November 3rd. The night is thick and impenetrable, and the silence in the room feels not like an absence of sound, but like the presence of something ancient and waiting. Before me, illuminated only by the flickering light of the night lamp, lies my own soul, opened on pages that I fear and long to look at simultaneously. I breathe, I pause, I write. The words that are born now do not merely describe the human experience; they unpick it, layer by layer, until only the raw truth remains, vibrating and alive beneath the strata of our defenses.
I write this with the feeling of a quiet, internal tremor. I always thought that resentment was armor—the shield that protected me from the world that misunderstood me, from the people who failed to appreciate me. But as I delve into the depths of this realization, I understand that what I have been carrying is not armor, but a shackle. Resentment is the sediment of the soul, the bitter residue of what we expected but did not receive. Psychoanalytic thought would call it a fixation on lack, on early frustration, but in the spiritual lexicon, it is simply a refusal to accept reality as it is—a refusal to surrender to the flow of life. There is something profoundly tragic yet banal in the way we cling to our pain, transforming it into our sole, rigid identity. Who am I without my story of injustice? This question hangs in the air, heavy and unavoidable.
In this silence, I realize that the ego is the architect of our own prison. The ego—that tireless narrator that constantly whispers that we are not enough, that the world owes us something, that we must be right, even at the cost of our inner peace. I recall all the moments when I sought external validation, craving approval like a traveler in the desert seeking water. And when that water was not given, or was not pure enough, I transformed my thirst into anger, into this chronic, low-frequency offense that smolders beneath the surface of every day. This is the mechanism of suffering: the chasm between expectation and reality. Here, in the night, I realize that my resentment was never about others. It was the cry of my own wounded child, who did not know how to give itself the unconditional acceptance it begged from the outside world. We drink the poison, expecting the other to feel the pain, but the other continues their journey while we burn in our own fire, chained to a scene from the past that no longer exists.
The path to liberation, which unfolds before me, passes through the radical, almost frightening territory of authenticity and mindfulness. To be here. Now. To feel my breath—that simplest, most sacred rhythm that connects us to life and its Immutable foundation. Mindfulness is what interrupts the cycle of rumination, the mind's habit of cycling the same old scenarios, assigning them the same painful meanings. When we stop living in the echo of yesterday and immerse ourselves in the present moment, the ego loses its power, for it cannot exist in the "now"; it feeds only on time—on the past it rewrites and the future it fears.
I try to practice this. I close my eyes and listen to the rain outside. I do not judge it. I do not wish for it to stop. I simply hear it. And in this simple, unadulterated encounter with momentariness, I feel for the first time that I have the right to exist in fullness, without having to win or defend my place.
Here, in the heart of transformation, I discover gratitude as the highest alchemy. It is not merely wishful thinking or a list of good things that happen. It is a conscious shift of focus from lack to abundance. Gratitude teaches me to see the light in the cracks of the walls, not just the walls themselves. It leads me to the rediscovery of authentic self-identity—not the one defined by roles and external achievements, but the one that is immutable, whole, and worthy simply by the right of its existence. An identity that does not require an external gaze to confirm its value.
The release culminates in the act of forgiveness. This is the hardest, most divine transition. Forgiveness, understood not as an act of justifying another's mistake, but as an act of self-liberation. It is the acknowledgment that continuing the offense is a greater punishment for me than for the one who hurt me. It is the spiritual untying of the knot. It is like cutting the rope with which you tied yourself to the weight of the past, and allowing your own vessel to sail away.
To reach forgiveness, I must first go through the recognition of patterns. Psychoanalysis teaches me that we replay old dramas until we become aware of them. I must see that the person I resent today is often just a new actor playing an old role from my childhood. When I change my internal perspective, when I see the other not as a villain, but as another wounded human being also carrying their burden, then the boundary between myself and the other begins to blur into a larger, universal compassion.
This is also the path to self-realization: to embrace authenticity, to live in harmony with one's deep, immutable values, and to shed the mask of the ego worn for years. The mask was comfortable, but it was also suffocating. Self-realization is a quiet triumph, a return home to that part of the self that has always known the truth. It brings with it a deep, not rapturous but enduring contentment, which is far more valuable than the ephemeral euphoria of external victories.
The night yields to the first gray shadows of dawn. I feel a lightness I have not known for a long time—not cheerfulness, but precisely a lightness of being. The tension in my jaw is released, my shoulders are not slumped under the weight of old, unpaid scores. This is a life that is freed from the limitations of the ego, a life marked by silence, contentment, and fulfillment. This experience is not a one-time act, but a continuous process of surrender, of deep, spiritual work. It is a calling to constant internal dialogue—with memory, with faith, with one's own vulnerability.
I remain here, in this quiet corner of the world, with a sense of incompleteness that is not a flaw, but a promise. A promise of growing grace, of more light in those dark corners where the ego still hides. This is a whisper of confession that turns into a prayer—a prayer for peace, not only for myself but for all who carry the burden of unresolved resentment. Ultimately, the greatest power is the power to let go. And to understand that in the silence of that release lies the deep, unwavering meaning of our existence.
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