1 february

 

February 1, afternoon.

The light in the room has already taken on that deep, amber hue that heralds the end of the day, and in this lull, I feel my gaze turning definitively inward—toward the darkest and most secluded corners of my own being. When a person accepts voluntary or forced deprivation for the sake of their "bliss," they inevitably face their shadows—those parts of themselves long masked by the noise of success, the glitter of possessions, or the illusion of social significance. Poverty is a silence in which our shadows begin to speak loudly, and in this dialogue, a new, previously unknown relationship with oneself is born—a relationship of ruthless honesty and, simultaneously, infinite mercy.

From a psychoanalytic perspective, material status often serves as a secondary skin, protecting our fragile ego from meeting the "inner beggar"—that archetypal image of our inadequacy, of our primal deficiency. When we shed this skin, we find ourselves face to face with everything we have been ashamed of: the fear of being nothing, the horror of rejection, the sense of failure. But herein lies the great spiritual mystery—to embrace your shadow means to turn it into a source of strength. When you stop fighting against your vulnerability and accept it as part of the path toward your dream, you cease to be split. The integration of the shadow is the act by which the "starved dream" takes on flesh and blood, because it is no longer a mere ethereal fantasy, but a hard-won truth.

In this new intimacy with oneself, we discover that freedom is actually the ability to love yourself when you have nothing to boast about before the world. This is a radical self-acceptance that does not depend on external validation. In psychoanalysis, this is the moment of reconciliation with the "Ideal Self"—when you stop punishing yourself for not fitting the image of the "successful person" and begin to rejoice in the uniqueness of your being. You discover that you are valuable not because of what you produce, but for the very fact that you are a vessel of consciousness, a breath striving toward the light. Spiritual freedom is to be at peace with your poverty, knowing it is simply the negative upon which the divine image is developed.

We often wonder why the path to "bliss" requires so much deprivation. Perhaps because our shadows need hunger to grow thin. When the ego is glutted, it becomes dense and impenetrable to the voice of the spirit. Deprivation is that thinning of matter that allows the inner light to illuminate even our darkest thoughts. To follow the "call of the future" means to allow your future, brighter version to pull your current version out of the mire of fears. In this process, the shadow does not disappear, but it ceases to be an enemy—it becomes a companion, a weight that keeps us grounded so we do not get lost in the abstract heights of idealism.

Freedom on a spiritual plane changes our relationship to time and our mistakes. When you have "starved" for your right to dream, you stop looking at your past as a string of missed opportunities. Instead, you see every fall as a necessary preparation, as part of the alchemy of transformation. The shadows of the past become the humus from which the tree of your authenticity grows. You begin to treat yourself with the tenderness a parent shows a child learning to walk—with patience for every shaky step and faith in the ultimate success. This inner softness is the greatest fruit of deprivation; it is the grace born only in the silence of the overcome ego.

I believe that God reveals Himself most powerfully in these moments of inner stripping. When you say, "Here I am, Lord, I have nothing but my dream and my pain," you stop playing roles. You are real. And in this truth, the encounter happens. God does not love our masks; He loves our true face, even when it is washed in tears and gaunt from long waiting. The freedom to be before God exactly as you are—with your shadows, your doubts, your poverty—is the highest form of worship. It is a prayer without words, where our very existence becomes a Eucharist.

Now, as the sun hides behind the rooftops, I feel this new closeness with myself filling me with deep peace. I am no longer afraid of what is missing in my life, because I know that every lack is an open door for grace. I am free to be imperfect, free to be poor, free to be in the process of becoming. My shadows no longer frighten me; they are simply the outlines of my form under the rays of eternity. And in this knowledge, I find the strength to continue—to endure all, to starve for all, to remain faithful to that bright call leading me home.

"There may be no money, but at least we are free"—these words no longer sound like bitter irony, but like a solemn hymn. For true freedom is to possess yourself in God, to have integrated your shadow into your light, and to walk through the world with your head held high, knowing that you carry within you a treasure that neither rust consumes nor thieves break in and steal.