The ink of my thoughts today is thick, heavy, as if saturated with the very matter of the earth that I am trying to transmute into spirit. I sit in the silence and listen to time dripping—steady, relentless—while a painful anatomy of existence unfolds before my eyes. There are moments when the metaphor of the spiritual oasis is no longer enough to withstand the pressure of external degradation. We often deceive ourselves into thinking that our inner light, this fragile flame of personal goodness, is sufficient to illuminate even the densest darkness outside. But today, in this space between the breath and the prayer, I realize a harsh truth: when necrotic cells appear in the fabric of reality, humility ceases to be a virtue and becomes complicity.
Surgery is not an act of hatred; it is an act of supreme care for the whole. There is a specific, conscious insolence, a malice that walks unhindered through the temples of our daily lives, and it cannot be cured by passive waiting. From a psychoanalytic perspective, our patience is often merely a mask for repressed fear—a reluctance to confront the "Shadow" that has become far too full-blooded. We call this "spirituality," but sometimes it is simply psychological regression—an escape into the infantile illusion that if we are good children, the world will automatically embrace us. But reality is different. Rot does not dissipate on its own; it proliferates. It devours the healthy while we sit centered in our "I," believing that our personal purity is an impenetrable shield.
Yet the shield cracks when we see how the innocent become victims of this unleashed rot. Here, the ethics of the spirit collide with the necessity of a new method of action. We can no longer rely on the "buffer of time." Time has run out. Correction requires a blade. And this blade is not necessarily violence, but a radical truth that intersects the path of a compromised value system. We are accustomed to thinking of God as infinite patience, but we forget that within creation itself lies the instinct for the self-preservation of Holiness.
If we look at this planet as a learning ground, a reformatory school for souls who are still learning the craft of being gods and co-creators, then evil acquires its pedagogical function. It is the necessary friction, the resistance through which the muscles of the spirit grow strong. But herein lies the great tragedy of our time: evil has grown out of proportion. It is no longer dosed. It is not that fine scalpel that removes the ego; it is a crushing avalanche that threatens to suppress and ruin the souls themselves before they have had the chance to bloom.
In my reflections, I often return to the idea of the Absolute and Its impulses. God is not a static figure sitting on a throne in the past; He is an eternal projection, a constant stream of energy pouring into our dimension at this very moment. These impulses reach us as homeopathic stimuli—gentle nudges toward awakening, slight pushes toward the journey home. But there is a problem I feel beneath my skin: these energies are too powerful, too pure for the fragile human psyche. They require "fragmentation." In ancient times, there were spirits—those old, titanic consciousnesses—who acted as transformers. They took these portions of celestial fire and broke them down into manageable bites for humanity.
Today, it seems these intermediaries are missing or few. And when a weak, unprepared soul faces the raw energy of the Absolute, it does not recognize it as grace. It experiences it as undosed evil, as an attack, as chaos. This is the paradox of our modernity: we are held captive by a reality that attacks us from the outside with rot, while simultaneously pressing us from within with an unbearable light.
This is why some of us feel as if we are in captivity. This is not ordinary suffering; it is a service of cleansing. Some do it consciously, turning their own bodies and psyches into laboratories for the transmutation of the world’s pain. Others do it unconsciously, writhing under the weight of situations that look like "attacks," but are actually attempts by Being to wash the rot through their sensitivity. They are the filters of reality. But how much can a filter endure before it becomes clogged?
A new method is needed. Not just prayerful contemplation, but spiritual surgery. This means stopping the feeding of the illusion that "everything will fix itself." Sometimes love must say "no." Sometimes the light must burn the infected area to save the organism. In psychoanalysis, this is the moment of catharsis—when the patient stops nursing their trauma and decides to excise it from their identity. On a spiritual level, this is the moment of sacred rage, which does not destroy but restores order.
Earth will not become the Garden of Eden tomorrow. It is a place of labor, of sweat, and of often thankless cleaning. But we cannot allow "the rot" to dictate the tempo of our growth. We must learn to dose again. To be those ancient spirits who break down heavy energies into meaning. We must find within ourselves the strength to intervene when insolence crosses the threshold of the sacred.
Perhaps the true maturity of the soul is not in being a "little oasis" that ignores the surrounding desert. True maturity is to be a spring that, by the force of its own current, ejects impurities and does not allow the silt to settle. Correction does not happen through patience; it happens through presence. Through a presence so dense, so authentic, that the rot simply cannot exist within its aura.
Today I pray not for more patience, but for more clarity. For the courage to see where the scalpel is needed and the wisdom to hold it with a hand that does not tremble with hatred, but is guided by a pure, surgical love for Life. Because if we do not stop the contagion, the innocent will continue to pay the price of our "spiritual" convenience. And that is a price no conscious soul should be willing to pay.
Evening falls, silent and blue. In this blue, I see hope—not in a miracle, but in the action of the awakened. We are projections of a God who is creating in this very moment. And if He projects Himself through us, then our hands are His instruments for cleansing. We are here to restore proportion. To make evil "dosed" once again and transmutable into experience, rather than destruction.
I breathe slowly. Humility remains in my heart, but my will is sharpened. The sacred order demands its surgery. And I am ready to be a part of it.
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