Synchronicities

 

Sometimes it seems to me that synchronicities don’t come to me as pure signs, but as reflections in water that someone has deliberately stirred — water in which both desire and fear are mirrored, along with that deep, unprocessed unconscious that breathes timidly in the corners of every thought. I write this entry in the quiet of an evening where the shadows on the wall look like traces of parallel realities I keep slipping between, without being certain which one is true, which is a trap, which is merely a projection of what I long to see as a path — yet what may actually be proliferated desire, producing signs that soothe, lure, seduce.

For a long time I’ve sensed that the subconscious possesses an endless artistry for creating signs that look as if they were emitted by some invisible divinity, yet are really just fragments of my strongest longings, gathered together, stitched with threads of forgetfulness, and projected onto the world’s wall like mystical directions. I have often believed that God speaks to me this way — through the arrangement of coincidences, through synchronistic alignments, through those strange harmonies between inner and outer that make the heart quiver. But how easily that quiver can be a deception, a mask of inner hunger, an illusion of meaning I invent because I need it like air.

It is difficult for me to admit, but these signs contain a paradoxical duality: they are both gift and trial, light and deception, comfort and a wolfish abyss. My psychoanalytic mind runs to decipher them, to turn them into symbols of what I’ve never had the courage to speak aloud — those old insufficiencies, empty spaces, unspoken longings that easily disguise themselves as divine will. And how often I fall into this illusion: that if an event sounds like a whisper from a higher order, then I must follow it, trust it, surrender to the path… when in truth that path may be an enchanted circle spun by my own fears, by my need for affirmation, by desires disguised as destiny.

In this circle there is sometimes something of hell — not fiery, not dramatic, but quiet, slowly corroding hell, where the ambivalence of the signs sharpens my uncertainty into pain. It is the hell of doubleness: that instantaneous sense that everything is guided by an invisible order, followed by the sudden realization that this order may be nothing more than the product of my inner searching, my wish to believe that there is direction. A path drawn by my own hand, but presented as a divine map.

How thin the line is between intuition and delusion, between spiritual illumination and schizophrenic splitting, where the world fractures into possibilities, premonitions, secret connections that draw me into their labyrinth. Sometimes I wonder whether this tendency to seek signs is simply an attempt to fight my own helplessness — to make chaos bearable by giving it meaning. Whether I am repeating the same movement: creating meaning, believing it, following it, only to find myself lost again.

And then I feel how the mind, that skillful, brilliant manipulator, serves up stories that sound like truths. How it lies to me with tenderness, with inner coincidences, with images that resemble genuine revelations but are only inventions of my fear of emptiness, of uncertainty, of lack of orientation. Sometimes I think that precisely there — in that space of absence — true spirituality reveals itself, but I flee from it because it is too quiet, too bare, too real.

And yet, strange as it is, there are moments when synchronicities are more mirrors than guides. Mirrors that return to me the image of my own wounds, my own false beliefs, and that deep inner restlessness which I try to dress in symbols to make it more bearable. In these mirrors I see not God, not destiny, but myself — sometimes more fragile, sometimes stronger, yet still confused, searching, imperfect.

The parallel realities into which I sink are in fact inner spaces born of the unconscious — what Jung would call the shadow, what Freud would read as symptom. And I feel them like two different currents of air passing through me simultaneously — one warm and tempting, the other cool and sobering. And in this double temperature arises the hesitation: which reality is the true one? Which is distorted by my desire to see signs where there are only coincidences? And is it sometimes healthier to accept that the world doesn’t always speak, that sometimes it remains silent, and that this silence is the purest form of divine presence.

The psychoanalytic perspective is clear: when desire becomes too strong, it begins to project, to double itself, to invent. The unconscious is an artist who doesn’t always know when to stop performing, when to cease inventing plots. It can be endlessly convincing. And if one does not hold firmly to one’s inner center, if one does not recognize that deep inner stillness which separates true insight from fantasy, then one easily falls captive to one’s own symbols. And there begins the delusion — that soft, bitter inability to recognize the right path.

There are days when I feel as if I’m walking down a corridor where the lights flicker — sometimes it seems they’re guiding me somewhere, other times that they’re leaving me to wander alone. And then I sense how my inner prayer changes — from a plea for signs to a plea for clarity; from a plea for direction to a plea for patience; from a plea for action to a plea for quiet. And little by little I begin to understand that living does not mean searching for signs as instructions, but learning to carry my own uncertainty.

And perhaps this is where the spiritual truth emerges: that God is not always in the signs, sometimes He is in the absence of signs, in that space where I must listen to my own breathing and trust not the external coincidences but the inner movement that has no noise, no image, no proof. A quiet, transparent faith that requires no symbols.

But this is hard. Very hard. Because the mind loves drama, loves interpretation, loves to play with the threads of coincidence, connecting them into a tapestry that looks meaningful. It is a skillful liar that speaks in beautiful words, using shadows and lights to convince me that I see truth. And I often believe it, because it is easier to trust signs than to face the chaos of silence.

And yet there is another layer — quieter, deeper, almost invisible. There lives true spirituality: in the capacity to discern. To discern between desire and insight, between fantasy and intuition, between my own pain and what the world is truly offering me. This discernment is painful because it requires me to relinquish the illusion that everything has meaning, that everything is a sign, that everything is intended.

And yet, in this letting go, there is an unexpected freedom. Freedom to be human — imperfect, searching, mistaken. Freedom not to know. Freedom to walk without guarantees.

Sometimes I think that grace is born not from clarity, but from vulnerability — from the ability to see how prone I am to delusion, how easily I am misled by what I want to be true. And in this acknowledgement there is a strange kind of peace.

Maybe the true path begins not when I see a sign that guides me, but when I learn to say: I do not know. And to allow each step to reveal itself only when I take it. Without guarantee. Without promise. Only with a quiet, steady, human faith.

And maybe that is the only sign that truly matters.