December 10th. Or perhaps it is the 11th. Time has lost its linear rhythm since the days merged into one long, gray anticipation. The light today falls obliquely through the window, illuminating the dust motes that dance in the silence—the only motion in this room, which is simultaneously a sanctuary and a prison. I write this not to complain, but to comprehend. To map this desert we find ourselves in. The words we hear every day – impasse, inflation, unemployment, poverty, low standard, scarcity, deprivation, loneliness – sound like dry, technical terms in the news, but here, in my inner world, they have flesh, they have the weight of a stone laid upon the chest at night.
I sit opposite myself in this twilight of the spirit. What we call a "crisis" is, in fact, a deep, unsettling psychoanalytic pause imposed upon us by reality; the moment when the external supports of the ego – career, financial security, social status – crumble to reveal the fragile construction beneath. The impasse is not merely a lack of path forward; it is a forced stop to look inward. When the world stops providing, you are compelled to ask what you carry within yourself that cannot be devalued.
Inflation. It is not just a number. It is a metaphor for our anxious expansion, our attempt to fill the void with quantity while value leaks through our fingers. I observe how money melts, but the more terrifying sight is how trust in tomorrow is melting. This is the trauma of uncertainty – the ancient fear of the child that the parent (in this case, the Universe or the State) has abandoned them without sustenance. We are undergoing a collective regression, a return to a primal stage of survival where every bite, every coin becomes a symbol of whether we have the right to exist. And yet, in this devaluation, there is a strange, painful possibility. When the external lightens, does the internal not gain weight? Perhaps spiritual inflation is the reverse of the economic – the less we have in our pockets, the more precious every breath, every kind word, every gesture of mercy becomes.
And unemployment... It is the silent killer of identity. In a world where "I do" equals "I am," the lack of work feels like an amputation of meaning. I stand in the stillness of the afternoon and feel how time, which was once a commodity, is now a boundless ocean in which I could drown. Psychoanalytically, this is the confrontation with the Void. The Self, stripped of its social mask, stands naked before the mirror of its conscience. Who am I when I am not producing? Who am I when I am not consuming? Here, in this emptiness, is born either deep depression or the beginning of true freedom. I remember the Desert Fathers who consciously chose the "unemployment" of the world to work upon their souls. Perhaps this is an invitation – cruel, yet necessary – to redirect my labor from the visible to the invisible. To "work" on acceptance, on humility, on forgiveness towards myself.
The feeling of poverty and low standard permeates the tissues like moisture. It shrinks the horizon. It makes you look at your feet instead of the sky. Scarcity is a strict teacher. It reduces life to its essence. There is something monastic in this forced simplification, though unwanted. Deprivation strips us of the superfluous. All those layers of comfort with which we were accustomed to silencing our inner voice are now peeled away. It hurts. The skin of the soul is exposed and sensitive to every breath. But in this pain, there is also clarification. I notice the taste of bread in a way I haven't for years. I notice the warmth of the blanket. Deprivation sharpens the senses for the sacred in the ordinary. Perhaps this is precisely the path of the mystic – to find God not in abundance, but in the crumb, in the drop of water, in the minimal that is entirely sufficient to sustain life.
And then comes loneliness. It is the heaviest of all the lacks. When you are in scarcity, you shrink, you shut down, out of shame, out of exhaustion. Social ties, which are often based on exchange and entertainment, disintegrate. Only the real ones remain, and they are few. But this loneliness... it is also a womb. Jung would say this is the moment of individuation, when we must integrate our Shadow. In the silence of loneliness, all suppressed fears, all the demons of insecurity, rise to the surface. They demand to be heard. Loneliness is the space where God speaks, because only when the other voices fall silent does His whisper become audible. This is not the loneliness of the abandoned, but the solitude of the seeker. In this empty room, I am not alone; I am in the presence of my own soul, which I have neglected for so long, distracted by the window displays of the world.
I confess, I am afraid. There are nights when the impasse seems like a labyrinth without an exit, like an eternal cycle of anxiety. I wake up and stare at the ceiling, and the questions "How will I survive?", "How long?" echo in my head like a bell. This is the existential horror of the finite being realizing its helplessness. But right here, at the point of complete helplessness, the miracle of faith occurs. Not the faith of loud words and rituals, but the quiet, trembling faith of the drowning person who stops fighting the water and allows it to carry them. Surrender. In psychoanalysis, this is the moment we stop resisting. In spirituality – this is the moment of Grace.
Perhaps this crisis, this universal scarcity, is a collective Dark Night of the Soul. We are called to redefine what it means to be human. Are we merely consumers of goods, or are we creators of meaning? Is our worth measured by our bank account, or by the depth of our compassion? When everything external is crumbling, only that which cannot be taken away remains. The love I feel for my loved ones is not affected by inflation. My ability to admire the sunset does not depend on unemployment. My prayer requires no high standard.
I write and feel the rhythm of my breathing calm down. Nothing in the external world has changed as I write these lines. Money still runs short. The future is still foggy. But the inner landscape has subtly shifted. Acceptance is the alchemy that turns the lead of suffering into the gold of wisdom. I understand that this loneliness is an invitation to meet God. That these deprivations are a fast I did not choose, but which I can illuminate with intention. That the impasse is only a wall for the ego, but a door for the spirit.
I look into the scarcity and see a strange beauty in it – the beauty of bare branches in winter. The lavish leaves are gone, the fruits are gone, but the structure of the tree is clearly visible. The backbone is visible. The connection to the sky is visible. We are in the winter of our existence. And just as nature is not afraid of winter, because it knows that in the depths of the earth life is preserved, so too must I believe that something new is maturing in the depths of this crisis. Transformation always hurts. Birth is always accompanied by a cry, by blood, and by a lack of air.
Perhaps this is not an end. Perhaps this is the painful beginning of a quieter, humbler, and truer existence. A life where the low standard of consumption leads to a high standard of awareness. Where poverty teaches us solidarity, because when we have nothing, we only have each other. Where loneliness teaches us to be whole, not halves seeking completion.
I set down the pen. The silence in the room is no longer threatening. It is dense, saturated with an invisible presence. Somewhere, beyond the fear, beyond the lack, there is a spring that does not run dry. And although I am thirsty today, although I am scared today, I choose to remain in this contemplation. Not to run from the pain, but to look it in the eyes and see in it my own wounded, yet living, human face. And in that gaze, in that moment of fragile truce with the world as it is, I feel the breath of an inexplicable, undeserved, yet saving grace. Everything has been taken, and yet – I am here. I breathe. I am. And that, in itself, is enough. That is everything.
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