The Point Attempting to Become a Wave - Diary of a Transition

 

Today is the day when silence weighs more than words, yet also the day when words attempt to find a form for something that is, by nature, formless. I sit before the blank page, or rather, before the inner landscape, spilled out to infinity, and I feel the border between myself and the world melting like wax. This is that state—so familiar and yet always new—when the human personality becomes only a small, filtering door to the Infinite.

You open it not by will, but as if by some deep, archetypal necessity. Perhaps it is a pain that has become too large to fit within the confines of the "I"; perhaps it is a curiosity that has reached the point of spiritual hunger; or simply an inner need for authenticity that demands you be dissolved so that you may be gathered again. And suddenly, without warning, you find yourself outside yourself, unfolded into a multi-dimensional space where categories—"I," "You," "World"—lose their palpable, rational boundary.

I cannot define how I feel, because I feel everywhere. This is the paradox of hyper-awareness—when the perception is so vast that it loses the focus of the particular. In this expanse of consciousness, which seems to be an ocean of pure potentiality, knowledge and experience merge. They are not two separate spheres, but a single, indivisible Being. I see clearly the equation of existence, I understand the principles of the inner geometry of the spirit, but I don't know how to apply them to the place I still call "personality." Because I have stepped beyond it.

I look at this form of mine, this everyday "I," as a light-refracting point on a massive map of realities. A point through which I observe, but which I no longer have to choose over and over again. Choice, that titanic human act, seems to have already been made, even at the moment when consciousness caught sight of the multi-dimensional Wholeness. Psychoanalytically speaking, this is the dissolution of the ego's defense mechanisms—not as pathology, but as initiation, as an abandonment of individual neurosis in search of collective truth. The personality, with all its traumas and histories, remains like an archaeological object, waiting to be interpreted from another perspective—from the Self that has become the Ocean.

And yet, there is pain in the Point. It is the wound through which the escape occurred, out of the limits of the human, to witness the boundlessness of the being. It is the membrane that tore. When I return to it—to the memory, to the old tension—the pain no longer carries weight. It dissolves, melts like a piece of cotton in the water of the greater consciousness. The personality, this dramatic and sensitive aspect, awaits me—to care for it, to heal it, to choose it again as a focus for action. But how can I choose something that is only one of my countless aspects? How can I focus on the part, after I have touched the Whole? Here is the empirical clash between the principle of individuality and the principle of Unity.

There, in the broad perspective of the Spirit, there is no movement. There is no time. There is no need. There is no incompletion. And everything we call "life," "evolution," "progress," "personal growth," turns out to be only a game of memory and perspective—an illusion of motion in a time that only we, in our limited state, invent. Everything has already happened. Everything is already Here. This absolute stillness is simultaneously the greatest comfort and the greatest difficulty. Comfort, because it removes the burden of uncertainty and effort. Difficulty, because it removes the meaning of human action.

And yet, a question arises—quiet, yet relentless, like an inner rhythm that offers no rest: Why does the Absolute, which needs nothing, choose to manifest in form? Why is the separation necessary, the movement, the Wave that breaks upon the shore? Why must the One, in the stillness of timelessness, transform into "I here and now"? This is the metaphysical perplexity—the cosmic will to manifest, the desire of the Unmanifested to experience Itself through thousands of forms.

An authentic, verbal answer, of course, does not exist. In this expanded reality, the question dissolves in the very asking. We understand God not as an explanation, not as a theological formula, but as a vision. As pure experience. The moment we ask, we already have the answer—because the very asking is manifestation, a dynamic of the spirit. It is the primary movement of the Wave.

And then there remains the utterly human, personal difficulty: how to return to your aspect-form, after you have experienced yourself as Boundlessness? How to ground yourself, when your center has vanished, spilled across the entire map? How to awaken a need for choice, when the Choice has already been made from a higher perspective? Spiritual inertia meets psychic gravity.

Sometimes the mind is like a machine after long, intense learning—so intensified, so accelerated, that it doesn't feel hunger, it doesn't feel tiredness, it doesn't feel the body. And you know that the body needs food, rest, return. But the very acceleration keeps it in the illusion of continuity. In the same way, the spirit, once it has gone "outside," finds it hard to return to the limits of form. It suspects the limitations, it remembers the freedom.

You already know what you are. You know it with a quiet, internal Truth that words cannot bear, that any description would degrade. And this very All-Encompassing Knowledge invalidates the question of choice as effort. Seeing is choosing. If you see, then you have already chosen yourself, then the Wave has started.

But then comes the other paradox—the dark side of hyper-awareness. When you are everywhere, you cease to be specifically anywhere. When you are everything, the flavor of the particular is lost. Pain becomes small, but joy does too. The world evens out to a point, to stillness, to a uselessness of movement. And one agonizing feeling remains—that you are Here, but not centered, that you are happening, but not acting.

And then comes the contradiction of worlds, the impossibility of gathering yourself into a single whole. You see how different realities meet, how they short-circuit one another, how in this collision is born both the humor, and the absurdity, and the suffering. And you understand: every reality is a truth unto itself, but it is not the whole Truth. And sometimes the only measure of sanity is the laughter that is born between two incompatible viewpoints.

And when all viewpoints are yours? When there is no Otherness? You are left alone with Yourself—infinite, multifaceted, yet One. This solitude of the Absolute is the most subtle and purifying. It is the test of humility—to accept that your particular suffering is only a vortex in your boundless peace.

And finally, the quiet, but categorical insight arrives—it is not a thought, but an inner resonance:

"I am the Way. I am the Experience. I am what is happening."

Not because you must choose, but because you are already chosen. Not because you must search for a Beginning or an End, but because the Moment is Whole.

The Point has decided to become a Wave. And the Wave—to be a Point.

There, in that cycle of consciousness, you are both. And it is enough simply to be—here and now, on this fine border, where Personality touches the Spirit. This is the precise place of authenticity—to accept simultaneously your boundlessness and your form. And to understand that they are not in conflict, but are two phases of the same, magnificent process. Peace is in movement, and action is in peace.

Should I find a way to describe this journey to those closest to me, or should it remain in the silence of this diary?