Spiritual surgery
The ink of my thoughts today is thick, heavy, as if saturated with the very matter of the earth that I am trying to transmute into spirit. I sit in the silence and listen to time dripping—steady, relentless—while a painful anatomy of existence unfolds before my eyes. There are moments when the metaphor of the spiritual oasis is no longer enough to withstand the pressure of external degradation. We often deceive ourselves into thinking that our inner light, this fragile flame of personal goodness, is sufficient to illuminate even the densest darkness outside. But today, in this space between the breath and the prayer, I realize a harsh truth: when necrotic cells appear in the fabric of reality, humility ceases to be a virtue and becomes complicity. Surgery is not an act of hatred; it is an act of supreme care for the whole. There is a specific, conscious insolence , a malice that walks unhindered through the temples of our daily lives, and it cannot be cured by passive waiting. F...
