And sometimes I feel that the inner reality and the outer reality merge so smoothly and so treacherously that I stop distinguishing where thought ends and the world begins; and this merging is at once a blessing and a danger, because in this flow of constant interaction one begins to make happen with one’s thoughts that which one has fantasized to believe — and it acquires form, substance, eventfulness, movement. Yet in this process there is a delicate moment of mismatch, a fleeting instant in which the outer has not yet caught up with the inner, in which the seed of thought is sown, but the earth has not fully received it, and then comes that quiet, painful rupture — unfulfillment, non-occurrence, a peculiar shifting of the horizon, which creates the space for the cleverest form of self-deception: to believe that one is already seeing the manifestation, while in fact one is looking at the reflection of one’s own desire, cast onto the canvas of reality as shadow, not light. And then, when the inner spills over like an overpowering river into the outer, one easily begins to get lost in one’s own interpretations; and so, just as I trace the tracks of thought, trying not to touch them, to let them move, not to feed them, perhaps I must begin to observe outer phenomena in the same way — with gentle distance, with honesty, without burdening them with meaning that may not belong, without turning them into signs if they are not.
And perhaps this is that strange, almost mystical feeling, that the mind extends outward — that there is a part of me that does not end in the skull, but flows into the air, into encounters, into coincidences, into plots that unfold without my conscious summons. The Indians call it maya — the play of light, the illusion in which the inner becomes outer and the outer inner, without a clear boundary, without a stable point of support; and when I get lost in this maya, I feel how the hell in the mind easily appears outside, because the world begins to reflect my anxieties like a mirror, rather than as reality. And then I realize: the true art is not in creating with my thoughts, but in learning to discern when I am creating and when I am fantasizing; when I see God and when I see only my fear, dressed as a sign. And perhaps it is precisely there that the beginning of wisdom lies — in the capacity to observe both the inner and the outer with the same gentleness, without prematurely merging them, without insisting compulsively that one must reflect the other, without giving the world the responsibility to confirm my desires. To remain in that quiet, uncertain space in which reality is neither inner nor outer, but simply is — and in that “is,” to find peace.
And the more I reflect on this overflow — of the inner into the outer, of thought into phenomenon — the more I feel that the very act of observation is that subtle bridge over which illusion and truth both pass. Perhaps this is why sometimes I feel that every movement of the mind resonates in the world, as if the outer reality is a membrane that vibrates at every internal touch. Yet at the same time, I know that this feeling can be misleading — sometimes it is insight, other times projection; sometimes intuition, other times anxiety disguised as knowledge. And I remain between these two poles — one draws me as a promise of magic, the other warns me as a whisper of common sense.
In moments of greater honesty with myself, I realize that the desire to see meaning in everything is only a way to soften the fear of randomness. And how strange it is that precisely when my inner reality is most tumultuous, most full of ideas, images, premonitions, the world begins to return them to me in strange, distorted forms — like an echo of the dream I try to interpret as a sign. But I know — deep within I know — that this is the moment when I must step back, humble myself, and begin to observe not to interpret, but to understand whether what I see truly has life of its own outside me, or if I have created it myself, with the excessive force of my attention.
I think that continuity — that waiting, that space between thought and manifestation — is actually the hardest lesson. For there lives the tension, there lives doubt, there lives the primal fear that perhaps nothing will happen, that my effort to create is mere fantasy, that the world is more resistant than I wish. And sometimes I fear the opposite — that the world is too pliable, that it may bend to my thoughts, and then who am I? Where is the boundary between my psyche and that which we call reality?
It is precisely there that the sense of maya begins to creep in — that reality is a mirror of the inner, but also that the inner can be swallowed by the outer. As if I stand on the edge of two universes, and each invites me to believe in it. But if I cling too tightly to either, I lose my center. And so lately I try to choose observation over interpretation: to allow events simply to be, without burdening them, without distorting them through hope or fear.
And the more I do this, the more I realize how important this inner withdrawal is — like the gentle pulling of the head into the shoulders when you feel a cold wind. Because if I allow the hell in my head to project outward, the world becomes a mirror of chaos, becomes an extension of my anxiety, becomes a stage upon which my deepest wounds are acted out. And how easy it is then to believe that everything is destined, that everything is a sign, that everything is a message — when in fact these are only my fears, taking form.
But when I gather myself, when I humble myself, when I observe both the inner and the outer with the same gentleness, with quiet acceptance, without hurry, without clinging, then I begin to see that reality is neither entirely created by me nor completely independent. It is somewhere in between — a field of interaction, but not of automatic correspondence. And I realize that true maturity is not to control the world with thought, but to control one’s own tendency toward delusion.
And this brings me a particular, difficult, but real calm — that which comes when you stop insisting. When you stop guessing. When you stop turning light into signs.
And simply… observe.
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