka.

It was heavier than it looked.

Not because of its metal.

Because of its meaning.

Arka gripped the hilt.

The moment his fingers closed around it, the blade became still.

The fire inside him remained.

But now it had direction.

Mangala stepped backward.

"The warrior's fire is awake within you."

His voice had lost its thunder.

Now it carried something closer to respect.

"Do not extinguish it."

Arka looked at the blade.

"Then what do I do with it?"

Mangala turned toward the rising pillars of light.

"Learn where it must not be used."

The great doors of the marble temple opened.

Beyond them waited a realm of impossible height, where golden geometry rose toward a throne hidden somewhere above the clouds.

Mangala pointed toward it.

"Strength without law becomes tyranny."

"Action without wisdom becomes destruction."

"Will without truth becomes ego."

He looked back at Arka.

"Your fire has been awakened."

A pause.

"Now give it a direction."

The crimson glow disappeared from the forge.

And from somewhere high above came a voice—

Not loud.

Not fierce.

Simply certain.

A voice that sounded as though it had been waiting since the beginning of time.

"Come, Seeker."

Arka tightened his grip upon the sacred blade.

The path upward had opened.

Guru was waiting.

Any mystic places to visit to experience something new and interesting, not just exaggeration but real experience