Wednesday evening. Or perhaps it is Thursday morning. Time has long since shed its linear constraint, dissolving into one protracted, quiet "now" that sometimes shrinks to the pulse in my temple and sometimes expands to the periphery of the galaxy. I write this because words are the only way left to delineate the shores of the ocean that is surging within me.
Sometimes the human personality is merely a small, inconspicuous doorway to infinity. A fissure in the dense fabric of the everyday. You open it unconsciously—perhaps out of a pain that has grown too vast for the body, out of a curiosity bordering on madness, or from that deep, atavistic internal need to know what lies beyond. And suddenly, without warning, you find yourself outside of yourself. The Self dissolves. The boundaries of the skin become permeable, and what we call "the world" ceases to be an object of observation and becomes the subject of pure experience.
In this multidimensional space, the concepts of "I," "you," and "the other" lose their geometric definition. There is no coordinate system. Thus begins that peculiar state, simultaneously blissful and terrifying, where you cannot define how you feel, simply because you feel everywhere. You are in the creaking of the floorboards, in the light that falls at an angle upon the table, in the distant city noise, and in the silence between thoughts. This is the "oceanic feeling," about which psychoanalysis speaks with a degree of trepidation—the disintegration of the ego, the return to a primal, prenatal wholeness where separation has not yet inflicted its trauma.
In this expanse of consciousness, knowledge and experience interflow to the point of becoming pure being. There is no need to learn, because you are the information. You clearly see the equation of the universe, you understand it with your cellular memory, but—and here lies the tragedy of embodiment—you do not know how to apply it to the place that bears your name. How does one pour the ocean into a thimble?
You look upon your personality from afar. You see it as a small dot on a vast, pulsating map of realities. A point through which you observe, but which no longer fully defines you. You are the witness standing behind the stage curtain, watching as the actor—your earthly avatar—stumbles, weeps, laughs. And you are not compelled to choose the role again and again, because the choice seems to have been made already in the moment you glimpsed that multidimensional unity. Everything is a script written with the ink of love, but played out in the decor of forgetfulness.
And yet, there is pain within the dot. Oh, what pain there is in the contraction back! It is the wound through which you escaped the confines of the human to witness the boundlessness of your being. This wound is not merely physical or emotional; it is an existential fissure. When the spirit, expanded to the size of the cosmos, must once again fit into the tight garment of identity, the friction is unbearable.
But when you return to it, from the vantage point of the Heights, the pain seems to lose its density. It dissolves, melting like a piece of cotton wool in water or like sugar in hot tea. You regard the suffering of your personality with the eyes of a mother watching a child dreaming a nightmare. You want to comfort it, yet you know the nightmare is illusory. The personality waits for you to nurture it, to heal it, to choose it anew. But how can you choose something that is only one of your countless aspects? How can you invest all your vital energy into a single wave, knowing that you are the entire sea?
This is the paradox of awakening: the more you realize, the harder simple, naive living becomes. There, in that vast perspective of the spirit, there is no movement, no time, no "should." And everything we call "life," "evolution," "progress," turns out to be only a magnificent game of memory and perspective. An illusion of motion in a time that only we, in our linear limitations, invent so as not to go mad from the static nature of eternity. Everything has already happened. Everything is already here. The future is simply a memory that is yet to be recalled.
And yet, in the quiet hours of the night, a question arises that gives no rest to the mind seeking logic in the absurd: Why does the Absolute, which is perfect and needs nothing, choose to manifest in form? Why is this painful separation necessary, this propulsion, this drama of the wave breaking upon the shore? Why must the One, in the blissful repose of timelessness, become the "I, here and now," with all its imperfections, fears, and longings?
Psychoanalysis would say this is the eternal dance between Eros and Thanatos—the striving towards life and the striving towards stillness. But the spiritual gaze goes further. Perhaps God seeks Itself through our eyes. Perhaps the Absolute is lonely in its perfection and requires a mirror. An authentic, logical answer is absent. In this reality, the question dissolves in the very act of its asking. We understand God not as an explanation, but as a vision. As a pure experience of Presence. In the moment we ask, we already possess the answer—because the asking itself is a manifestation of divine curiosity.
And here remains a profoundly human, painfully practical difficulty: how to return to your specific selfhood after experiencing yourself as boundlessness? How to ground yourself when your centre has vanished, or rather, become omnipresent? How to awaken the need for choice—what to eat, what to work, whom to love—when at a deep level you know that choice is illusory, because all paths lead to the same place?
Sometimes the mind is like a machine after long, exhausting learning—so amplified, so accelerated in its abstractions, that it loses connection with its biological base. It spins at idle speed, generating concepts, but it does not feel hunger, it does not feel fatigue, it does not feel the weight of the limbs. The body below cries out, signals its needs, but the signal is lost along the route. You know that it needs food, rest, and an elemental return to matter. But the acceleration of the vibration itself holds you in an illusion of weightlessness. Similarly, the spirit, once it has gone "out," struggles to fit back into the narrow confines of form. It is as if you are trying to return a butterfly back into its cocoon.
You already know what you are. You know it with a truth that words cannot bear, because words are tools of division, and truth is unified. And precisely this knowledge renders the anxious question of choice meaningless. Seeing is choosing. If you see, you have already chosen yourself. The very act of awareness is an act of creation.
But another, subtler paradox arises. When you are everywhere, you cease to be concretely somewhere. When you are everything, the taste of the particular is lost. Pain becomes small, but joy also fades. A kiss loses its passion because you know you are kissing yourself. The world is levelled to a point, to stillness, to the needlessness of motion. And a specific feeling of melancholy remains—that you are here, but not centered, that you are happening, but not acting. That you are a ghost in your own life.
And then comes the dark side of hyper-awareness: the contradiction of worlds, the impossibility of gathering yourself into one solid body. You see how realities meet, how they "short circuit." In this clash between the infinite and the finite, humour, absurdity, and the deepest suffering are born. You understand: every reality is a truth unto itself, but it is not the whole Truth. The psyche stretches to its limit, trying to contain these opposites. And sometimes the only measure of sanity is laughter—that hysterical, liberating laughter born in the crack between two incompatible viewpoints. The laughter of one who knows the joke, yet must continue to play the drama.
And when all viewpoints are yours? When there is no otherness? You remain alone with yourself—infinite, multifaceted, and yet terribly solitary in your oneness. This is the loneliness of God, which we, humans, carry as a small fragment in our souls.
In this moment of supreme tension, on the verge of disintegration, comes the quiet, yet categorical insight. It arrives not as thunder, but as a sigh, as a calming of the surge:
"I am the path. I am the experience. I am that which is happening."
Not because I must choose between the spiritual and the material, but because I am the point of intersection.
Not because I must search for a beginning or an end, but because the moment is whole and perfect in its incompleteness.
The dot has decided to become a wave, in order to know motion.
And the wave has decided to be a dot, in order to know itself.
There is no conflict, except the one the mind creates in its attempt to control the uncontrollable. The body is not a prison, but an anchor that allows the ship of the soul not to be lost in the open sea. Sorrow is not a punishment, but depth. Joy is not a goal, but a consequence.
There, in that cycle of consciousness, you are both. You are the observer and the observed. You are the silence and the cry.
And it is enough.
It is entirely sufficient simply to be The One You Are—here and now. To breathe. To feel the weight of gravity as an embrace of the earth. To allow the wave to break and turn into foam, knowing that the water is never lost.
Simply be. In this small, fragile dot, the entire universe is contained. And perhaps, just perhaps, the meaning is not to remain forever in the infinity, but to bring a little of that infinity here, into the finite, imperfect, and so beautiful world of forms.
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