Sometimes I feel as if I live on the border between two realities — the inner one, which expands like a breath, and the outer one, which at times seems like an extension of my thoughts, and at other times like their mirror, distorted by an invisible hand. And I find myself asking: how much of what I see is the world, and how much is projection? Because there are days when everything outside speaks to me — not in words, but in hints, in coincidences, in quiet reflections that resemble signs. And that’s when the strange blending begins — the inner spills outward like fog, and the outer enters me like a memory that doesn’t belong to me.
Sometimes it’s beautiful.
Sometimes it’s dangerous.
I’ve long known that the mind can create worlds, fill them with intuitions, with promises, with images of the future that sound like revelations. And how easy it is to believe that all of this is real — that your thoughts have weight, that your attention makes the world more obedient, that the universe responds. But within this process there is a hidden gap: between what has already happened inside, and what the world has not yet recognized. In that moment of misalignment lies the temptation of illusion.
There, in the pause, the shadow of self-deception is born.
That’s where the dangerous conviction appears — “if I feel it so strongly, it must be true.” But intensity is not always proof. Sometimes it’s just an echo of longing. Sometimes it’s a trauma speaking through me. Sometimes it’s fear disguised as intuition.
This is why I’ve begun to be careful — not only about what I think, but how I believe my thoughts. Because I’ve noticed that when the inner world becomes too loud, the outer world starts reflecting it. And then suddenly everything seems saturated with meaning, colored by my internal landscape. And if that landscape is bright — the world feels benevolent. If it’s dark — the world becomes a labyrinth of threats.
Is this maya? Perhaps. Perhaps this is that ancient idea that reality is a dance between the observer and the observed, that the boundary between them is always shifting. Sometimes it dissolves. Sometimes it disappears completely.
And that’s why, lately, I practice being a quiet witness. Not rushing to interpret. Not turning every coincidence into a revelation. Not sticking the label of my desire onto the world. I know that if I’m not careful, the hell in my head can become a hell outside me — because anything that overflows from the inner without measure reaches the outer as a storm. And then I quickly realize that what I mistook for a sign was actually anxiety; what I called destiny — just fantasy; what I accepted as truth — a reflection of some deep, unprocessed pain.
Psychoanalysis explains it clearly: when the unconscious becomes too activated, the external world turns into a stage for its images. And then a person can see their own wounds outside, mistake them for fate, call them divine messages. This magic is treacherous, because at times it looks real. But if I look deeply, I understand: true spirituality is not in interpretation. It is in differentiation.
It lives in the silence between thought and belief.
In the brief moment in which I can ask: “Is this true, or is this me?”
Sometimes I feel that this is the most important question I can ask myself. Because precisely there — between the inner and the outer, between creating and seeing, between expansion and restraint — lies maturity. To allow the world to be the world, without turning it into an extension of my thoughts. To allow the mind to think, without giving it the authority to be a prophet.
And then, in that gentle balance, I begin to feel that thin, elusive peace: the real reality is neither internal nor external. It exists in the point of presence, at the center from which I observe without leaping, without identifying, without losing myself.
Perhaps this is the only way to remain whole in a world where everything overflows.
To be here.
To be awake.
To be quiet.
And to allow myself not to rush into believing — neither the mind, nor the dreams, nor the shadows of desire.
But simply to listen.
Sometimes silence says more than the signs.
Sometimes it is the only truth I am able to bear.
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