Understanding the Subconscious Drive (SD): A Path to Inner Freedom

1. What Is an Ordinary Desire?

Ordinary desires are the everyday wants we consciously experience—like "I want to buy a car" or "I want to go to a party." They exist on the surface of our awareness, part of our rational thinking. We always recognize them, and they don’t delve into deeper psychology.

2. What Is a Subconscious Drive (SD)?

A subconscious drive (SD) is similar to an ordinary desire—but with a critical difference: you believe your self-worth, happiness, and life’s meaning depend on it. It lives in your subconscious, dictating that you must strive for it, that it’s an obligation, a condition for your value as a person.

3. How Does a SD Affect a Person?

A SD operates invisibly, constantly scanning reality and comparing it to an internal standard of "how things should be." When reality conflicts with this ideal, the mind spirals into distress. The SD generates a relentless stream of distorted, negative thoughts—fear, anxiety, irritation, resentment, sadness, or a sense of injustice—because the psyche cannot tolerate the belief that self-worth and happiness hinge on external conditions.

These thoughts translate into emotions: dread, nervousness, anger, or despair. The root cause? The psyche’s inability to process the idea that your happiness or self-esteem depends on anything outside yourself.

4. How to Identify Your SD

A SD reveals itself in moments of conflict with reality. To uncover it:

Observe your reactions. When you feel uneasy, ask:

What is bothering me?

Why does this bother me?

How do I think things "should" be?

What hidden drive might be fueling this?

Replay past events in your imagination, examining your emotional responses.

Listen to your mind’s feedback. If you’ve found the core SD, your brain will react—a visceral click of recognition. If the feeling is weak, the drive is either too broad (and needs narrowing) or secondary (not the primary culprit).

Example Investigation:

What bothers me?
"Guests are coming, and my place is messy."

Why does this bother me?
"They’ll think poorly of me."

How should things be?
"My home should be spotless; I should be ‘together.’"

What drives are behind this?

"I strive to please others."

"I strive to be ‘right’ and ‘good.’"

"I strive to prove something to others."

"I strive to control others’ moods."

"I strive to avoid loneliness."

5. How to Resolve a SD

Only address a SD when you feel its symptoms (anxiety, frustration, etc.). The solution is deceptively simple:

Consciously replace the SD with two negations.

Example: If you discover a drive "I strive for profit," reframe it as:

"I do NOT strive for profit."

"I do NOT strive to avoid profit."

Truly feel the shift. Words alone won’t work—you must experience the release of the drive. If successful, you’ll feel profound relief, as if your psyche is thanking you.

This isn’t about self-hypnosis or blind faith. It’s about returning your mind to its natural state: accepting reality as it is, without demanding it conform to your conditions for happiness.

What happens if you try it?
You’ll likely find that life continues as usual—but you feel calmer, lighter, and happier. The absence of the SD doesn’t paralyze you; it liberates you.

6. Where Do SD Come From?

Research suggests SD form in childhood. A child’s brain absorbs everything uncritically, recording:

When they were deemed "good" or "bad."

What actions earned them joy (or its absence).
These early associations harden into subconscious beliefs about how the world must work—beliefs that persist into adulthood as SD.

7. How to Free Yourself from SD Forever

Practice real-time awareness. The more you catch SD in the moment, the faster they dissolve.

Develop balance. Learn to hold the space between striving and avoiding—neither clinging nor resisting.

Start specific, then generalize. Begin by dismantling individual SD. Over time, you’ll recognize patterns and can address broader drives. Memory will help you recall and release them automatically.

Commit to the process. Most people can transform their relationship with SD in about a month.

The result?
One day, you’ll realize: You no longer strive for anything. The constant background noise of anxiety and dissatisfaction vanishes, replaced by an ocean of joy—pure, unconditional happiness in simply being alive.

Final Thought

No one is forcing you to let go. Try it for an hour, a day—see what happens. The spoiler? You’ll still function, still live your life… but with a quiet mind and a heart unburdened by invisible chains.

1. The Invitation to Forget and Observe

I ask you to set aside everything you believe about the world for a moment. Imagine yourself as a blank slate—no opinions, no judgments, no resistance. Do not argue with the ideas you hear; simply listen, explore, and understand without fear. This is not entertainment; it is serious work that demands your full attention.

2. The Two Realms: External and Internal Worlds

Let us divide reality into two parts:

The External World
This is everything outside your consciousness: the physical universe, history, the future, and all that can be perceived through the senses. We will not focus on this.

The Internal World
This is what happens in your mind after sensory information enters it. I call this process perception, and the tool that manages it is consciousness—your ability to be aware. Life, in essence, is the movement of molecules in space and your perception of that movement. My work explores how humans perceive reality.

3. The Illusion of Certainty: Opinions and Suffering

You believe you know:

What you need or don’t need,

What is good or bad,

What is right or wrong,

What is important or unimportant,

Who you are, who others are,

The purpose of life.

Your opinions shape how you see the world. And what do most people do with their lives? They try to force reality to match their opinions—to make the external world conform to their vision of how it should be. They chase what they believe is "good," avoid what is "bad," fight for "justice," and cling to what they deem "important."

The Result?

Brief moments of relief or happiness when reality aligns with their desires.

A flood of negative emotions when it doesn’t: sadness, envy, anger, laziness, apathy, depression, guilt, anxiety, fear.

The Question:
What if you could live without opinions?
Without the need to constantly adjust reality, negative emotions would vanish. You would see the world as it is—pure perception, like an animal. No resistance, no need to change or escape reality. Just acceptance.

4. The Myth of Control: Instincts vs. Opinions

"But without opinions, why would I do anything?"
Because you have instincts. They create desires, not opinions. Every opinion you hold is rooted in an instinct. Without opinions, you’d still act—but with freedom. Your brain, not your instincts, would decide how to respond. You could satisfy instincts or ignore them, without struggle, without force.

True freedom:
Doing what you do without the burden of shoulds.

5. The Alternative Path: Beyond Adjustment

Most people:

Define reality through their worldview.

Decide how reality should be.

Struggle to force reality to match their vision.

The cycles:

Success → temporary relief.

Failure → suffering.

Is there another way?

Not adjusting reality? Impossible—fear would consume you.

Changing your worldview? Useless. Any worldview still demands control, and control breeds fear.

Living without a worldview at all? This is the way.

What happens then?
You see reality as it is—raw, unfiltered. No resistance, no need to fix or avoid. Like an animal, but with human awareness.

The Objection:
"But how would I know what to do? How would I make choices?"
The Answer:
There are no answers. The uncertainty you feel when you abandon your worldview is the alternative. And it is liberating.

6. The Illusion of "Should": Dissolving Self-Judgment

Here’s how the mind traps itself in suffering:

Belief

Reality

"I must write perfectly, or no one will understand."

"Someone will understand, and their life will improve."

"I must help people; I must be understood."

"I don’t have to. Not everything is in my control."

"I failed my purpose."

"Purpose is neither fulfilled nor unfulfilled—it simply is."

"I am worthless; my life is empty."

"Fullness is within me. I don’t need external validation."

The Core Lie:
"My self-worth depends on realizing my talent, achieving success, helping others perfectly."

The Truth:

You can try to help, but you are not obligated to succeed.

You are not required to be perfect, understood, or successful.

You will respect and love yourself regardless.

Reality does not owe anyone anything.

7. The Freedom of Non-Striving

Old mindset:

"I must realize my talent."

"I must help people."

"I must succeed."

New mindset:

"I can try to help, but I don’t have to—and I don’t have to do it perfectly."

"I am not my achievements. I am enough as I am."

"I cannot help everyone. That is a fact, not a failure."

The Fear:
"But I could give so much more!"
The Reality:
You give what you can. Right now, it may be only a little. That is enough.

Why does "giving less" bother me?
Because of a social instinct—the desire to contribute—twisted into "I should."

The Shift:

I do not have to get what I want.

I do not have to seek advantage.

I do not have to take care of myself (or others) out of obligation.

There are no "pluses" to believing I should be unhappy.

8. The Healing Process: Cognitive Restructuring

Recognize the pattern:
You define reality → judge it → try to force it to match your ideals → suffer when it doesn’t.

See the alternative:
Let go of the need to control. Embrace uncertainty.

Accept the present:
Act from instinct, not obligation. Do what you can, without demand.

The Result?

No more struggle.

No more fear of failure.

Just being—fully, freely, as you are.

Final Thought: The Beauty of Not Knowing

You don’t need answers.
You don’t need to fix reality.
You only need to see it.

And in that seeing—without opinion, without resistance—lies peace.

The Nature of Cognitive Therapy and the Path to Uncertainty

I’ve noticed that as I go through cognitive therapy, my perception shifts—sometimes dramatically. It’s natural to slip into micro-depressions, to feel frustration or disillusionment with life. These are all part of the acceptance process. When this phase passes, I’ll find myself on steadier ground, ready to continue healing.

Cognitive therapy is simple in principle, but its direction matters. Without clarity, it’s easy to lose my way. The therapy leads me toward absolute uncertainty. Here’s how it works: I take a fragment of my worldview, test its truth, and discard it if it’s false. Step by step, I dismantle every belief system because all worldviews are built on conditions—on illusions. Any worldview breeds attitudes toward life, and those attitudes bring mood swings, fears, and suffering.

The challenge is learning not to flee from uncertainty. My brain, by habit, resists it, but therapy reveals why any form of certainty is a lie—a harmful construct for both myself and humanity.

The State of Pure Uncertainty: What It Feels Like

When I reach full uncertainty, I can honestly say:

I want nothing.

I know nothing.

I don’t know what I should do in this world.

I don’t avoid uncertainty—past, present, or future. I feel no need to define what was, is, or will be.

I don’t know what my choices should rely on.

I have no opinions about anything in this world.

I have no answers about the meaning of existence or my place in it.

I perceive the world as an inanimate, infinite soup of elements. "I" don’t exist—only the sensation of someone in my head. A cluster of molecules became self-aware.

I don’t know the purpose of life or what matters.

I could shoot myself if I wanted to, but there’s no reason to do it—and no reason not to.

I feel psychologically capable of doing nothing for a thousand years.

The Paradox of Action Without Reason

A question arises: If nothing matters, why would I do anything?
The answer is the same: There is no "why." There is no cause, no underlying reason. Yet, there is a way to act without fear—conditional worldviews.

A conditional worldview doesn’t create desires, but it provides a framework for choice. For example, I might conditionally decide that caring for myself and others is preferable to harming one another. I still remain in uncertainty, but I operate within arbitrary rules—rules I know are meaningless, yet functional.

I might extend my life, minimize suffering where possible, and spend my time pondering the universe—or not.

I might create, observe, or simply exist.

The rules, if they exist, are purely conditional.

The Critical Difference: Real vs. Conditional Worldviews

Real Worldview

Conditional Worldview

Built on knowledge, faith, dependent self-worth, and the pursuit of happiness.

Stands on nothing. It is empty, a tool without inherent meaning.

Claims absolute truth, binding me to its illusions.

Acknowledges its own arbitrariness—a scaffold, not a prison.

Fuels emotional turbulence (fear, elation, despair).

Allows action without attachment to outcomes.

True freedom comes only through embracing total uncertainty. Once I see that no worldview holds objective truth, I can use conditional frameworks without being enslaved by them.

The Liberation in Meaninglessness

This isn’t nihilism—it’s clarity. When I stop demanding answers, I stop suffering from their absence. I can:

Act without illusion (e.g., "I help others because it’s a rule I chose, not because it’s 'right'").

Observe without judgment (e.g., "The world is as it is; my thoughts about it are just noise").

Exist without fear (e.g., "Death, purpose, morality—none of these require resolution").

The mind resists this at first. It craves certainty like a drug. But therapy peels back the layers, showing how every "truth" I clung to was just another cage.

Final Thought: The Beauty of the Void

In the end, I’m left with:

No ground beneath me—and no need for one.

No answers—and no questions that must be answered.

A quiet mind, no longer at war with itself.

This is not despair. It’s the first real peace.

Self-Esteem and the Illusion of Dependency

The Two Realities

I imagine my self-esteem hinges on how well I perform a task. Two futures unfold before me:

The first reality: I succeed. I am worthy of respect, successful, among the best. I respect myself.

The second reality: I fail. I am a loser, worse than everyone, unworthy of self-respect.

I fear the second reality. I feel obliged to perform perfectly—not just for others, but to earn my own approval.

Why Failure Happens (And Why It Doesn’t Define You)

Now, suppose I end up in the reality where I didn’t perform well. There are only three possible reasons:

I chose to underperform.
I deliberately decided not to stress over quality, and the result reflected that.
Should I lose self-respect for a conscious choice?

I tried my best—but fell short.
I am not omnipotent. I am human. Perfection is not my default state.
Should I lose self-respect for being human?

Life intervened.
I gave my all, but circumstances—unexpected, uncontrollable—derailed me.
Should I bear responsibility for forces beyond my control? Should I lose self-respect for luck’s cruelty?

The Origin of "Should"

The ideas of self-worth, rank, and obligation were planted in my mind long ago—by family, society, the unspoken rules of a world that taught me:
"You must earn respect. You are only as good as your achievements. Mistakes make you unworthy."

But here’s the truth:
The universe has no answer to whether I should do anything.
There is no cosmic ledger of duties. There is only can—what I am capable of, what I choose to attempt, what I succeed or fail at.

If no one can prove I owe the world perfection, why believe it?

If believing it brings me no tangible benefit, why cling to it?

I hold no fixed position on this. I am open to evidence. But until then, I see no reason to burden myself with invisible chains.

The Cost of the Belief

I believe my self-worth depends on performance because:

I was taught it’s "right."

Society says it’s "normal."

I fear rejection if I don’t comply.

But let’s unpack this. Take a sheet of paper. Write at the top:
"I believe my self-esteem depends on how well I perform."

Draw a line down the middle.

Left column: The costs of this belief.
(Self-flagellation. Anxiety. Depression. The constant voice saying, "You’re not enough.")

Right column: The benefits.
(A taskmaster in my head pushing me forward. But is this "benefit" real? Or is it just fear in disguise?)

The verdict:
The costs outweigh the benefits. This belief is a parasite. It promises motivation but delivers suffering. It’s familiar, yes—it’s the lens through which I’ve seen the world—but it gives nothing in return.

The Choice to Let Go

I can choose to reject this dependency. I can say:
"I no longer believe my self-worth is tied to my performance, because believing that brings me no real advantage."
"I am not obligated to be perfect. I can strive for excellence if I wish, but I owe nothing to an abstract standard."

Now, the second reality—failure—holds no terror. Society’s judgments no longer dictate my value.

Living Without the "Should"

What remains is freedom:

No predetermined path. I don’t have to "choose" a reality or an identity. I act as the moment demands, unshackled by fear of mistakes.

No obligations—but possibilities. I can help others without owing them. I can refuse without guilt.

Curiosity over control. I try things. I explore. I fail. None of it diminishes me.

The Nature of Consciousness

Somewhere in my mind, a silent observer watches:

The flood of emotions.

The automatic thoughts.

The sensory input from the world.

This observer—me—is not my memories, my fears, or my desires. It is the pure act of noticing. A point of awareness with no mass, no agenda, only the power to decide.

In this final step, I separate consciousness from the noise of "should." I realize:
"I owe nothing to reality. I am not bound by its demands."

The Invitation

The question is not whether to let go, but when.
Will I cling to the familiar pain of obligation?
Or will I step into the unknown—light, unburdened, and free?

Final Note:
This isn’t about apathy. It’s about agency.
A free person does not work for respect—they work from joy, curiosity, or purpose.
And paradoxically, they often achieve more than the one who is driven by fear.

Happiness: A Guide to Liberation from Dependency

1. The Illusion of Happiness as an External Entity

I begin by questioning the very nature of happiness. In my understanding, happiness is not a fixed state but a fluctuating experience—something we believe we can gain or lose. Our mood swings between joy and despair, love and anger, and we interpret these shifts as evidence of happiness slipping through our fingers or being restored.

But here’s the truth: our emotions are not reactions to reality itself, but to our thoughts about reality. And what shapes those thoughts? The answer is simple: where we believe our happiness resides.

2. The Two Realities: Desire and Avoidance

Imagine two possible futures:

Reality A: You get what you want.

Reality B: You don’t.

If you believe Reality A contains more happiness, you strive toward it. If you already possess what you want (Reality A) but fear losing it, you avoid Reality B. Both states—desire and avoidance—are two sides of the same coin. They dominate our lives, dictating our actions, our fears, and even our identity.

But what if Reality B becomes inevitable? What if you lose what you cherished or fail to obtain what you sought? Will you spend the rest of your days bitter, angry, or resigned? What do you gain from suffering? Your emotions won’t change the past or alter the future. They only cloud your judgment and steal your peace.

3. The Shocking Discovery: Dependency is a Choice

We believe our happiness depends on external things—money, love, success—because experience seems to confirm it. But here’s the revelation: this dependency exists only because we choose to believe in it.

Our past experiences are unchangeable, but our future experiences are malleable. How? By ceasing to believe that happiness is contingent on anything.

But do you want to let go? I won’t prescribe an answer. Some may prefer the familiarity of dependency. Others may crave freedom. The choice is yours.

4. The Decision-Making Technique: Weighing the Costs of Belief

To help you decide, I offer a simple yet profound exercise:

Take a sheet of paper. Write at the top:
"I believe my happiness depends on [X]."

Draw a line down the middle. On the left, list the costs of this belief. On the right, the benefits.

But here’s the catch: the "benefits" are illusions. The real question is: What do you gain from being unhappy when you lack [X]?

The Costs of Dependency (a few key examples):

You are periodically unhappy.

Negative emotions (anger, fear, grief) dominate your life.

Your peace is held hostage by circumstances.

The Illusory "Benefits":

Stimulation: The belief gives you a sense of purpose—something to chase or avoid. But this "stimulus" is just anxiety in disguise. It doesn’t help you achieve; it only breeds fear of failure.

Hope: Dependency keeps alive the dream that happiness is out there, waiting to be claimed. But hope is not a strategy. It’s a delay tactic. True happiness isn’t something you reach—it’s something you realize you already possess.

5. The Liberation: Releasing the Belief

If you choose freedom, declare:
"I no longer believe my happiness depends on [X], because there are no real benefits to this belief."

What happens next?

Desire fades. If happiness isn’t tied to [X], why chase it?

Fear dissolves. If happiness isn’t lost in Reality B, why avoid it?

Balance is restored. You neither cling nor resist. You simply are.

This isn’t apathy. It’s clarity. Imagine a friend invites you to the theater. You don’t love theater, but you don’t hate it either. You go because you’re free—unburdened by the need to desire or avoid. That’s balance.

6. How to Live Without Dependency

Now, the practical question: How do you make decisions without desire or fear?

Option 1: Reinvent Dependency
You could fabricate a new reason to chase or avoid something—"It’s better for me!"—but this is just old habits in new clothing. Any comparison ("better/worse") reignites dependency.

Option 2: The Art of Choiceless Choice
Instead of deciding, observe. Think of your options like music genres. You don’t choose to like jazz over rock; you simply discover your preference by listening. Similarly:

Explore your options without judgment.

Notice which feels aligned—not because it promises happiness, but because it resonates.

Act without the burden of "why." The mind may protest, "But how will I know it’s right?" The answer: You don’t. And that’s the point.

This is "decision without choice"—action untainted by the illusion of control. In dependency, every choice is a desperate gamble for happiness. In freedom, choices arise naturally, like breathing.

7. The Paradox of Development

If happiness isn’t tied to anything, what motivates growth? The answer: nothing—and everything.

Without dependency, you don’t "need" to improve. Yet, paradoxically, you become open to true evolution. Growth isn’t a chase; it’s an unfolding. You act not because you should, but because you can.

8. The Final Insight: Reality Has No "Better" Side

The two realities you feared or desired? They’re the same coin. One side isn’t superior. Happiness isn’t in the outcome—it’s in the seeing.

When you stop dividing life into "good" and "bad," you step into a space beyond striving. You don’t become happy. You realize you are happiness—unstained by conditions, untouched by loss.

This isn’t theory. It’s an experience. Like skydiving, you can’t understand it until you leap. But unlike skydiving, the fall is into yourself.

Closing Reflection:
Do you dare to unlearn what you’ve always known? The path isn’t about gaining happiness. It’s about seeing that you were never without it.

The Illusion of Knowledge: A First-Person Exploration

1. The Nature of "Knowledge" as Dependency

I speak not of technical knowledge—facts, skills, or data—but of something far deeper: the lens through which a person perceives the world. This lens is forged from dependencies—accidental, unexamined attachments that shape our principles, opinions, and beliefs. These dependencies masquerade as knowledge, but in truth, they are merely the scaffolding of a mind conditioned by chance.

With this "knowledge," I automatically judge everything I encounter. Because my dependencies are unique, my reality is unique. One person calls the world beautiful; another, in the same moment, calls it horrifying. My dependencies dictate what I deem just, good, right—even what the world should be. I cling to these constructs, convinced they are universal truths, and demand the world conform to them. Yet when I strip away these dependencies, something remarkable happens: I forget everything I once "knew." The mind, it seems, is wired to discard illusions when their foundation crumbles.

2. The Delusion of Place: "I Know Where I Am"

I believe I know what is better, fairer, more important. I believe I can measure and compare the world around me. And because I can judge, I assume I know where I stand—as if I built this world myself and hold the blueprint for its perfection. I act like a sculptor, chiseling away at reality, forever dissatisfied because it never matches my vision.

But here is the truth: my "fairness" is just a dependency in disguise—a craving for my own happiness, my own validation. Another person’s dependencies yield a different "fairness," a different sculpture. Yet we all work on the same clay. Who is right? Who is the real sculptor? No one. We know nothing of this world beyond its material essence: a vast, indifferent collage of chemical elements, patterns, and randomness. There is no objective way to prove one arrangement of matter superior to another. We are not its creators. We do not own the truth.

3. The Myth of Purpose: "I Know Why I’m Here"

Dependencies also whisper that I know my purpose. They make me feel like I’ve played this game a hundred times before—I always know where to go, what to do, how to react, what to chase. Life’s meaning, I tell myself, is to satisfy these cravings: achievement, love, success, legacy. But what happens when I reach the summit? If I become the next Elon Musk, will the dependency vanish? No. It will demand more, or invent a new purpose. The search for meaning is just the pursuit of satisfying a dependency that can never be sated.

The brutal truth: there is no meaning. There cannot be. How can there be a purpose for my existence when I do not even know where I am? The universe offers no manual, no divine memo explaining why I’m here. My "purpose" is a mirage—a story I tell myself to quiet the void.

4. The Mirage of Identity: "I Know Who I Am"

If I believe I know where I am and what I must do, then naturally, I believe I know who I am. At birth, I was no one. Then, layer by layer, dependencies accumulated: I became a businessman or a failure, an athlete or an alcoholic, kind or cruel, outgoing or withdrawn. These labels—my desires, my habits, my emotions, my social role—are not me. They are symptoms of dependency, the masks my mind wears to navigate a world it doesn’t understand.

Who am I, then? Let me illustrate the illusion:

I see something and ask, "What is this?"

You say, "A tree."

I ask, "What is a tree?"

You say, "What you see before you."

This is not knowledge. It is a word tied to matter. The same applies to "me." I am no more definable than the tree. I am a cluster of chemical processes, a temporary pattern in the universe’s chaos. The labels I cling to—my personality, my achievements, my failures—are just brightly colored tags on a nameless force.

When people say they are "searching for themselves," they are searching for a dependency strong enough to anchor their self-worth. But self-worth, like happiness, is another illusion. To dissolve the self is to dissolve the labels. What remains is not emptiness, but the raw fact of existence—unstained by story.

5. The Collapse of Certainty: The Only Rational State

When I accept that:

I must do nothing (no obligations),

I want nothing (no desires),

I know nothing (no truths),

…then thoughts and emotions lose their grip. There is no ground left to stand on. Choice becomes meaningless, because all options blur into one indivisible whole. The universe reveals itself not as a puzzle to solve, but as a single, undivided phenomenon.

Most people flee this state. They scramble back into the comfort of invented certainties—goals, identities, beliefs. But if I resist that urge, if I remain in the uncertainty, I encounter life as it is, unfiltered by the mind’s distortions. This is the only rational state: to know that I do not know.

Final Reflection: The Freedom of Not-Knowing

The mind, evolved to survive, invented the illusion of "I"—a ghost in the machine, a voice that claims ownership of the brain’s impulses. But there is no ghost. There is only the machine: matter that, by chance, became aware of itself.

To see this clearly is to be liberated. Not from suffering (that is another dependency), but from the tyranny of false knowledge. The questions that remain are the only honest ones:

Where am I?

Why am I here?

If "I" am just a story, what is left when the story ends?

Perhaps the universe holds no answers. Or perhaps the answer is the asking itself.

A Philosophy of Living: Light, Fearless, and Endlessly Curious

1. The Art of Lightness

I live with effortless ease because I owe nothing to anyone—not even to myself. My existence is like drifting in a boat without oars, carried by the current, not fighting it. I’ve chosen to release the illusion of control, the futile struggle to "steer" toward some imagined destination. What could be simpler than living one second at a time? This is all that’s asked of me.

Lightness also comes from absolute freedom: I can try anything, abandon it just as quickly, or do nothing at all for the rest of my life. There’s no rush to cram experiences into my days, no belief that "more" equals "better." That myth only fractures the mind, offering no real proof of its truth. I don’t chase pleasure, nor do I flee from work. I simply am—unburdened by the weight of "shoulds."

2. The Absence of Fear

Fear dissolves when I reject the idea that my happiness hinges on external things. Why would I cling to or avoid anything if all it brings is anxiety? There’s no logic in fear when I understand that nothing I "lose" was ever truly mine to begin with.

The world is woven with joy, and self-respect is an illusion—no one is superior or inferior. I don’t resist society’s judgments; they’re harmless echoes. There’s nothing to fear in rejection or approval because my contentment isn’t tied to either. I live as I wish, not because I’m defiant, but because no evidence suggests I must live any other way.

3. The Infinite Well of Interest

The world overflows with fascination. I refuse to rank experiences as "better" or "worse" because that only breeds fear and desire—both unnecessary. There’s no proof that one thing is inherently more valuable than another. A blade of grass is as compelling as a galaxy; a quiet room as thrilling as a crowded festival. Interest isn’t hierarchical; it’s everywhere, equally vibrant.

4. The Rejection of Striving and Avoidance

I don’t chase or dodge because happiness isn’t a transaction. Striving brings only fear, and fear is a poor currency. No evidence suggests that effort guarantees fulfillment—or that inaction invites ruin. Everything is fundamentally equal: a triumph, a failure, a stillness. Comparisons are mental poison, offering no benefit while eroding peace. I don’t even strive to "take care of myself." Care is just another concept I’ve released.

5. The Freedom of "Not Owing"

I’ve chosen to owe nothing—to society, to expectations, to the ghost of "progress." I’m not obligated to perform, to please, or to conform. There’s no proof I must do anything, so I don’t. My happiness isn’t hostage to the people around me. I don’t seek their company or fear their rejection; their opinions are neutral, neither good nor bad. I’m at peace with the world as it is, and it’s at peace with me.

Closing Reflection:
This isn’t apathy—it’s radical clarity. By shedding the myths of obligation, hierarchy, and fear, life becomes a canvas of pure experience: light because it’s unforced, fearless because it’s unconditional, and endlessly interesting because I’ve stopped pretending some moments matter more than others. I am the current, the boat, and the river—all at once.

1. Emotions Cannot Exist (As We Assume Them To)

I tried to lift my mood, but every attempt led to rigid, artificial definitions—like a toy version of reality that claimed to mean nothing. The only way I’ve found to feel better is to say that happiness is scattered all around me: interesting things, choices that don’t need ranking, possibilities without judgment. This does lift my mood, but it also breeds fear—because my mind clings to even the smallest scrap of happiness, terrified of losing it. I see no way around this. True certainty seems impossible without harm.

To feel joy, I’d need to believe something good is happening—but if it’s good, it can end, and fear of that loss is unavoidable. Telling myself I can’t lose happiness means my happiness doesn’t depend on its continuation, which means I’m not actually judging anything as "good." So what’s left? Maybe nothing in this world is inherently good. The only option is to say, "I’m just happy"—but that doesn’t work. My mind demands why. And reasons for happiness don’t exist on their own; they’re invented by tying joy to life’s details, which again, creates fear of loss.

Realization:
I don’t need emotions. I don’t need joy or motivation built on the idea that I must find things fascinating. The world’s beauty is just as clear without emotions. Actions still happen, even enjoyably, without the crutch of stimulus. There’s no ascetic suffering in their absence—just a quiet, unforced engagement. Humor stays. Laughter comes. But living in conditioned responses—emotions tied to expectations—brings fear, control, and kills spontaneity. When I reject all dependencies, the question arises: Why chase emotions at all? There’s no reason. I chased them because I didn’t see my own deep addiction: the belief that life must be filled with visible pleasure, or I’m a failure. Now, I don’t need to prove my joy to anyone. I can live without performative happiness, and it’s fine.

Conclusion:

No definitions of reality. I don’t know what surrounds me, and that’s okay.

No need for emotions. They can’t be created without harmful certainty. I don’t need them.

2. There Can Be No Reason to Act

The "should" of pleasure created a hidden craving for it—and thus, the illusion that I had reasons to do things. But in truth, without any knowledge, there’s nothing I need, so there can’t be reasons. This applies to everything, even getting out of bed. If I know why I act, that’s dependency. The only honest answer to "Why do this?" is: "I don’t know." Saying "Because it’s interesting" is a lie. Why is it interesting? Why act on interest? The word itself is empty. Such answers only create false certainty, which will eventually harm me.

Conclusion:

I need nothing.

I see no reasons to act—and I don’t invent them.

Any "reason" is a sign of dependency, no matter how "objective" it seems.

3. What Happened This Past Week?

I lived with a massive, unnoticed dependency. Uncertainty existed everywhere except there—partial uncertainty. It made me feel okay, but not free. I had to enjoy life: goals achieved, comfort, pleasure. When it failed, I stressed endlessly. I circled this dependency but never named it, so it persisted. After stumbling upon it, I lost all motivation for goals, all reasons to act. I fell into avoidance, confused about what to do. But really, I’d just shed the dependency. Nothing more.

Now I see what I once thought was normal—emotions from "harmless" certainty, reasons to wake up—was just dependency in disguise. I believed it because my self-worth depended on it. The only escape was to notice the addiction.

4. What Do We See in the End?

On Love:
I have no reason to help others. I don’t need to be a giver or savior. But if someone asks—even if it’s uninteresting, like giving money—I might help out of love. This love exists alongside the knowledge that I need nothing.

On Action:
I could lie in bed forever. I see that I need nothing, and I don’t understand why I’d do anything. Yet… I will act. Not immediately, not by plan, but eventually. Actions arise without reasons, and I can’t explain why. Before, I thought I acted from fear or dependency—but that was an illusion. Now it’s clear: "I" don’t decide. Things happen through me. The only honest answer to "Why?" is "I don’t know."

Final Points:

No reasons to act. "Why?" has no answer.

The world can’t be named. Words are the enemy.

Emotions and motivation are built on lies.

To live and act, nothing is needed in the mind.

Without knowledge, I need nothing.

5. Control, Plans, Goals

Without these, all control vanishes—no schedules, no routines. At first, I thought: "Why not just live in bliss?" But soon, I saw I’d likely return to goals in some form, while still allowing myself to sit with parents for half a day watching dumb films. I need nothing, yet goals will emerge. Control will seep back in—not out of fear, but naturally. The key is not to rush, not to fear that the mind won’t figure it out. Changing my trajectory without dependencies, fear, or lies is impossible. Remembering how miserable it was to live in constant fear and tension, I’d rather sit doing "nothing" but stay calm, kind, and humorous.

How to Wake Up in the Morning:
Do nothing. Decisions will come. Don’t invent reasons to rise. Don’t force moods. Stay in bed if you want. Wanting nothing is normal. Scroll on your phone. The mind will offer ideas. Just watch. No shoulds. No fears. No self-worth tied to action. Happiness isn’t tied to anything. Sit. Be still. Let it unfold.

Final Note:
This isn’t nihilism or passivity. It’s the opposite—a radical acceptance that needing nothing doesn’t paralyze life. It frees it. Actions arise not from lack, but from a place beyond reasons. The mind’s chatter about "purpose" or "meaning" is just noise. The only truth is: I don’t know, and that’s enough.

A Journey of Self-Discovery: Side Effects and the Illusion of Control

1. The Side Effects of Awakening

When you embark on the path of self-knowledge and understanding the world, you may encounter intense negative states: anger at everything, depression, apathy, a loss of meaning, disillusionment, the crushing realization that you’ve been lied to your whole life, sorrow. These are not failures—they are the natural process of integrating new truths. Endure these moments. They will pass once the new perspective is fully accepted. Use the practices described here to ease the transition and minimize suffering.

2. The "Should" from the Future

Sometimes, even when your present life seems fine, you’re haunted by the need to "prepare for the future." This is a symptom of avoiding possible realities. Ask yourself: What future am I afraid of? Is it a vague fear of suffering, pain, or misfortune? If so, you’re addicted to the idea of happiness.

Let go of happiness. Accept the possibility of unhappiness without fear. Happiness and suffering are two sides of the same coin—neither is inherently better or worse. Clinging to one is meaningless.

Practice the "Two Realities" technique: Imagine a life of joy and a life of suffering. Then declare:
"I do not believe I must be happy.
I do not avoid suffering.
I do not believe I must secure my future.
I do not believe my happiness depends on what the future holds."

If self-esteem is tangled in this, use the "Three Reasons" technique to dismantle the belief.

3. The Illusion of Time

Your entire framework of "past," "present," and "future" is a construct of your mind. You believe:

You had a certain past (or wish you did).

You have a certain present (or wish you did).

You will have a certain future (and judge it as good or bad).

But these are just evaluations—choices about how things should be. Time is a story you tell yourself.

4. The Myth of Motivation

The conscious mind is the most powerful part of the brain—yet in childhood, it was weak and impressionable. When parents and society said, "You must do this," the mind believed it. It created dependencies stronger than itself, using fear (of losing self-respect, of failure) to enforce compliance.

It also observed others getting upset when desires went unmet, so it built another dependency: emotional slavery to wants. Now, these dependencies feel stronger than your own will. You obey them because you believe you must.

But you are not your dependencies. The conscious mind is still in charge—it just thinks submission is safer. Isn’t it time to grow up and take the wheel?

5. The Meaning of Life

People chase "meaning" because they believe it will bring happiness. But detaching from happiness can make life feel meaningless—leading to despair. You want meaning because you hope it will make you happy, but happiness is already yours. It cannot be lost or gained.

Reality cannot give you happiness—it doesn’t possess it. But that doesn’t mean happiness doesn’t exist. It is woven into everything: in you, in each day, in every action and object. You don’t need a reason to be happy. You are happiness.

6. Recognizing Your States

Version 1: The Diagnostic Questions

If you imagine being alone on Earth and feel relief, you’re trapped in "shoulds" (obligations).

If not, you’re either driven by desire or avoiding a possible reality.

If someone asks you to help with a long task and you resist, that’s desire talking.

Version 2: The Unified Approach

Don’t waste time deciding whether you "should" or "want" something. There is only striving—a fusion of both. Find the striving, then choose to abandon it, because happiness doesn’t depend on it.

If this was rooted in obligation, it will dissolve once you realize: You have the right to choose, and your self-worth cannot be harmed by your decisions.

7. The Six Core Principles

There is no meaning of life. (It’s a construct to chase happiness.)

I do not "should." (Obligations are illusions.)

I do not strive. (Desires are chains.)

I do not avoid. (Fear is a phantom.)

I do not know. (Certainty is a prison.)

I owe nothing to my future. (The future is a story.)

8. The Nature of Consciousness

What you call "I"—your consciousness—is a sensation created by the brain. It’s a ghost. No one can see it, touch it, or prove it exists except you. The brain designed this "I" to be a slave: to serve its dependencies (desires, fears, obligations), to labor for the body, to obey reality.

But the "I" is invulnerable. It cannot be hurt, controlled, or destroyed—because it isn’t real. When it realizes this, it separates from reality. It sees that it was never chained; it only believed it was.

Now, the "I" is free. Reality becomes a playground. It can engage or disengage at will. It has no inherent fears, desires, or emotions—those belong to the brain’s other parts, which it once mistook as itself.

In the end, the "I" is left alone in the brain: a silent observer with only three abilities:

To observe.

To press the "action" button (move the body).

To feel what the body feels.

Some might call this "I" soulless. It is. But it’s also the only thing that’s truly you—and reality is its only companion.

9. The Illusion of Choice

You believe you make decisions, but there is no "you" making choices. The brain is a unified system: observation + memory + thought (data processing). Decisions are automatic, based on memory.

One day, the brain may scan its own memory and realize: "My worldview and attachments are lies—and they cause me stress." Like an antivirus, it deletes the lies, keeping only objective facts. Now, decisions are still automatic—but without suffering.

You thought a "free I" was in control, while a dependent mind was not. But both were always automatic. The difference? One mind is infected with fear; the other is clean and calm.

Life is a river. The "I" is in a boat.

One "I" believes it has oars and sees rapids ahead.

The other sees there are no oars, no rapids—and never were.
All you can do is lie back and relax.

10. The Practice: Rewiring the Subconscious

The key skill is learning to alter subconscious memory. This takes repetition and vivid imagination. The subconscious is stubborn—it demands proof and forgets easily.

Symptoms: Signals to Begin

Watch for these signs (they indicate a dependency at work):

Emotional: Fear, anxiety, anger, sadness, disappointment, apathy, laziness, self-loathing.

Psychosomatic: Stress headaches, nasal twitches, facial tics, dizziness, nausea.

Control: Obsessive need to manage situations, inability to relax.

Rushing: Living faster than real-time, unable to slow down.

Avoidance: Escaping into alcohol, social media, sleep, games, food, quick pleasures.

Addiction to Fast Pleasures: Craving instant gratification when self-esteem crashes.

Inability to Stop: Acting like a runaway train.

Desire: Feeling compelled to chase something (happiness, success, love).

Avoiding Possible Realities: Fear of future suffering, even when life is currently good.

"Shoulds": Feeling obligated to others or your future self.

"Knowing": Judging reality as "right/wrong" or "good/bad."

"Don’t Want To": Resistance stemming from obligation, desire, avoidance, or lost self-worth.

Start with:

"What am I afraid of? What am I running from?"

"Why don’t I want to do this?"

11. The Questions to Ask

When a symptom arises, examine the situation (in the moment or later via memory/imagination). Ask:

What do I believe I should do/be/have?

"I should be successful."

"I should have more money."

What do I want in this situation?

"I want to be loved."

"I want to escape this feeling."

What do I know about this situation?

"I know how it should be."

"I know what’s right."

Listen for automatic thoughts. Don’t overthink—just observe what arises.

12. The Techniques

If You Feel Obligation ("Should")

Three Reasons Technique: Break down the belief into pros/cons.

"What are the benefits of believing my self-worth depends on X?"

Then declare: "I see no benefit in believing my self-esteem depends on this."

Affirm:

"I do not believe I should ___."

"I do not strive for ___."

If resistance remains, repeat Step 1 with deeper questions.

If You Feel Desire ("Want")

Two Realities Technique: Compare a life with/without the desire.

"What are the benefits of believing my happiness depends on X?"

Then declare: "I see no benefit in believing my happiness depends on this."

Affirm:

"I do not strive for ___."

"I do not strive to avoid ___."

For Avoidance of Possible Realities:

"I do not strive to avoid possible suffering."

If doubt lingers, refine your questions and repeat.

If You "Know" How Things Should Be

Use the "I Cannot Know" Technique:

"I cannot know what is ‘right’ or ‘wrong’—I only have opinions."

"Reality is as it is. My judgments are not facts."

Goal: Believe your own proofs without hesitation. If doubt persists, ask:

"Why don’t I believe this?"
and refine further.

13. Avoidance and Quick Pleasures

Regular avoidance creates addiction to escapes (social media, alcohol, games). You must choose:

A life of big goals, achieved step by step.

A life of instant gratification, where time slips away.

Quick pleasures are easy, but meaningful progress is richer. Remind yourself of this choice every time temptation arises.

With practice:

Life becomes effortless.

Problems solve themselves.

You regain control over time and attention.

14. Practical Application

Be Specific: Reapply the belief-breakdown techniques to concrete situations.

"Why do I fear quitting my job?" → "Is it comfort? Money? Status?"

Identify Core Dependencies: Build a list of general addictions you’ve discarded (e.g., "approval," "security").

Reinforce Freedom: Remind yourself daily: "I am free of X." The more you repeat, the faster symptoms fade.

Final Thought: The Observer’s Dilemma

The "I" is a pure observer—incapable of fear, desire, or thought. It acts because it can, not because it must. Decisions arise spontaneously, like a child pressing buttons on a phone without understanding.

You are the silence behind the noise.
The world is your toy.
Play or don’t play—it’s all the same.

The Three States of Being

I recognize three fundamental states of existence:

The Dependent State – A condition where my sense of self is entangled with external dependencies, reality, and the illusion of control.

The Divided State – A transitional phase where I begin to separate my "I" from dependencies, reality, and the compulsions of the mind.

The Free State – A state of absolute liberation, where I exist without attachment, fear, or the need to manipulate reality.

My goal is to move from dependence to freedom by dismantling the illusions that bind me.

Therapy in the Dependent State

In the dependent state, therapy is the process of untangling the "I" from its attachments—from reality, from desires, from the compulsion to judge. The method is twofold:

Eliminate Strivings – Dissolve all forms of wanting ("I want," "I must") and avoiding ("I fear," "I resist").

Cease Evaluating Reality – Stop labeling experiences as "good" or "bad," "right" or "wrong."

How to Identify Strivings

Strivings are the threads that bind me to suffering. To uncover them, I ask myself:

What disturbs me?

What do I consider better or worse than something else?

What am I pursuing? What am I avoiding?

What do I not want? What do I want?

What do I believe I should do?

What do I fear?

How do I think things ought to be?

My strivings always reduce to three categories:

Being someone (identity, status, role).

Having something (possessions, achievements, experiences).

Doing something (actions, goals, obligations).
And beneath each: Why?

How to Uncover Hidden Knowledge (Beliefs)

Knowledge here means the hidden assumptions I hold about reality—the lenses through which I distort perception. To expose them, I examine:

How am I judging reality?

What emotions does reality evoke in me?

What version of reality would I prefer over this one?

Why do I feel indifferent?

What do I think I know?

What do I see as wrong, broken, or unsettling in the world?

Common Distortions of the Dependent Mind

These are the lies I tell myself to avoid confronting freedom:

"I’ll endure this unpleasantness quickly, and then real life will begin."
Reality: Life is no different now than it will be later. Why delay the realization that this is life?

"I’ll avoid reality for a little while, indulge, and then resume my duties forever."
Reality: Why not dissolve all obligations now and live as I truly wish? If my path aligns with others’ expectations, it’s coincidence—not submission.

"If I can’t eliminate fear or duty, I need to focus on smaller, specific therapies."
Reality: The general framework hasn’t failed; I must drill deeper into the particulars. The core principle remains: my happiness depends on nothing.

The Declarations of Freedom

These are the truths I embrace to shatter dependence:

I choose to strive for nothing and avoid nothing, because my happiness is independent of all things.

My self-worth is unconditional. I reject the idea that I must pursue or avoid anything. I live as I am, and it is enough. Society’s incomprehension doesn’t threaten me.

Thinking about reality is futile, because all thoughts are lies. Why concern myself with others’ opinions if my joy and self-respect are untouchable? I choose not to think at all.

I need nothing. There is no reason to act. I opt out of participating in reality. I don’t aspire to be, have, or do anything. I am content as no one.

I reject the illusion of future obligation. My happiness isn’t tied to what may come. I release all concern for the future.

Reality is neither good nor bad. It simply is, exactly as it should be.

I discard all knowledge, because I don’t know where I am, why I’m here, or who I am. I refuse even the smallest lie. Without knowledge, thought is impossible—so I live without thinking.

I see that I do not choose. Decisions are made; my future is predetermined. I did not select this life. My interference only brings fear, so I vanish. The brain will manage without me.

The Brain and the "I"

There are two entities in my mind:

The Brain – A self-sufficient system that analyzes, decides, and acts based on an unseen algorithm. Its variables are memory, knowledge, and experience—but only what it recalls in the moment.

The "I" – An illusionary observer, a remnant of deep-seated fears and dependencies. It believes it must control, judge, and strive to survive.

How the Brain Operates

Ordinary Decisions: An idea arises (not mine; it emerges from memory). The brain either:

Instantly decides (if it has enough information).

Analyzes (if information is lacking).

The Illusion of Choice: When the brain believes its happiness/self-worth depends on something, it creates the feeling of choice. But this is a mirage. The algorithm was prewritten by dependencies.

True Freedom: When the brain realizes happiness/self-worth are inherent, the "I" dissolves. There is no chooser—only flow.

The "I" as a Parasite

The "I" is a cluster of lies and fears. It surfaces when it forgets that happiness and self-worth are already ours. It demands control, but its "help" is just noise—fear disguised as guidance. The brain functions best when the "I" is silent.

How to Live After Liberation

Observe Silence: The mind is quiet. No thoughts, no ideas, no urges. If something arises, it’s not mine to act upon.

Release the Body: I am not the controller. The body moves as the brain directs, without my interference.

Merge with the Brain: Imagine myself as a point in the brain, then dissolve into it. Now I am the brain. The old "I" is just a ghost—fears and dependencies with no power.

Life as Music: Without the "I," reality provokes laughter, smiles—not emotions (which require thought), but automatic joy, like the body’s response to music. The world’s beauty remains; only the lies are gone.

The Illusion of Free Will

Choices are memories. The brain generates decisions based on what it recalls. What it recalls depends on past experiences—which were shaped by prior decisions, environment, and chance.

Society’s State = Shared Illusions. Collective beliefs (and delusions) shape behavior. The deepest illusions were planted in childhood, and the brain resists exposing them because they define its algorithm.

Studying the Brain: Rarely does the brain choose to examine itself. It requires a unique alignment of body, mind, and circumstance. Yet the method is simple: see the truth, and the illusions dissolve.

The Origins of Dependency

Aggressive Desires (Survival Instincts):

Root: Animalistic drives (food, sex, dominance).

Purpose: Ensured survival in a "strongest thrive" world.

Question: Do we still need this?

Self-Worth Dependency (Social Control):

Root: Tribal manipulation ("You should...").

Effect: Depression—self-hatred when we fail to meet imposed standards.

Reality: Animals don’t depress; they fight for quality of life. Humans, oppressed by societal demands, choose self-destruction over compliance.

The Path Forward

See the "I" as a Ghost: It’s not me. It’s a echo of old fears.

Trust the Brain: It knows how to live without the "I’s" interference.

Embrace the Unknown: I don’t know who I am, where I am, or why. That’s perfect.

Live as Music: Let reality flow through me—laughter, curiosity, wonder—without the burden of thought.

Final Truth: There was never a choice. The brain’s algorithm was always in control. The "I" was just a passenger—sometimes screaming, sometimes silent. Now, the passenger is gone. Only the music remains.

The Illusion of Happiness and the Nature of Dependence

1. The Core Question: Why Doesn’t My Happiness Depend?

I asked myself: Why isn’t my happiness dependent on anything? Why doesn’t the feeling of dependence mean that happiness itself is conditional? The answer: dependence is a memory. The emotions it creates are my psyche’s reaction to that memory. The memory tells me happiness once depended on something—because in the past, it did. But in the present, I decide whether it still does. If I choose to be independently happy, then it is.

Yet I resist believing this. Why? Because I want to depend. I see advantages in dependence. What are they?

It feels good—but not dependence itself. What feels good is my body’s capacity for pleasure. Rejecting dependence doesn’t mean rejecting pleasure. It means rejecting the illusion that pleasure is scarce or conditional.

"But won’t I have less pleasure in life? I won’t even masturbate!"
Yes, there will be fewer fleeting moments of pleasure—but overall, there will be more. Without dependence, there’s no fear, no craving gnawing at my mind. I enjoy every moment, not just the ones where I’m indulging. Life becomes pleasant by default. I’d forgotten what it’s like to want something I can’t have, to reap the madness, harm, and destruction of my past, to suffer psychomatic torment. Desire breeds sadness, aggression, laziness. Independence erases that.

2. The Cost of a Moment’s Pleasure

I caught myself masturbating when my resolve weakened—when I forgot why independence matters. The result? Instant blindness. My perception of reality warped. I had to re-explain basic truths to myself like a child: This is what addiction does. It erases memory. It makes you forget why you quit. One relapse, and I risked losing everything—my clarity, my purpose, even the memory of what sobriety feels like.

Addiction is a thief. It steals:

Memory (of what it’s like to be free).

Truth (you stop seeing reality).

Choice (you’re no longer deciding—you’re obeying).

3. The Rule: Only What Is Useful

I only do what I see as useful. Why? Because the alternative—doing something for pleasure alone—is 100% dependence.

"But what’s wrong with chatting about nonsense? It’s harmless!"
The fact that I want to do it—that I hesitate to refuse—proves it’s a dependency. The fact that I justify it ("It’s not bad") is self-deception. I know I’m addicted, but I pretend I don’t need it.

When I feel good, I fool myself into thinking I can afford indulgences. But my well-being comes from refusing them. The moment I return, the state collapses.

4. The Philosophy of Debt and Freedom

Key realizations:

Only the present exists.

In the present, only I exist.

I cannot be in two places at once—I will never meet my "future self."

I cannot be punished by my past self.

I am always alone, with total freedom.

This means:

I owe nothing to my future self.

Yet, when the future becomes the present, I will suffer the consequences of my actions.

I don’t "owe" myself anything—but it’s useful to prepare for my own comfort.

The paradox:
I am programmed to seek what’s useful. I feel the difference between harm and benefit. Even if I don’t understand why I need benefit, the feeling guides me. I can’t not choose what seems useful—just as I can’t slit my throat for no reason. My brain physically resists. This proves: free will is an illusion. I am bound by my perception of utility.

5. The Two States: Dependent vs. Independent

There are only two states. Each has pros and cons:

Dependent State

Independent State

More pleasure, emotions, excitement.

Deep calm, control, satisfaction.

Feels "useful" (because pleasure = perceived happiness).

True usefulness (productivity, health, security).

Illusion of happiness (highs and lows).

Stable, unshakable happiness.

Addiction masks pain with temporary relief.

No pain to mask—just presence.

The trap:
I mourn the loss of emotions and pleasures because I associate them with happiness. But independence is happier—because happiness is no longer conditional. Dependence is a gamble: sometimes you win (pleasure), sometimes you lose (pain). Independence is a guarantee.

Why do I still feel nostalgia?
Because addiction is familiar. It’s like leaving a toxic hometown—you miss it not because it was good, but because it was yours. The sadness is just withdrawal.

6. The Practice: Ignoring the Noise

Rule: If I don’t see the utility in something, I don’t do it—no matter how much I want to.

But what about comfort? Music? A cozy workspace?

Allowed if: It directly aids work (e.g., tea for focus, music to drown out distractions).

Forbidden if: It’s pure indulgence (e.g., music just because it’s pleasant).

The test:

Did the thought of doing it arise before I felt the desire? (Good—it’s intentional.)

Did the desire arise first, then the justification? (Bad—it’s addiction.)

The goal:
To stop thinking about pleasure. Pleasure should be a byproduct, not a target. If I notice I’m seeking it, I’m feeding dependence.

7. The Fear of a Life Without Desire

When I reached full independence, I became like a robot:

No emotions.

No thoughts.

Just work.

Terrible realization:
"I’ll never enjoy anything again. No music, no laughter, no spontaneity. Just… this."

But:

Dependence’s "joys" are illusions. They’re the carrot on a stick—always just out of reach, always requiring more.

True joy is stability. No highs, no lows—just peace.

Pleasure is a distraction. It hijacks attention. Without it, I focus on what matters.

The trade-off:
I lose the illusion of vibrant life—but gain real control, safety, and freedom.

8. The Final Argument: Pain as the Only Guide

With pleasure discarded, what remains?

Pain. It’s the only signal left.

Work. Not for reward—for the act itself.

"But why write a script? What’s the point?"

No point. Just like a child playing with Lego—no "why," just doing.

Pain avoidance. If I stop, I’ll suffer (boredom, guilt, decay).

Collaboration. Others can help or harm my survival. It’s useful to cooperate.

The new path:
Not "the path of pleasure and utility," but "the path of pain."

Pain tells me what to avoid.

Work gives me something to do.

Independence gives me the strength to endure.

9. The Unanswerable Question

"What if this is all wrong?"

So what? The fear of error is just another addiction—the addiction to certainty.

Reality is neutral. The world is a "meaningless pile of objects." My happiness isn’t tied to that.

I don’t need to understand. I just need to act.

Final truth:
I am a machine programmed to seek utility. I don’t know why—but I don’t need to. The "why" is irrelevant. The only question is:
"What useful work can I do right now?"

Conclusion: The Choice Is Already Made

I’ve proven:

Dependence has no real benefits—only the illusion of happiness.

Independence is superior—it gives me actual happiness, control, and freedom.

The only remaining fear is the fear of losing fear itself—but that’s just withdrawal talking.

The practice:

Do only what is useful.

Ignore all else.

When cravings arise, remember: they are lies.

The result:
A life without highs or lows—just steady, unshakable peace.

Final thought:
"I am not giving up pleasure. I am gaining happiness—the real kind."

The Architecture of Dependency: How Childhood Shapes a Lifetime of Desires and Fears

1. The Birth of Primordial Dependencies

All dependencies are born in childhood. As adults, we can only satisfy or destroy them—but never create new ones. The first dependencies emerge even before birth, rooted in the instinct for survival in a world we do not yet understand.

The First Loss of Happiness
At some point, the brain fails to obtain something it deems essential for happiness. This moment—when pleasure is denied—becomes the first memory of loss, and with it, the first dependency is formed. From then on, happiness depends on utility.

The Four Primordial Dependencies
These are the foundational dependencies, shapeless at birth but later taking infinite forms as we explore the world:

Dependency on Utility (The Desire for Usefulness)
What is "useful"?
Anything you perceive—even minimally—as beneficial. Utility becomes the first reward.

Dependency on Reward (The Desire for Compensation)
What counts as a reward?
The successful completion of any task, and whatever you gain from it.

Dependency on Success (The Desire for Achievement)
What does success bring?
Something useful. The brain recognizes only one true utility: pleasant bodily sensations. Everything else is judged by how it makes you feel.

Dependency on Pleasure (The Desire for Enjoyment)
What is pleasure?
Anything you find—even minimally—enjoyable.

The Structure of Happiness
Your happiness now depends on four pillars:

Everything you deem (even slightly) useful.

Everything you deem (even slightly) rewarding.

The success of any task you undertake.

Everything you deem (even slightly) pleasurable.

2. The Social Contract: Love as the Master Dependency

As you grow, you realize society can block or facilitate the satisfaction of your dependencies. A critical choice emerges:

Should you fight (using aggression, deception, or manipulation) to secure what you want?

Or should you earn society’s love, which smooths the path to all other desires?

If you choose the latter, you create a meta-dependency—one that overshadows all others because its fulfillment unlocks access to everything else.

5. Dependency on Love (The Desire for Affection, Respect, Recognition)
Society’s love becomes the ultimate utility and reward. But love is fleeting, so you inherit an endless task: to earn and retain it.

The Mechanics of Disapproval
When love is withheld, society explains why:

"We disapprove of you. You are bad, wrong, worse than others, a failure. You deserve nothing—perhaps even punishment."

"You are useless. You cannot make us happy, so you are uninteresting, unnecessary."

"You are guilty—of threatening our happiness, of failing to enhance it, of stealing what could have been ours."

To regain love, you must become:

Good (morally flawless).

Right (conforming to rules).

Better (superior to others).

Perfect (without error).

Successful (achieving visible wins).

Useful (productive, needed).

Interesting (engaging, valuable).

The Illusion of Free Will
You believe you choose to seek love, but in truth, you are compelled. Rejecting this dependency would mean rejecting happiness itself—and the psyche cannot tolerate that.

3. The Tyranny of Approval

Love is conditional, so you refine your strategy: seek approval.

6. Dependency on Approval (The Desire for External Validation)
Approval becomes the new utility and reward. Since others’ opinions shift, you adopt an infinite mission: to secure and maintain their approval.

The Many Faces of Approval-Seeking
This dependency manifests as:

The need to prove your worth (to yourself and others).

The need to please everyone (avoiding conflict at all costs).

The need to be right (following rules rigidly).

The need to be the best (to earn praise and rewards).

The need to be perfect (fearing mistakes).

The need to be successful (chasing status symbols).

The need to be needed (fearing irrelevance).

The need to self-actualize (but only in ways others admire).

The need to care what others think (prioritizing their judgments over your truth).

The need to be liked (avoiding rejection).

The need to help others (to earn gratitude).

The need to conform (suppressing individuality).

The need to prove something (to skeptics, critics, or yourself).

The need to achieve (for external validation).

The need for relationships (fearing loneliness).

Life’s Central Purpose
Your existence revolves around this: How can I make others love and approve of me? You wake up for it, work for it, live for it. It is the meaning you assign to life.

4. The Birth of Self-Judgment: When You Become Your Own Tyrant

When you fail and lose approval, you lose happiness. The brain, wired to blame the cause of its suffering, has two paths:

Path 1: Outward Aggression (The Rebel)

You blame the world.

Aggression is a manipulation tool—a demand for the world to change.

You rage at people, objects, or fate for "stealing" your happiness.

Example: Smashing a phone when it malfunctions, yelling at a partner for a minor mistake.

Path 2: Inward Aggression (The Perfectionist)

You blame your past self for present suffering.

"I should have been smarter/better/faster!"

This creates self-loathing, tied to society’s approval:

If they approve → I am innocent → I can love myself.

If they disapprove → I am guilty → I must hate myself.

The Birth of Fear
By blaming your past self, you teach your present self to fear your future self—the version that will judge you harshly for today’s mistakes. This fear is not a choice; it is a psychological contract:

"I must control myself to avoid future suffering."

"I must never err, or my future self will punish me."

Why Do You Obey This Fear?

Alignment of Desires: If your goals match your future self’s expectations, fear feels like a helpful guide.

Fear of Disapproval: If your desires conflict, fear wins—because you need your future self’s "approval" as much as society’s.

Moments of Rebellion: Rarely, you might override fear (e.g., approaching someone despite anxiety), but this requires aggression toward the fear itself—a temporary burst of defiance.

The Illusion of "Should"
Society says: "You should be X." If you don’t need its love, this phrase means nothing. But if you do need love, "should" becomes an absolute law, enforced by your own psyche.

5. The Control Dependencies: When Fear Becomes the Driver

As you grasp the concepts of past and future, you weaponize them against yourself:

"I should have satisfied my dependencies earlier—then I’d be happy now!"
This spawns four controlling dependencies, which replace desire with obligation and fear:

5. I Must Obtain Utility → Fear of Self-Harm
6. I Must Earn Rewards → Fear of Missing Out
7. I Must Succeed → Fear of Failure

Corollary: "I must hurry, control everything, demand perfection, avoid mistakes, and finish what I start."
8. I Must Experience Pleasure → Fear of Deprivation

The Trap of "Must"
Now you are squeezed between desire and fear:

Before, you could choose to ignore a dependency.

Now, you must satisfy it—or risk unhappiness.

You even welcome fear, believing it protects your happiness.

The Narco-Business Analogy
Like a drug cartel, you are locked in for life. Your future self—your harshest critic—does not care what you want now. It demands payment in advance: suffering today to avoid greater suffering tomorrow.

6. Love Revisited: The Ultimate Dependency

In adulthood, you face the same childhood choice:

Fight (aggression, manipulation, indifference to love).

Conform (seeking love as the master key to all other desires).

If you choose conformity:

9. Dependency on Love (The Desire for Affection)
Love remains the ultimate utility and reward, but now it is controlled by fear:
10. I Must Maintain Love → Fear of Ruining Relationships
11. I Must Earn Love → Fear of Rejection

Corollary: "I must be perfect, fast, in control—errors are unforgivable."

7. The Two Types of People: Love-Dependent vs. Love-Independent

Love-Dependent

Love-Independent

Fear-driven – Self-loathing when disapproved.

Aggression-driven – Rage when blocked.

Gruest when sad – Manipulates with vulnerability.

Rages when sad – Attacks the "guilty" world.

Seeks approval – "How can I be loved?"

Demands compliance – "The world must bend to me."

Self-critical – "I failed; I am unworthy."

World-critical – "The world failed me; it must pay."

Long-term sadness – Grief as a tool for connection.

Short-term sadness – Only when no one is "at fault."

Fear of loneliness – Needs relationships to feel whole.

Indifference to loneliness – Prefers autonomy.

The Escape Clause
A love-dependent person can break free if they:

Recognize that gruest manipulates (and stop valuing it).

Realize that approval is conditional (and thus unreliable).

Rebel against their fear—using aggression not outward, but inward, to destroy the dependency itself.

8. The Third State: The Machine of Desire and Fear

When all 8 dependencies are active, they operate in three modes:

Passive Scanning – Constantly monitoring reality for opportunities to satisfy a dependency.

Active Trigger – When an opportunity arises, the dependency fires, flooding you with desire or fear.

Dormant – The dependency exists but is "asleep," invisible until awakened.

The Summation Effect
If an event triggers multiple dependencies, their desires and fears combine, creating an overwhelming force. Example:

A job promotion opportunity → Triggers success, reward, approval, utility → Intense desire + fear of failure.

The Illusion of Freedom
You believe you are free, but you are programmed:

Your "choices" are just dependency responses.

Your "goals" are just fear avoidance.

Your "happiness" is hostage to 8 invisible masters.

Final Revelation: The Prison of the Mind

You were not born this way. You built this prison in childhood, brick by brick, with every:

Unmet need → Dependency.

Social rejection → Approval-seeking.

Self-blame → Fear.

Future anxiety → Obligation.

The Way Out?
The author implies it is possible—but only with precise knowledge of how dependencies work. The first step? Seeing the bars of your cage.

The Formation of Dependencies: A First-Person Exploration

1. The Origin of All Dependencies

All dependencies are born in childhood. As a child, you create them and satisfy them. As an adult, you can only satisfy the dependencies formed in childhood—or destroy them, though this is nearly impossible without precise knowledge of how to do so.

Some dependencies arise even before birth, in the womb. These are the primordial dependencies—the foundational needs required for survival in a world you know nothing about. Let me break down how they emerge:

2. The Four Primordial Dependencies

At some point in the womb (or shortly after birth), my brain failed to receive something it deemed essential for happiness. In that moment, it lost happiness for the first time—and automatically created a memory of this loss, forging the first dependency. From then on, my happiness became conditional on utility.

Here’s how this unfolds into four core dependencies, each building upon the last:

Dependency on Utility (The Desire for Usefulness)

What counts as "utility"?
Anything I perceive as even minimally useful.

Utility becomes the first reward. My brain learns: "If it’s useful, it brings happiness."

Dependency on Reward (The Desire for Compensation)

What counts as a "reward"?
Any successful completion of a task—and everything I gain from it.

Rewards reinforce the belief: "Accomplishment = happiness."

Dependency on Success (The Desire for Achievement)

What do I gain from success?
Something useful—but the only thing my brain can inherently recognize as "useful" is pleasant bodily sensations.

Everything else in the world is judged by how it makes me feel. Success is just a means to those feelings.

Dependency on Pleasure (The Desire for Enjoyment)

What counts as "pleasure"?
Anything I find even slightly enjoyable.

Pleasure becomes the ultimate currency of happiness.

These four dependencies are formless at birth. They take shape as I explore the world, splintering into endless specific dependencies—each a tiny offshoot of the original. I can spend my life chopping down these offshoots one by one, or I can strike at the root: destroy the primordial dependency itself, wiping out all its potential forms in one blow.

To visualize what my happiness depends on, I can frame it like this:

My happiness depends on everything I deem even slightly useful.

My happiness depends on everything I see as a reward.

My happiness depends on the success of any task I undertake.

My happiness depends on everything I find even slightly pleasurable.

3. Society and the Birth of Hierarchy

Dependencies inevitably lead to conflict with others. In any conflict, two roles emerge:

The superior (strong position).

The subordinate (weak position).

The conflict itself is just a negotiation to determine who holds which role.

What does it mean to be in the strong position?
It means being physically or psychologically stronger—having more influence, power, leverage, or cunning. The superior acts freely; the subordinate adapts.

Humans operate in two modes:

Active Mode (Conscious): Logical, analytical, survival-driven. I listen to reason.

Passive Mode (Unconscious): Driven by emotions, dependencies, and habits. I ignore logic and act on autopilot.

The volume of my passive mode depends on how often my dependencies are triggered.

4. The Two Fundamental Types of People

Both types share the same active mode (logic-driven), but their passive modes diverge radically.

Type 1: The Unshakable Superior

Passive Belief: "I am the superior. Everyone else must adapt to me."

Behavior:

Fights relentlessly for dominance.

Cannot tolerate submission—it feels unnatural, humiliating.

Unwavering self-confidence. Never doubts themselves, never feels shame.

Never apologizes. Admitting fault to a subordinate is agonizing.

Blames others passively. Conflicts enrage them because they assume they’re in the strong position—and any challenge is an affront to their happiness.

Aggression as a Tool: Used to manipulate (defend or attack). If two Type 1s clash, neither yields; both walk away furious, unresolved.

Dependencies: Only the four primordial ones, satisfied without restriction. No one can stop them from living as they please.

Type 2: The Chronic Subordinate

Passive Belief: "I am the subordinate. I must adapt to everyone else."

Behavior:

Crippling self-doubt. Obsessed with others’ opinions; drowned in shame.

Self-blame. Even in success, they undermine their achievements.

Fear of Power: If they do gain a strong position, they panic—convinced it’s an illusion and they’ll be "punished" for overstepping.

Secret Craving for Dominance: Deep down, they want to be superior but are paralyzed by fear. They test the waters cautiously before striking.

Conflict Aversion: They know they can’t win in a direct fight. Their survival strategy is ingratiation—pleasing the superior.

Reaction to Aggression: Sadness, tears, despair. This is a submissive signal: "Don’t hurt me; I surrender." The opposite of aggression.

Against Type 1s, this is purely defensive.

Against other Type 2s, it becomes a manipulative tool. Two Type 2s can exploit each other’s guilt, escalating a cycle of mutual victimhood.

The Fifth Dependency: Unlike Type 1s, Type 2s develop a mega-dependency—the need for love and approval from the superior.

Disapproval = loss of happiness.

Since they can’t force approval (they’re weaker), they blame themselves.

Self-blame is a time-traveling attack: I rage at my past self for failing, as if it were a separate person. This creates a feedback loop:

I scold my past self for mistakes.

I demand that my present self control my actions to avoid future mistakes.

My psyche obeys, manufacturing fear—the voice of my future self, warning me: "If you err now, I will suffer, and I will hate you for it."

Freedom is lost. I no longer live as I wish; I live in debt to my future self, terrified of its judgment.

5. The Core Tragedy

Type 1s are free but isolated. Their happiness depends only on satisfying their four primordial needs—but their inability to yield makes cooperation nearly impossible.

Type 2s are enslaved—not by others, but by their own fear of disapproval. Their happiness is held hostage by those they perceive as superiors.

Both types are trapped in cycles of their own making. The only escape is to see the dependencies for what they are—and that requires stepping out of the passive mode long enough to question the very foundation of happiness itself.

Final Reflection

If I trace my every desire back to its root, I find the same four dependencies, disguised in infinite forms. My conflicts, my joys, my shames—all are echoes of a child’s first loss of happiness in the womb. The question is:
Do I spend my life pruning the branches… or do I dare to strike at the root?

Self-Respect: The First Piece of the Puzzle

(First Category, First Level)

The Core Dependence

My self-respect depends on society’s opinion of me, and society’s opinion depends on how "good" I am—or was. Indirectly, this means my self-respect hinges on how "good" I am (or was) by societal standards.

But what does it truly mean to disrespect myself? It means blaming myself for what society deems wrong with me or my past.

1. The Universal Argument: Why Self-Blame Is Illogical

Who am I answerable to?
Society? But who is "society" to judge? My life is my business—no one else’s. If I owe anything to anyone, it’s only to myself.

Even then: What do I gain from self-blame?

It doesn’t change the past. The past exists only in memories; the present is what’s real and actionable.

Self-flagellation and dwelling on the past waste time. They bring no benefit.

Conclusion: Guilt is a trap. The past is unchangeable; the present is where power lies.

2. Self-Respect in the Present: Does It Depend on How "Good" I Am Now?

Scenario 1: I Tried to Be "Good" but Failed

Why? Because I’m human, not a god. Perfection is impossible.

Society disapproves? So what? Their standards are illusions. There’s no objective "right" way to be.

My stance: I refuse to lose self-respect over failures or societal disapproval. Their opinions are irrelevant unless I choose to engage with them.

Key Insight:

The world is chaotic. Nothing is permanent, uniform, or "standard."

If I’m in a reality where I’m unlucky or disapproved of, it’s either:

Random chance (the universe is unpredictable), or

My own choice (I accepted this reality).

In both cases, losing self-respect is absurd.

Final Truth:
Self-respect can only be lost if I choose to believe the delusion that I’m a god accountable to society for a world I didn’t create.

Scenario 2: I Didn’t Even Try to Be "Good"

Why? Because I didn’t care about society’s approval.

Should I lose self-respect now? No.

Whose desires matter more—mine or society’s? Mine. This is my life.

If I see value in helping others, I might act. If not, I won’t.

Freedom is absolute: You can control my body, but never my will.

Conclusion:
Living by my own rules doesn’t justify self-contempt. My choices are mine alone to judge.

3. Self-Respect in the Present: Does It Depend on How "Good" I Was in the Past?

The Myth of a "Bad" Past

Who did I "owe" perfection to? Society? No. Only myself.

Was my past shameful? Let’s examine:

I did what I thought was right, what I could do, and what I wanted to do—based on my knowledge and experience at the time.

Mistakes? Of course. I’m human.

Uncontrollable events? Yes. I’m not responsible for what was beyond me.

Did I prioritize my desires over societal "shoulds"? Absolutely. That’s freedom.

Society’s Problem, Not Mine:
If others dislike that I was free, that’s their issue.

Affirmation:
I reject the idea that my past justifies self-disrespect. I accept who I was—because that’s exactly who I should have been.

4. The Summary: Unshakable Self-Respect

No matter what happens—past, present, or future—I will not lose self-respect.
Why?

It’s illogical.

It serves no purpose.

It brings no benefit.

5. The Skill of Self-Defense: Confidence Through Reason

The Choice:

Option 1: Side with society against myself (self-betrayal).

Option 2: Stand by myself with my own arguments (self-loyalty).

The Reality:
No one will defend me but me. Society will always try to devalue me—with or without my compliance.

The Solution:

Find the truth. Dissolve societal guilt with objective arguments.

Arguments > Aggression. Rage is temporary; logic is eternal.

Master the mindset: My past is unassailable because my reasoning is ironclad.

Result:
I move forward like an unbreakable wall—immune to external judgment.

6. The Puzzle Analogy: Old vs. New Frameworks

The Old Puzzle:
A pre-existing mental framework that seems to explain how to live.

The New Puzzle:
Understanding that self-respect is independent of external validation.

The Conflict:

The old and new puzzles cannot merge. Forcing them creates contradictions.

Therapy’s role: Provide the pieces to build the new puzzle completely.

Transition: Until the new puzzle is complete, I’ll oscillate between old and new patterns.

Final Warning:
Don’t waste energy trying to reconcile the irreconcilable. The new puzzle replaces—it doesn’t blend.

Closing Affirmation

I am the architect of my respect.
Society’s opinions are echoes—I am the voice.
The past is a story; the present is my pen.
I choose myself.

The Nature of Happiness and Dependency: A Personal Revelation

1. What Is Happiness?

Happiness is an ideal state—a fleeting or enduring sense of complete satisfaction with life. When I say "your happiness," I mean your personal, perfect satisfaction, something that can come and go. You can lose it, regain it, chase it, or let it slip away. It is not a constant; it is a condition tied to the ebb and flow of experience.

2. The Mechanism of Dependency

Dependency is a memory—a neural imprint of how you once gained or lost happiness, linked to an action, event, or feeling that caused it.

This memory creates two forces:

Desire: The urge to repeat what once brought happiness.

Fear: The dread of repeating what once stole it.

A satisfied dependency rewards you with positive emotions, joy, and pleasant chemistry. An unsatisfied one punishes you with negativity, misery, and toxic chemistry.

Your brain is hardwired to see absolute value in happiness—and thus, in satisfying dependencies. It treats the pursuit and preservation of happiness as its highest priority, a genetic imperative.

3. The Brain’s Algorithm

The brain is programmed to perform useful actions. Gaining and keeping happiness is its ultimate "useful" act. This is not a choice—it is a law written into your genes.

But here’s the revelation: This system can be hacked.

You can achieve independent happiness—a state free from dependencies, desires, fears, misery, and even emotions. It is a state so alien that theory alone cannot explain it. You must see it to understand. Yet, there are fragments of this reality you can grasp before crossing the threshold—fragments that will help you decide whether you want to live this way.

4. The Theory of Liberation from Dependency

Your happiness is held hostage by your dependencies. You created them. As a child, with a mind barely more advanced than an animal’s, you unconsciously decided what you "needed" to be happy—making happiness conditional.

This is how the brain works: it is designed to create dependencies and live with them until death. Dependency is the carrot and the stick, fueling aggression, competition, and survival of the fittest. The world is a meat grinder because of a random evolutionary mutation—one that, by sheer chance, also gave rise to a brain capable of studying itself and dismantling what it once built.

Dependency is not just a memory of gaining or losing happiness. At its core, it is a deep, hidden belief—a childhood choice to trust that happiness depends on something external, reinforced over and over until it became fact, not faith.

In dependency, your default state is unhappiness.
Not active suffering, but a passive dissatisfaction with life. You only feel happy when specific conditions are met—the classic "do X, get reward" system. Then you return to baseline. Since the brain craves happiness, this creates a perpetual aggressive need—a survival instinct in a competitive world where happiness must be fought for.

But if dependency is just a memory of choosing to be unhappy, then making that memory irrelevant should return happiness by default. The brain can update its dependencies to adapt to reality. To change a dependency, you must destroy the old one and refuse to create a new one. The fact that you can destroy all dependencies and create none is not a feature—it’s a glitch.

How to make the memory irrelevant?
Overwrite it. Decide to be happy regardless of conditions and prove it through action, erasing old memories with new ones where unhappiness no longer exists. The more new memories you create, the more the old ones fade—until they vanish entirely.

To make this choice, you must see the benefit and be confident in it. Otherwise, the brain will resist, perceiving any unknown action tied to happiness as a threat. To see the benefit, compare the pros and cons of dependency versus independence. I’ve done this work for you—I’ve lived through the doubt, the terror, the comparisons—and the difference is staggering. When you face the raw reality of independence, it can shock you.

(Note: This method is not new. It’s called Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT), the only scientifically proven therapy that lifts people out of depression. But its potential is barely tapped—only 1% explored. I spent a year unlocking the rest, reaching a state its creators likely never imagined.)

Why me? Why now?
I don’t know. But I suspect it’s because no one needed it as desperately as I did. I’ve been hypersensitive since childhood, plagued by intense dependencies. My fear was so severe it triggered psychomatic symptoms—twitching face, runny nose, tension—worsening until I could barely function. This forced me to look where no one else bothered. My psychomatic reactions became a precise tool for research. Combined with strong logic and imagination, I could dissect CBT and push it further than anyone.

5. Key Differences Between Dependent and Independent States

(Note: These descriptions are based on my dependencies, but the principles apply universally—you’re either dependent or free.)

1. Perception

Dependent: You see the world in black and white. Things are good or bad, better or worse. What brings happiness is "good"; what takes it is "bad." The neutral is gray, invisible, irrelevant.

Independent: You see the world as it is—pure, objective. Reality is one continuous substance, changing across four dimensions with unknown patterns. There is no "good" or "bad," only what is.

2. Knowledge

Dependent: You know—how to judge, compare, what "should" be, why you act, what you "need." You have a worldview, a stance, a sense of purpose.

Independent: There is no knowledge. Even if much is familiar, you don’t know what matter is, what "you" are, what feelings or laws are. Memory is not understanding. You have no worldview, no position—because positions require beliefs, and beliefs require dependencies.

3. Feelings

Dependent: You feel want, need, should. You feel desire, fear, anxiety, control, stress, urgency, laziness. You feel uncertainty—about yourself, others, the future.

Independent: None of that exists. Your mind is always calm, clear, relaxed—regardless of external chaos. You only feel what your senses and instincts report. You might run from a bear—adrenergic, muscles tense—but your mind stays cold, focused. You are always certain of yourself and your life.

4. Thoughts

Dependent: Your mind is a storm of uncontrollable thoughts. You must constantly monitor, predict, fix, influence—because happiness depends on an unpredictable world. You can’t decide what’s "normal"; you must check with your dependencies to avoid fatal mistakes or missing crumbs of joy.

You obsess over 1,000 possible futures, dwell on the past, regret, dream, analyze every step, compare, plan, seek the "best" option. You worry about others’ opinions, what could go wrong, what you "should" want. You think about what you lack, what’s broken, who’s to blame, why the world is unfair.

Most of your life, you see only your thoughts—not life itself.

Independent: You think only when you see a purpose. You think only about what has purpose. Mostly, you think only when necessary for a real task—and only what’s relevant. You think about what you have and what you can do. If something breaks, you think only about fixing it (and whether it’s worth fixing). You don’t think about anything else.

5. Stimulus, Desire, Action

Dependent: Desire is your stimulus. You act if you desire; you don’t if you don’t. Desire guarantees you’re "doing it right." You need a clear path to happiness—desire is that path. Acting against desire is hard and unpleasant. Acting without stimulus is even harder; you must invent motivation, force yourself.

Desire itself has no value—it’s just a signpost. It doesn’t help you reach the goal; it only points.

Independent: You have no desires. The world isn’t divided into "want/don’t want." Your consciousness feels no lack. There’s no conflict between dependency’s "want" and reality’s "should." You do what reality demands—no stimulus needed.

Your brain is directly connected to all possible actions, unfiltered by desire. You can clap your hands whether you "want" to or not. You move toward life’s tasks. Your path is your daily plan—any path you choose. Why? Because you’re programmed to survive and do useful things. Dependencies only add emotions and distortions, making the program rigid, aggressive, or even self-destructive.

6. Meaning of Life, Hope

Dependent: The "meaning of life" is just your strongest desire. Objectively, it doesn’t exist—you invent it. But when dependent, you search for it, believing some dependency’s satisfaction will bring the most happiness. You think you need things, money, fame, love, pleasure—but really, you just want to be happy, no matter how.

Hope is the feeling that keeps you chasing desire—the belief that you might achieve lasting, universal happiness. You live on past happiness and hope to repeat and hold it forever.

These feelings have no real value. They don’t help you achieve anything.

Independent: You don’t know life’s meaning, don’t think about it, don’t need it. You don’t hope, wait, or dream. You live in the present, in each second.

7. Value

Dependent: Your brain automatically assigns absolute value to anything affecting your happiness. Since almost everything can, almost everything seems to have objective value.

Independent: You cannot see objective value in anything because you don’t know what "value" is. Value is a feeling, not a fact. You don’t have that feeling.

8. Emotions

Dependent: You feel the full spectrum. Emotions are your psyche’s reaction to thoughts about how well your dependencies are being satisfied. If you think you’ve lost happiness (or moved away from it), you feel sadness or anger. If you think you’ve gained it, you feel joy—for a while. The rest of the time, you’re in fear: fear of losing happiness, fear of not gaining more, fear of punishment for unsatisfied dependencies. Only in stillness, when nothing happens, are you free from fear.

Independent: There is no process of satisfying dependencies—so no evaluating thoughts, no emotions. No fear of loss or failure. What remains?

Unfiltered reactions: Humor, laughter, rhythm, dance, music—these don’t depend on thoughts. Beauty—nature, art, architecture, the cosmos—intensifies when observed without fear or distraction.

9. Activities, Lifestyle

Dependent: Your life includes socializing for its own sake, pleasure for pleasure’s sake, relationships for relationships’ sake, hobbies for hobbies’ sake. Work exists to fund this lifestyle. Life is divided into labor (to enable leisure) and leisure (to escape labor). Your psyche demands daily dependency satisfaction to avoid negative chemistry. You work 24/7 for your dependencies.

Independent: You only do what has purpose. Your body needs no psychological "charge" or "release." You’re always ready to work, create, improve, learn—24/7. You rest only physically, to continue working. Work is your natural, comfortable lifestyle. You need no extra reward. Your lifestyle is working nonstop—for yourself, for your future.

10. Perception of Others, Interaction

Core Principle: You’re programmed to do useful actions—not for yourself or others, but because usefulness is the algorithm. An action is useful if its benefit outweighs its harm. Thus, your base rule:

You will not intentionally harm yourself or others if the harm equals or exceeds the benefit.

This is the voice of reason. It decides and acts. It is you.

Dependent:

There’s also the voice of dependencies—the voice of desire and fear. It can’t decide or act; it’s just a memory creating feelings. This voice is ruthless to you and others. When desire is too harmful, the two voices clash—but dependencies never compromise. Either you satisfy them, or they punish you with unbearable chemistry, worse than death. So reason usually surrenders, trying to minimize damage while obeying dependencies.

You must satisfy dependencies, but the world constantly threatens to stop you. This creates division: you vs. the world. It fosters the illusion that your life is uniquely valuable—you’ll fight for it, even at others’ expense. When you fight for your life, you fight for your dependencies. Dependency exists to be fought for. It generates aggression to ensure you survive, not someone luckier. It’s survival of the fittest in action.

Independent:

You have no fear of death. You see no special value in your life—all lives are equally valueless. There are no friends or enemies. Relationships are purely transactional—successful with some, not with others.

Only the voice of reason remains. It wasn’t made to fight; it was made to create benefit. Under dependencies, it mostly saves your body from punishment, sometimes acting irrationally or destructively. Without dependencies, there are no borders. Benefit is benefit, no matter who gets how much.

You feel like you share a common pot of benefit. Caring for yourself fills the pot; caring for others does the same. Neglecting yourself drains your ability to contribute, so you mostly focus on self-improvement—but you help others when the net benefit outweighs personal cost.

Rules of the Algorithm:

You won’t take from the pot (harm others) if the benefit you gain is less than or equal to the harm—it’s pointless. You’d be stealing from yourself. If the benefit outweighs the harm, you’ll find a way to exchange without adding enough harm to make the action useless.

Example: If a neighbor refuses to share food in your time of need, and you see a low-risk way to take it, you might. But if failure is likely, you’ll walk away—even if you have options.

You won’t harm yourself for the pot (for others) if the harm equals or exceeds the benefit—again, pointless.

In life-or-death situations, you’ll seek solutions where both parties survive with minimal harm. You feel a shared health with all beings. If you must harm an attacker to save yourself, you might—but if the only option is killing, you’ll likely refuse, even at the cost of your life. Life for life is zero net benefit; the algorithm rejects it.

This isn’t about principles or views. It’s programming. With dependencies, you’ll defend your life at any cost. Without them, you’ll minimize harm and maximize benefit. Your "principles" are just post-hoc descriptions of your dependencies. You study your dependencies, invent principles that don’t conflict with them, then live by the feelings they create—while pretending it’s your principles guiding you. You always act on feelings. Without dependencies, you have a different set of feelings and a different algorithm. You can’t choose your life’s principle—the algorithm decides based on benefit.

11. Humanity’s Potential

Dependent:
Dependency brings war, murder, suicide, violence, aggression, competition, division, irresponsibility, infantility, depression, addiction, family strife. Billions labor not for humanity’s good, but for their own and others’ dependencies. Everyone is ready to exploit everyone else to avoid punishment from their dependencies.

We’re in a pilotless plane, flying blind, hoping to land somewhere. Where are we going? Where do we want to go?

Independent:
I don’t know what happens if everyone loses dependencies and becomes happy. Maybe humanity dies without aggressive survival instincts. Maybe we survive by reason, not emotion.

Imagine if everyone thought only of making the world better for all. No division, no competition—just collaboration. Each does what they can, how they can. Earlier, human psychology couldn’t sustain communism—but without dependencies, it would emerge naturally. This is our default state.

The productivity and research boost could be exponential. We’d become healthier, stronger, smarter. We could turn Earth into a paradise through our own labor. We could conquer space, other galaxies. Humanity evolves geometrically—what if healing our psyche is the next step?

First, we were apes. Now, we’re ape-like humans. Is it time to become truly human?

Maybe then, other intelligent life will notice us.

12. Pros and Cons: Dependency vs. Independence

Dependency

Illusory Pros (the brain’s tricks):

Purpose: Dependency gives you a "meaning of life" (the strongest desire).

Hope: The belief that you might achieve lasting happiness.

Stimulus: Desire tells you what to do; fear tells you what to avoid.

The brain fears losing these because it thinks you can’t reach happiness without desire (the "roadmap") or avoid punishment without fear (the "guardrails"). But in reality:

You don’t need desire because you no longer need to chase happiness—you have it.

You don’t need fear because you can’t lose what you already possess. "Right" and "wrong" cease to exist. Mistakes become impossible, as does punishment.

Real Pros (from a dependent perspective):

Emotions (good and bad).

Memorable moments (good and bad).

More chemical highs and lows (excitement and suffering).

A more "active" life (for better or worse) due to the chase.

Endless distractions and pleasures (healthy and unhealthy).

Spontaneity, infantilism, madness (harmless or destructive).

Real Cons:

Chronic unhappiness, passive dissatisfaction with life.

The dark side of the "pros" (e.g., emotions include suffering; spontaneity includes destruction).

Prone to aggression, depression, laziness.

Life is limited by your desires and fears.

The Trap:
In dependency, you cannot fully imagine life without these "pros." But the "cons" might push you to try independence.

Independence

Pros:

Happiness—permanent, unshakable.

Life feels effortlessly easy and pleasant 24/7.

Problems cease to be problems.

Your potential is no longer limited by your psyche.

You live healthily, productively, usefully.

Your psyche stops sabotaging you; you feel invulnerable.

Unprecedented confidence in yourself and life.

You live in the present; you see beauty everywhere.

You become kind, positive, pleasant.

A chance to rebirth—start fresh, with the past forgotten.

The ability to build a new society.

Cons:
There are none.

The Paradox:

In dependency, you can’t fathom life without dependency’s "pros."

In independence, you can’t fathom why you ever needed dependencies.

13. The Four Dependent States (and the Path to Freedom)

There are four dependent states. You’re usually in one or cycling through them. Independence is the fifth state. To reach it, you must ascend through all higher states, eliminating their dependencies in order.

Each dependency has a strength. Stronger dependencies overshadow weaker ones. You won’t care about weaker desires if a stronger one exists—so there’s no point eliminating weaker dependencies before the strongest.

The Order (Strongest to Weakest):

Self-Esteem Dependency (Love from others = social debt).

Love Dependency (Craving approval, affection).

Reward Dependency (Doing things only for future payoff).

Freedom Dependency (Obsession with leisure/escape).

How It Works:

If you’re in State 1, eliminate its dependency to reach State 2, where the next strongest dependency emerges.

Repeat until you eliminate State 4’s dependency—then you achieve independence (State 5).

If you regress (e.g., back to State 2), restart from there.

Special Case:
Some people have never been in States 1 or 2 (or haven’t in a long time). They live in States 3 or 4—often successful, happy by their standards, close to independence. They should start from their current state, skipping 1 and 2.

14. Practical Examples of Dependencies

Dependency on Reward for Tasks

Origin:
As a child, "tasks" (school, chores) felt useless. "Rewards" (free time) felt valuable. This creates a lifelong pattern:

Work = a means to reward (leisure).

Leisure = the only source of happiness.

Result: You procrastinate, resent work, and dream of never working.

Solution:
Decouple happiness from reward. Practice finding joy in the task itself.

Dependency on Love/Approval

Origin:
As a child, love = survival. If parents’ love meant gifts or safety, your brain learned: Love = life. Now, you crave approval from everyone—partners, friends, society.

Result: You shape yourself to please others, fear rejection, and see non-approvers as enemies.

Solution:
Realize love is not a need—it’s a memory. Replace it with self-sufficiency.

Dependency on Freedom/Leisure

Origin:
Childhood was split into:

Forced tasks (school, chores)—no perceived benefit, no chemical reward.

Free time (games, TV)—instant perceived benefit, dopamine hits.

Result: As an adult, work feels like a prison; leisure feels like life. You avoid responsibility and chase escape.

Solution:
Redefine "benefit." Train your brain to see usefulness in all actions, not just leisure.

15. Society and Independence

If you choose to reciprocate kindness, you’ll seem to "have friends"—but internally, you’re always alone, self-sufficient. You don’t need society psychologically.

The Vision:
If even a fraction of humanity achieved independence, we could:

Eliminate war, exploitation, and suffering.

Unlock unprecedented collaboration and innovation.

Turn Earth into a paradise.

Reach the stars.

The Question:
Is this our next evolutionary step? From apes, to humans, to something more?

Final Thought: The Choice

You stand at a crossroads:

Stay dependent: Keep chasing happiness, ruled by fear and desire, living in a world of scarcity and competition.

Become independent: Claim permanent happiness, freedom from fear, and a life of purpose—not for reward, but because purpose is its own reward.

The brain will resist. It will whisper:
"You’ll lose everything! You won’t know what to do! You’ll be empty!"

But here’s the truth:

You won’t lose happiness—you’ll gain it permanently.

You won’t be empty—you’ll be full of life, for the first time.

The only thing you’ll lose is the illusion that you ever needed dependencies at all.

The process is reversible. Try it. If you dislike it, you can return. But once you see the other side, you may never want to go back.

So—what will you choose?

The Path to Independence: Detaching Self-Worth, Happiness, and Fear from Society’s Grip

1. The Core Problem: Emotional Dependencies

Every emotional struggle—laziness, fear, anger, sadness, or depression—stems from dependency. These dependencies are rooted in:

Anxiety → Fear → "I must" → Self-respect

Anger → Irritation → Sense of injustice → "I want" → Happiness

Laziness → "I must"/"I want something else"/Avoidance/Apathy → Lack of desire

Sadness → "I want" → Happiness

Depression → Avoidance of reality → "I want" → Self-respect

The solution? Break free from all dependencies to achieve true independence.

2. The Illusion of Self-Worth Tied to Society

The Trap of Conditional Self-Respect

My self-respect is not mine—it’s borrowed from society. It depends on:

Love, approval, recognition, or respect from others (friends, family, strangers, partners).

Who I am, what I have, what I do (past, present, future).

Perfectionism: Society demands flawlessness, so I chase an impossible ideal, fearing mistakes will strip me of worth.

The Lie: I believe I owe society something—that I must be a certain way, achieve certain things, or avoid failure. My psyche enforces this because it cannot tolerate the absence of self-respect.

The Three Facts That Shatter the Illusion

To break free, I must internalize these truths:

I am not a god.

Am I to blame for not being perfect? Must I apologize for my human limitations?

No. I am not omnipotent. My flaws are not crimes.

Luck is random.

Am I to blame for failures beyond my control? Must I justify misfortune?

No. Life is probability. I am not responsible for chance.

I am free.

Must I lose self-respect for choosing my own path over society’s expectations?

No. My decisions are mine alone. I owe no one obedience.

Conclusion: There is no logic in tying self-respect to external validation. Any "guilt" is a construct—built on the myths of human omnipotence, life’s controllability, or debt to society. Self-respect is my birthright, not a privilege granted by others.

The Cost of Dependency

Stress, fear, and laziness arise from protecting a fragile, borrowed self-worth.

Example: If I fear failing a task, the real terror isn’t the failure—it’s the loss of self-respect if others disapprove.

Solution: Ask myself:

What am I afraid of? → Why does that matter? → Repeat until I hit: "Because then I won’t respect myself."

Neutralize it: Apply the three facts above. "I am not a god. I am not to blame. I am free."

Practice: Write down the chain of thoughts. Destroy each link with truth.

3. The Illusion of Happiness Tied to Love

The Second Trap: Happiness as a Hostage

Once self-respect is independent, the next dependency emerges: happiness tied to love.

Global Dependency: My happiness relies on society’s love, approval, or inclusion.

Local Variations: It hinges on who I am, what I have, what I do—past, present, or future.

The Shift: I no longer feel obligated to earn love—I desire it. But desire is still a chain.

The Lie: "I need love to be happy." My psyche enforces this because it cannot tolerate the absence of happiness.

The Same Three Facts Apply

I am not a god. (I cannot control others’ love.)

Luck is random. (I cannot guarantee love.)

I am free. (I do not need love to choose joy.)

The Question: If my happiness doesn’t depend on love, why seek it?
The Answer: It’s unnecessary. Love becomes optional, not essential.

4. The Final Step: Absolute Independence

The Collapse of Meaning

When self-respect and happiness are untethered:

Purpose dissolves. There is no should, no must, no need.

Choices become weightless. Without fear or desire dictating actions, I act from pure will—or not at all.

The Unknown: I realize I do not know who I am, why I’m here, or what anything means. And that’s okay.

The Side Effects of Freedom

Worldviews crumble. Concepts like "good" or "bad" fade—they were just society’s projections.

Fear vanishes. If nothing threatens my self-worth or happiness, what is left to fear?

Laziness disappears. Without the stress of dependency, action becomes effortless.

5. The Method: A Step-by-Step Guide to Liberation

Phase 1: Detach Self-Respect

Identify the symptom (fear, anxiety, laziness, guilt).

Trace the thought chain:

"What am I afraid of?" → "Why does that matter?" → Repeat until: "Because then I won’t respect myself."

Apply the three facts to each link in the chain.

Affirm:

"My self-respect is independent of society’s love."

"My self-respect is independent of who I am, what I have, or what I do."

"I owe nothing to anyone."

Phase 2: Detach Happiness

Recognize the desire for love/approval.

Ask: "If my happiness doesn’t depend on love, why do I want it?"

Realize: The want is a habit, not a need.

Affirm:

"My happiness is independent of society’s love."

"I do not need love to be happy."

Phase 3: Embrace the Void

Accept uncertainty. I don’t know why I’m here—and that’s fine.

Act without attachment. Do what I choose, not what I should or must do.

Observe the freedom. Without dependency, life is light.

6. The Obstacles and How to Overcome Them

Resistance: Old beliefs will fight back. Solution: Reaffirm the three facts daily.

Confusion: Other dependencies (e.g., fear of death, existential dread) may surface. Solution: Tackle them one by one.

Loneliness: Without societal validation, the self may feel empty. Solution: This emptiness is true freedom.

7. The Result: Living in Independence

No fear. (Self-respect is unshakable.)

No desire. (Happiness is unconditional.)

No obligation. (Choices are truly free.)

No meaning. (And that’s perfect.)

Final Truth:

"I do not know who I am, where I am, or why I am here. And I do not need to know to be free."

The Detachment of Self-Respect: A First-Person Journey

1. The Two Realities of Self-Worth

I realize there are two realities in which I exist:

Reality 1: I respect and love myself.

Reality 2: I despise myself, drowning in self-hatred.

Why does this divide exist?
In Reality 2, I believe I am guilty—guilty of failing to meet the demands of my own existence. But the very existence of these two realities proves one thing: my self-respect is dependent. It is not mine to control; it is held hostage by external forces.

2. The Chains of Dependency: Fear and Obligation

How does this dependency manifest in real life?

I feel compelled to cling to Reality 1 (self-love) and terrified of slipping into Reality 2 (self-loathing).

This fear is not abstract. It is the fear of society—not the society that exists now, but the imagined version of it that awaits me in Reality 2. This society will blame me for failing to do what I should have done. I fear its judgment because I fear being found guilty before it.

Why do I fear this?
Because I lack ironclad counterarguments—proof of my innocence. The arguments I do muster are weak, unconvincing even to myself. Society always wins. It overpowers me with accusations, and I, defenseless, can only submit. My desires are secondary; survival means obeying its demands, its expectations.

What happens if I fail to meet those demands?
I fall into Reality 2. Society blames me. I blame myself. The anger burns into depression—a suffocating sense of worthlessness. Apathy. A loss of meaning. The severity varies: sometimes a fleeting shadow, sometimes a crushing, inescapable void. This is what I call the loss of self-respect.

3. The Liberation: Learning to Detach Self-Respect

What does it mean to "detach" self-respect?
It means learning self-defense—mastering the art of justifying myself so thoroughly that I am always certain of my innocence. It means respecting myself independent of society’s verdict.

What will this give me?

Resilience: I will lose self-respect less often and recover it faster.

Confidence: My self-esteem will rise, no longer swayed by external winds.

Freedom from guilt: The fear of society’s blame will vanish.

Less stress: Fear is stress. Without it, I will live lighter.

Priority to my desires: I will live for myself, not for an invisible jury.

Ease: Life becomes simpler when I owe nothing to society and fear none of its reactions.

Solutions: Many "problems" were just fear in disguise. Without fear, they dissolve.

Expanded possibilities: Fear limits me. Its absence unlocks potential.

The first step toward absolute independence: A state of passive happiness, self-respect, joy, and fearlessness. A life so effortlessly fulfilling it feels like a dream.

What will it cost me?
It will destroy my old life and build a new one. I will have to learn to live anew, like a child entering the world. I will have questions—many questions. But I am promised answers, delivered in a precise, tested order. The path was designed over three years; I need only trust the process. Patience is the price of wisdom.

4. The Mechanism: How to Detach Self-Respect from Society’s Judgment

In reality, I exist in one of two states tied to self-respect:

Before falling into Reality 2: I fear future guilt.

After falling into Reality 2: I blame and hate myself for the present.

Let’s dismantle the first state: Fear of Future Guilt.

Step 1: Prove My Innocence Before Society

To determine guilt, I must ask:

Who is the judge? Me (the accused) or society (the accuser)?

If I let society judge me, I will always lose. Society operates on emotion, not logic. It may ignore facts, twist reason—its goal is to win.

If I judge myself, I can conduct an objective investigation and deliver a fair verdict: guilty or not guilty.

What are the only two possible reasons I might end up in Reality 2 (where society blames me)?

I couldn’t achieve/avoid something.

Am I guilty if I fail? Only if I believe society should dictate my limits.

If I accept that I am human—not a god—then my inability to do the impossible is not a crime. I did not choose my limitations; I was born with them. Society’s demand that I be omnipotent is unjust.

Verdict: Not guilty.

I chose what I wanted, not what society demanded.

Am I guilty for prioritizing myself? Only if I believe society owns my life.

If I declare that my life is mine alone, then my choices—even if flawed—are not crimes. I cannot be blamed for not predicting the future. I am not a god.

Verdict: Not guilty.

Conclusion:

There are only two paths to Reality 2.

In neither am I guilty before society.

My innocence is absolute, regardless of what Reality 2 looks like.

I cannot be guilty before society. Ever.

Step 2: Detach Self-Respect

Currently, my self-respect hinges on which reality I inhabit. It is tied to Reality 1.

Why? Because I believe I must lose self-respect if I fail to maintain Reality 1 or avoid Reality 2.

But should I?

Society wants me to feel guilty. It benefits from my submission. But do I benefit?

Society cannot stop me from forming my own opinion. My self-respect is my internal choice, not its domain.

The solution: Decide, right now, that I no longer believe I must lose self-respect for failing to meet impossible standards.

My self-respect is not tied to any reality. It is mine, unconditionally.

I do not need Reality 1 to respect myself.

5. Escaping the Second State: Self-Blame in Reality 2

Now, suppose I am in Reality 2, drowning in self-blame. How do I escape?

Step 1: Prove My Innocence (Again)

What are the only two reasons I ended up here?

I couldn’t achieve/avoid something.

I chose what I wanted.

Was I guilty in the past?

I acted with the knowledge, skills, fears, and desires I had then. I was not a god then; I am not a god now.

If my past choices were "wrong," it was not out of malice or omniscience—it was out of human limitation.

Verdict: Not guilty.

Conclusion:

The same two reasons apply.

In neither am I guilty before society.

My innocence is timeless. I was not guilty then; I am not guilty now.

Step 2: Detach Self-Respect (Again)

Currently, my self-respect is still tied to Reality 1. I blame myself for being in Reality 2.

But why? I am not guilty. Society’s blame is irrelevant.

The solution: Choose, right now, to stop believing that Reality 2 justifies self-hatred.

My self-respect is not conditional. It does not depend on realities, societies, or outcomes.

I respect myself because I exist, not because I meet arbitrary standards.

6. From Theory to Life: Love, Freedom, and Society

Now, I must translate this into action.

From Realities to Concrete Terms: Love

Self-respect is not abstract. It is love—love for myself, independent of achievement or failure.

I do not owe love to myself only when I succeed. I am worthy of it, always.

The New Mantra:

I do not owe society anything.

I am not guilty before it.

I do not have to achieve, maintain, or avoid anything—but I can if I choose to, and if I am able.

In the past: I did not have to do anything. I could have, if I wanted and was able.

How to Live Now? What About Society?

Society may still exist, but its power over me is broken.

I do not fear it, but I do not need its approval either.

I may still want to achieve, avoid, or maintain things—but now, it is a choice, not an obligation.

My happiness no longer depends on society’s verdict.

What Do I Feel After This Therapy?

Relief: The weight of guilt is gone.

Indifference: I do not hate society, but I no longer crave its validation.

Freedom: I am not bound by "shoulds." I act because I want to, not because I must.

Curiosity: How will I live now? What will I choose when fear is no longer the driver?

7. The Path Forward

This is not the end—it is the beginning.

I will have questions. They will be answered in time.

I will face challenges. I will navigate them without fear.

I will learn to live in this new freedom, like a child discovering the world.

Final Truth:
I am not guilty.
I do not owe.
I choose.

Part 1: Self-Respect

For those who struggle with self-respect and confidence.

Symptoms of Low Self-Confidence

If you experience any of the following, this section is for you:

Fear, anxiety, stress

Guilt

Dependency on others’ opinions

A sense of obligation ("I must do this")

A feeling of worthlessness

If none of these apply, you may skip to Part 2. However, even if the effects aren’t immediate, this foundation is essential for understanding and applying the rest. The goal is to understand, internalize, and practice the principles—especially the art of detaching self-respect from external dependencies. It’s normal if you don’t eliminate all symptoms at once.

How to Read This Work

Read everything in order, especially on your first pass. There is no filler.

Engage actively: Wherever the text uses "I," imagine it’s your voice, your perspective. When questions are asked, answer them for yourself and compare your responses to the author’s. This isn’t about judging the author’s choices—it’s about redefining your relationship with yourself, your actions, and your self-respect.

The Core Proof: Why You Cannot Be at Fault

To begin independently respecting yourself, you must first accept this truth:

Any reality you find yourself in has only two possible origins:

You chose it, or

You could not avoid it.

If you couldn’t avoid it, you’re not at fault—you’re not an omnipotent god.

If you chose it and it later proved to be a mistake, you’re still not at fault—you cannot predict the future like an omnipotent god.

Key Insight (Critical to Understand)

From point 3, we derive a radical conclusion:
Even if you deliberately do something that turns out to be a mistake, you bear no guilt.
Why? Because your belief that an action will be a mistake is just that—a belief, not a certainty. If you proceed despite that belief, it means you didn’t truly believe it would be a mistake. And if it does become a mistake? You’re not at fault for failing to foresee it.

Who Do You Fear Disappointing?

Society (others’ expectations)

Your "Future Self" (your own future expectations)

What Do You Fear Being at Fault For?

Failing to do what society says you should.

Failing to do what your "future self" says you should.

What Do You Believe You Owe?

To society: Its happiness, its approval, its well-being.

To your future self: Its happiness, its success, its well-being.

Detaching Self-Respect from External Dependencies

1. Detaching from Society’s Opinions

Society = Any person or group, in any quantity.

A. Detaching from Society’s Expectations

Suppose you fail to meet someone’s expectations. How?

You chose not to, or

You couldn’t meet them.

If you couldn’t, you’re not at fault—you’re not a god.

If you chose not to and it was a mistake, you’re not at fault—you can’t predict outcomes perfectly.

Freedom of Action:
You can intentionally disappoint society and still bear no guilt. Even if you later admit it was a mistake, you’re not at fault for failing to foresee it.

Self-Respect:
If you’re never truly at fault for disappointing others, why should your self-respect depend on it? It doesn’t.

Obligation:
If your self-respect is independent of others’ expectations, why should you care about them? You owe society nothing. You’ll act as you wish, when you wish, how you wish—and no external judgment can prove you wrong. If you do consider others, it’s by choice, not duty.

Meaning, Importance, Necessity:
From the standpoint of self-respect:

There is no meaning in meeting societal expectations.

It doesn’t matter whether you meet them.

You don’t need to meet them.

B. Detaching from Guilt Toward Society

Suppose you are at fault in society’s eyes. How?

You chose it, or

You couldn’t avoid it.

If you couldn’t avoid it, you’re not at fault.

If you chose it and it was a mistake, you’re not at fault for misjudging.

Freedom of Action:
You can knowingly act in ways society will blame you for—and still bear no true guilt.

Self-Respect:
If you’re never truly at fault, why should guilt affect your self-respect? It doesn’t.

Obligation:
You owe society nothing. You’ll act as you wish, and no accusation can diminish you. If you avoid blame, it’s by choice, not obligation.

Meaning, Importance, Necessity:

There is no meaning in avoiding societal blame.

It doesn’t matter whether you’re blamed.

You don’t need to avoid blame.

C. Detaching from Society’s Love

Suppose society hates you. How?

You chose actions that led to it, or

You couldn’t avoid it.

If you couldn’t avoid it, you’re not at fault.

If you chose it and it was a mistake, you’re not at fault for misjudging.

Freedom of Action:
You can act in ways you know will make society hate you—and still bear no guilt.

Self-Respect:
If you’re never at fault for being hated, why should it affect your self-respect? It doesn’t.

Obligation:
You owe society no love or approval. If you seek harmony, it’s by choice, not duty.

Forms of "Love" from Society:

Recognition, approval, respect, friendship, attention, support, understanding.

Meaning, Importance, Necessity:

Society’s love has no inherent meaning.

It doesn’t matter whether they love you.

You don’t need their love.

2. Detaching from Your "Future Self"

Treat your "future self" as a stranger—just like society.

A. Detaching from Obligations to the Future

Suppose you neglect your future. How?

You chose to, or

You couldn’t act otherwise.

If you couldn’t, you’re not at fault.

If you chose to and it was a mistake, you’re not at fault for misjudging.

Freedom of Action:
You can intentionally ignore your future—and still bear no guilt.

Self-Respect:
If neglecting your future doesn’t make you at fault, why should it affect your self-respect? It doesn’t.

Obligation:
You owe your future self nothing. If you prepare for the future, it’s by choice, not duty.

Meaning, Importance, Necessity:

There is no meaning in sacrificing for the future.

It doesn’t matter whether you prepare.

You don’t need to prepare.

B. Detaching from Your Future Self’s Expectations

Suppose you fail your future self’s expectations. How?

You chose to, or

You couldn’t meet them.

If you couldn’t, you’re not at fault.

If you chose to and it was a mistake, you’re not at fault for misjudging.

Freedom of Action:
You can knowingly betray your future self—and still bear no guilt.

Self-Respect:
If you’re never at fault for failing your future self, why should it matter? It doesn’t.

Obligation:
You owe your future self nothing. Any alignment with its desires is by choice.

Meaning, Importance, Necessity:

There is no meaning in meeting your future self’s expectations.

It doesn’t matter whether you meet them.

You don’t need to meet them.

C. Detaching from Guilt Toward Your Future Self

Suppose your future self blames you. How?

You chose actions it disapproves of, or

You couldn’t act otherwise.

If you couldn’t, you’re not at fault.

If you chose to and it was a mistake, you’re not at fault for misjudging.

Freedom of Action:
You can act in ways you know your future self will regret—and still bear no guilt.

Self-Respect:
If blame from your future self is never your fault, why should it affect your self-respect? It doesn’t.

Obligation:
You owe your future self no apology or reparation. Any effort to avoid its blame is by choice.

Meaning, Importance, Necessity:

There is no meaning in avoiding your future self’s blame.

It doesn’t matter whether it blames you.

You don’t need its approval.

D. Detaching from Your Future Self’s Love

Suppose your future self hates you. How?

You chose actions it despises, or

You couldn’t act otherwise.

If you couldn’t, you’re not at fault.

If you chose to and it was a mistake, you’re not at fault for misjudging.

Freedom of Action:
You can act in ways you know your future self will resent—and still bear no guilt.

Self-Respect:
If its hatred is never your fault, why should it matter? It doesn’t.

Obligation:
You owe your future self no love. Any care you show is by choice.

Meaning, Importance, Necessity:

There is no meaning in your future self’s love.

It doesn’t matter whether it loves you.

You don’t need its love.

3. Detaching from Fundamental Dependencies

A. Detaching from "Correct" Actions

Suppose you act "wrongly." How?

You chose to, or

You couldn’t act "right."

If you couldn’t, you’re not at fault.

If you chose to and it was a mistake, you’re not at fault for misjudging.

Freedom of Action:
You can intentionally act "wrongly"—and still bear no guilt.

Self-Respect:
If "wrong" actions never make you at fault, why should they affect your self-respect? They don’t.

Obligation:
You owe the world no "correctness." Any effort to act "right" is by choice.

Meaning, Importance, Necessity:

There is no meaning in acting "correctly."

It doesn’t matter whether you do.

You don’t need to be "correct."

B. Detaching from Benefit/Loss

Suppose you lose a benefit. How?

You chose to, or

You couldn’t retain it.

If you couldn’t, you’re not at fault.

If you chose to and it was a mistake, you’re not at fault for misjudging.

Freedom of Action:
You can intentionally forfeit any benefit—and still bear no guilt.

Self-Respect:
If lost benefits never make you at fault, why should they affect your self-respect? They don’t.

Obligation:
You owe yourself no profit. Any pursuit of benefit is by choice.

Forms of Benefit:

Utility, improvement, money, health.

Meaning, Importance, Necessity:

There is no meaning in gaining benefits.

It doesn’t matter whether you do.

You don’t need them.

C. Detaching from "The Best"

Suppose you don’t do something "the best way." How?

You chose not to, or

You couldn’t.

If you couldn’t, you’re not at fault.

If you chose not to and it was a mistake, you’re not at fault for misjudging.

Freedom of Action:
You can intentionally reject "the best"—and still bear no guilt.

Self-Respect:
If "the best" is never an obligation, why should it matter? It doesn’t.

Obligation:
You owe the world no excellence. Any effort to optimize is by choice.

Meaning, Importance, Necessity:

There is no meaning in doing things "the best way."

It doesn’t matter whether you do.

You don’t need to.

D. Detaching from Goals

Suppose you fail to achieve a goal. How?

You chose not to, or

You couldn’t.

If you couldn’t, you’re not at fault.

If you chose not to and it was a mistake, you’re not at fault for misjudging.

Freedom of Action:
You can intentionally abandon all goals—and still bear no guilt.

Self-Respect:
If unmet goals never make you at fault, why should they affect your self-respect? They don’t.

Obligation:
You owe the world no achievements. Any goal you pursue is by choice.

Meaning, Importance, Necessity:

There is no meaning in achieving goals.

It doesn’t matter whether you do.

You don’t need to.

E. Detaching from Reality Itself

Suppose you fail to achieve, maintain, or avoid a reality. How?

You chose not to, or

You couldn’t.

If you couldn’t, you’re not at fault.

If you chose not to and it was a mistake, you’re not at fault for misjudging.

Freedom of Action:
You can intentionally embrace any reality—and still bear no guilt.

Self-Respect:
If reality’s course is never your fault, why should it affect your self-respect? It doesn’t.

Obligation:
You owe the universe no specific reality. Any reality you shape is by choice.

Meaning, Importance, Necessity:

There is no meaning in controlling reality.

It doesn’t matter what reality unfolds.

You don’t need any particular reality.

F. Detaching from Past Mistakes

Suppose you made a mistake in the past. How?

You chose it, or

You couldn’t avoid it.

If you couldn’t, you’re not at fault.

If you chose it and it was a mistake, you’re not at fault for misjudging.

Freedom of Action:
You could have made endless past mistakes—and still bear no guilt.

Self-Respect:
If past mistakes were never your fault, why should they haunt you? They shouldn’t.

Obligation:
You owed the past no perfection. Any regret is a choice, not a debt.

Meaning, Importance, Necessity:

There is no meaning in a flawless past.

It doesn’t matter what mistakes you made.

You don’t need a perfect past.

Practical Application

When your self-respect is dependent, you feel:

Fear, anxiety, stress

A sense of obligation ("I must...")

A desire to "earn" freedom by fulfilling duties

A belief that things matter

How to Identify Dependencies in the Moment

Ask yourself during distress:

What am I afraid of?

What do I feel I must do?

What must I do to "earn" freedom?

What do I believe has meaning?

Your answers will reveal a reality you fear or desire—one you believe you must:

Avoid at all costs, or

Achieve to be "worthy."

Steps to Detach

Match your fear/desire to the dependency list above.

Apply the detachment guide to that specific dependency, internalizing each step.

Repeat until all symptoms vanish.

Critical Note: If you’ve already lost self-respect (e.g., you feel guilty for a past failure), start with detaching from past mistakes before addressing other dependencies.

Quick Detachment Hack (For Experienced Practitioners)

If you’re familiar with the process and need a rapid reset (e.g., after waking up):

Pick one fear from the list below.

Realize: Even if you intentionally manifest it, you bear no guilt.

Quickly mentally apply this logic to all other fears, imagining you could enact them without consequence.

This creates an immediate, powerful shift.

List of Common Dependencies (Fears)

Failing society’s expectations

Being at fault in society’s eyes

Society’s hatred

Failing your future self’s expectations

Being at fault in your future self’s eyes

Your future self’s hatred

Neglecting your future

Failing to do what you "should"

Acting "wrongly"

Losing happiness/benefit

Not doing things "the best way"

Failing to achieve a goal

Failing to create/avoid a reality

Past mistakes

Remember: You’re never at fault because either:

You chose it, or

You couldn’t avoid it.

The Final Truth

You are never at fault for anything.

Your self-respect depends on nothing.

You owe nothing to anyone—including yourself.

You are free to act as you wish.

No opinion—past, present, or future—can diminish you.

If your self-respect is truly independent, then:

Nothing has meaning (from the standpoint of self-respect).

Nothing is important.

You need nothing.

Next Steps

This is only Part 1. Without Parts 2 and 3, your self-respect will quickly become dependent again. Proceed when ready.

Part 2: Happiness

What I Offer
Everything is simple. Right now, you live alternating between happiness and unhappiness. But by changing your worldview, you can exist in a state of inner happiness at all times. In both cases, you can live as you wish—except in the second, life becomes far more pleasant and peaceful.

How to Read This Book Correctly

Read everything in order, especially the first time. There is no unnecessary information here.

Wherever I speak in the first person, imagine that you are reading your own new perspective on happiness—not my perspective on my happiness. Every question is directed at you. You must answer them yourself and compare your responses to what I’ve written.

After reading your "new opinion," decide whether you agree with it.

You are not evaluating my choices or opinions—you are evaluating yours.

This book is not about how others should live or think. It is about how you can live and think better. The essence is to change your relationship with the world, with events, and with happiness itself.

How It Works

You tie your happiness to something—this is dependency. You can stop tying your happiness to that something—this is detaching happiness. Detaching happiness grants you independent happiness.

But emotions and thoughts arise that hold you back from changing your worldview about happiness. The first step is to address these emotions and thoughts and determine whether they contain any valid arguments.

General Theory

Detaching happiness from something makes you independently and absolutely happy in that specific area.

Once detached, you can no longer gain happiness (become happier) from successes in that area, nor lose happiness (become unhappier) from failures in it.

Humans can only perceive meaning in obtaining happiness.

Dependencies differ in the amount of happiness they provide. The more happiness a dependency offers, the more meaningful its fulfillment seems.

Humans feel an insatiable urge* to satisfy dependencies. The more meaningful the fulfillment, the stronger the urge. This urge is often mistaken for personal desire, but in reality, it is the "dependency’s desire"—something you can choose to satisfy or ignore.
*(interest/craving/need/drive/stimulus)

The dependency’s desire is physically difficult to ignore. It largely dictates what you will want, decide, or choose in life.

When your real desires align with your dependency’s desires, everything feels right.

When they don’t, you will struggle to follow your own path because, in reality, your path is chosen not by you, but by your dependencies—leaving you with no true choice.

Detaching happiness from something eliminates all meaning and feelings tied to that thing.

Three Restraining Factors (And Why They’re Illusions)

1. "Detaching means I must stop doing what I want—or do what I don’t want."

Reality: Dependency and independence are simply two states. Choosing between them has nothing to do with how you live or what you do.

You can still do what you want—your happiness just won’t depend on it.
→ This factor can be dismissed. It’s a misunderstanding.

2. "If I detach happiness from everything, I’ll lose all motivation to strive for anything."

Reality: You fear losing purpose because you don’t understand why you would do anything in a meaningless world.

In a completely meaningless world, the question of meaning disappears—because from this perspective, everything is equally meaningless.

There is no other world, nor will there ever be. The only question is: Do you want to or not?

Realizing this opens the possibility of wanting anything "just because." You decide what you want to consider important in this meaningless world—and you strive for it simply because you feel like it.
→ This factor can be dismissed. There is no problem in a world without meaning.

3. "Detaching means I’ll lose happiness because I’ll no longer have an external source for it."

Reality: Humans are used to seeking happiness outside themselves. Detaching happiness means it’s no longer out there—but this isn’t a loss, because it is now inside you, "in your hands."

You are unhappy only as long as you believe happiness comes from outside. When that belief vanishes, so does unhappiness.

If the mind is not in a state of unhappiness, it default to happiness. That’s how psychology works.
Result: Detaching doesn’t make you lose happiness—it gives you a happiness you cannot lose.
→ This factor can be dismissed. It’s another misunderstanding.

Pros and Cons of Detaching Happiness

Pros of Independence

Cons

Happiness

Three restraining factors

Inner freedom

(all dismissed as illusions)

Peace

Confidence

Enjoyment of life

Productivity

Self-control

The Detachment Process

Now that you understand what detaching happiness means—and that it has no downsides, only benefits—you can easily detach happiness from anything. The goal is to detach happiness from everything and reach a state of total independence.

To detach happiness from [something], simply decide:

"From this moment on, I no longer believe my happiness depends on [something], because there are no benefits to thinking otherwise. Before, it did depend on it—but now it doesn’t. Now, I choose to be happy regardless of [something]."

Detaching from External Opinions

(Skip this section if you already have no dependency on others’ opinions or your "future self’s" opinions. These people typically have no issues with self-esteem, fear, duty, or guilt.)

1. Detaching from Society’s Expectations

Society = anyone/any number of people.

A. Detaching from Fulfilling Society’s Expectations

Detachment Statement:
"From this moment on, I no longer believe my happiness depends on whether I meet society’s expectations, because there are no benefits to thinking otherwise. Before, it did—but now it doesn’t. Now, I choose to be happy regardless of whether I meet society’s expectations."

Nothing to Gain or Lose:

If my happiness doesn’t depend on meeting expectations, what do I gain from fulfilling them—or lose from disappointing them? Nothing.

I could, if I wanted, intentionally disappoint everyone—and nothing would change. One reality would simply replace another, with different sensations, neither better nor worse.

Meaning, Importance, Necessity:

There is no meaning in meeting society’s expectations.

It doesn’t matter whether I meet them or not.

I don’t need to meet society’s expectations.

Variations of Society’s Expectations:

Not deceiving others

Keeping promises

Not disappointing

Conforming to standards

Honoring agreements

Following rules

Avoiding harm

Preserving relationships

Not being "bad," "rude," or "selfish"

B. Detaching from Guilt Toward Society

Detachment Statement:
"From this moment on, I no longer believe my happiness depends on whether I feel guilty toward society, because there are no benefits to thinking otherwise."

Nothing to Gain or Lose:

If my happiness doesn’t depend on guilt, what do I gain from innocence—or lose from guilt? Nothing.

I could, if I wanted, intentionally harm society—and nothing would change.

Meaning, Importance, Necessity:

There is no meaning in being innocent toward society.

It doesn’t matter whether I’m guilty or not.

I don’t need to be innocent toward society.

C. Detaching from Society’s Love

Detachment Statement:
"From this moment on, I no longer believe my happiness depends on whether society loves me, because there are no benefits to thinking otherwise."

Nothing to Gain or Lose:

If my happiness doesn’t depend on love, what do I gain from being loved—or lose from being hated? Nothing.

I could, if I wanted, destroy all relationships, become an outcast, and receive hatred daily—and nothing would change.

Meaning, Importance, Necessity:

There is no meaning in society’s love.

It doesn’t matter whether I’m loved or not.

I don’t need society’s love.

Variations of Society’s Love:

Recognition

Approval

Respect

Friendship

Attention

Support

Understanding

Detaching from the "Future You"

Imagine "future you" as a completely different person—just like society. Separate your present self from your future self. You should only care about the interests of your present self. Only one "you" should exist in your mind: the real you.

A. Detaching from the Future

Detachment Statement:
"From this moment on, I no longer believe my happiness depends on what future awaits me, because there are no benefits to thinking otherwise."

Nothing to Gain or Lose:

If my happiness doesn’t depend on the future, what do I gain from securing it—or lose from ruining it? Nothing.

I could, if I wanted, intentionally sabotage my future—and nothing would change.

Meaning, Importance, Necessity:

There is no meaning in caring about the future.

It doesn’t matter what the future holds.

I don’t need to care about the future.

B. Detaching from "Future You’s" Expectations

Detachment Statement:
"From this moment on, I no longer believe my happiness depends on whether I meet my future self’s expectations."

Nothing to Gain or Lose:

If my happiness doesn’t depend on meeting expectations, what do I gain from fulfilling them—or lose from disappointing them? Nothing.

Meaning, Importance, Necessity:

There is no meaning in meeting "future me’s" expectations.

It doesn’t matter whether I meet them or not.

I don’t need to meet them.

C. Detaching from Guilt Toward "Future You"

Detachment Statement:
"From this moment on, I no longer believe my happiness depends on whether I feel guilty toward my future self."

Nothing to Gain or Lose:

If my happiness doesn’t depend on guilt, what do I gain from innocence—or lose from guilt? Nothing.

Meaning, Importance, Necessity:

There is no meaning in being innocent toward my future self.

It doesn’t matter whether I’m guilty or not.

I don’t need to be innocent toward my future self.

D. Detaching from "Future You’s" Love

Detachment Statement:
"From this moment on, I no longer believe my happiness depends on whether my future self loves me."

No Difference:

If my happiness doesn’t depend on this love, does it matter if "future me" loves me? No.

Meaning, Importance, Necessity:

There is no meaning in my future self’s love.

It doesn’t matter whether they love me or not.

I don’t need my future self’s love.

Freedom of Action:

I could, if I wanted, do everything that would make my future self hate me—and nothing would change. One reality would simply replace another.

Detaching from "Duties"

Detachment Statement:
"From this moment on, I no longer believe my happiness depends on whether I do what I ‘should,’ because there are no benefits to thinking otherwise."

No Difference:

If my happiness doesn’t depend on duties, does it matter what I do? No.

Meaning, Importance, Necessity:

There is no meaning in doing what I "should."

It doesn’t matter whether I do it or not.

I don’t need to do what I "should."

Freedom of Action:

I could, if I wanted, only do what I shouldn’t—and nothing would change.

Detaching from Past Mistakes

Detachment Statement:
"From this moment on, I no longer believe my happiness depends on whether I made mistakes in the past."

No Difference:

If my happiness doesn’t depend on past mistakes, does it matter what happened? No.

Meaning, Importance, Necessity:

There is no meaning in a past without mistakes.

It doesn’t matter whether I made mistakes or not.

I don’t need a past without mistakes.

Freedom of Action:

I could have, if I wanted, intentionally made mistakes—and nothing would have changed.

Detaching from Core Dependencies

A. Detaching from Sensations

Detachment Statement:
"From this moment on, I no longer believe my happiness depends on what sensations I experience."

No Difference:

If my happiness doesn’t depend on sensations, does it matter what I feel? No.

Variations of Pleasant Sensations:

Happiness

Pleasure

Positive emotions

Comfort

Calmness

Meaning, Importance, Necessity:

There is no meaning in pleasant sensations.

It doesn’t matter what I feel.

I don’t need pleasant sensations.

Freedom of Action:

I could, if I wanted, permanently reject all pleasure and accept all pain—and nothing would change. One set of sensations would simply replace another.

B. Detaching from Growth

Detachment Statement:
"From this moment on, I no longer believe my happiness depends on whether I grow or develop."

No Difference:

If my happiness doesn’t depend on growth, does it matter what I do? No.

Meaning, Importance, Necessity:

There is no meaning in growth.

It doesn’t matter whether I grow or not.

I don’t need to grow.

Freedom of Action:

I could, if I wanted, intentionally degrade—and nothing would change.

(Similar structures apply to detaching from: correct actions, benefits, doing things "the best way," achieving goals, shaping reality, and survival.)

Practical Application

When in a state of dependent happiness, you experience:

Sadness, anger

A feeling that you want something

A sense that something matters

If you don’t want to detach from everything at once, identify what specifically your happiness depends on in the moment by asking:

Why am I sad/angry?

What do I want?

What seems meaningful?

Your answers will reveal a desired or feared reality. Match this to the dependency list above, then detach using the guide, applying each point to your situation.

Repeat this process until all symptoms (sadness, anger, craving, meaning) disappear.

For Those with Dependent Self-Esteem:
If you’ve lost self-esteem, feel guilt, or fear something that has already happened:

Detach self-esteem from past mistakes.

Detach happiness from those mistakes.

Detach happiness from sensations to stop focusing on the discomfort of unmet dependencies.

For Those with Independent Self-Esteem:
If you’ve only lost happiness (feel sadness/anger) because you didn’t get what you wanted:

Detach happiness from what you wanted.

Detach from past mistakes (if applicable).

Detach from sensations.

Quick Detachment Hack

For experienced practitioners who need a fast refresh (e.g., in the morning):

Pick one desire (e.g., sensations) and ask:

"If my happiness doesn’t depend on what I feel, what do I gain from pleasant sensations?"

Realize the answer is nothing, then quickly run through the rest of the desires using:

"There is no meaning in [insert desire]."

This creates a rapid, powerful effect.

Final Summary

If my happiness depends on nothing, then from the perspective of happiness:

I cannot gain anything.

Nothing has meaning.

Nothing is important.

I need nothing.

I want nothing.

If you’ve detached happiness from everything, you must proceed to Part 3. Without it, you won’t be able to live while maintaining this independent state.

My Journey Through Thoughts and Illusions

1. The Problem: Intrusive Thoughts

I have a flood of imagined thoughts in my head—fictions, really. When I treat them as truth, they poison my state of mind. I used to believe I could disprove them, that if I could prove they weren’t true, they’d lose their power over me. But then I realized: I don’t even know what proof is. Are feelings, thoughts, or beliefs proof of anything? If not, how can I prove they aren’t proof?

I thought: Maybe proof doesn’t exist at all. But then I hit a wall—how can I prove that proof doesn’t exist? That’s just another assumption based on observation. Maybe proof does exist, and I haven’t found it yet.

2. The Dead End: Trying to Disprove Thoughts

I saw the futility: you can’t fight fictions with more fictions. Proof is useless because there’s no way to verify anything—not the truth of a thought, not its falsehood. The nature of a fiction is that it can’t be proven or disproven.

3. The Shift: Betting on Non-Existence

Since nothing can be proven, I had no choice but to bet. I bet that proof doesn’t exist. That truth doesn’t exist. That all of it—knowledge, logic, meaning—is made up.

I used to cling to the idea of proof, but now I see it’s meaningless. I can’t prove my bet is right, but I don’t need to. The bet itself is enough.

4. The Solution: Rejecting All Thoughts That Harm Me

How do I handle these intrusive thoughts now? Simple: I don’t let them exist in my head. I always had this power, but I was afraid to use it—what if they contained some hidden truth? Now, I bet they don’t. And that’s enough to discard them.

I’ve always been able to think only about what I want to think about. The obsession with truth was the only thing stopping me.

5. The New Principle: Nothing Matters Except What I Want

Now I live by this: Nothing has meaning except what I choose to give it.

If a thought ruins my mood, I remove it.

If a thought lifts me up, I keep it.

I don’t assign meaning to anything—only to my desires.

I don’t believe in limitations. The mind’s biggest mistake is searching for:

Knowledge

Truth

Proof

Logic

Meaning

Ownership

Constraints

Understanding

None of these things exist. Thinking about them only restricts my freedom.

The Core Realizations (Short Version)

1. Proof Is an Illusion

Information = Anything my mind observes.

Proof = Something that supposedly validates information as "real."

Reality: You can call anything "proof" or reject it entirely. No proof can ever be verified or debunked.

My Bet: Proof doesn’t exist. It’s a fiction. Beliefs, feelings, and societal reactions aren’t proof of anything.

2. Knowledge Is a Fiction

Knowledge = "Proven" information.

Reality: No "knowledge" can be verified or disproven.

My Bet: If proof doesn’t exist, then knowledge doesn’t exist. The brain and society aren’t sources of real knowledge.

Conclusion: There is no knowledge—about reality, about me, about my body.

3. Truth Is a Fiction

Truth = Knowledge of "what really is."

Reality: You can call anything "true" or reject it.

My Bet: If proof and knowledge don’t exist, then truth doesn’t exist.

Conclusion: Truth is a made-up concept. There is no "real" reality—only what I experience now.

4. Difference Is a Fiction

Difference = Knowledge of "better" or "worse."

Reality: You can call anything better or worse than anything else.

My Bet: Difference doesn’t exist.

Conclusion: Feelings of "better/worse" are meaningless. I don’t assign value to them.

5. Meaning Is a Fiction

Meaning = Knowledge of what something "signifies."

Reality: You can assign meaning to anything—or to nothing.

My Bet: If proof, knowledge, and truth don’t exist, then nothing has inherent meaning.

Conclusion: Meaning is a fiction. My feelings, thoughts, and society’s reactions are meaningless.

6. Logic Is a Fiction

Logic = Knowledge of what "follows" from what.

Reality: You can call anything logical or illogical.

My Bet: If nothing else exists, then logic doesn’t exist.

Conclusion: Nothing inherently follows from anything. The mind’s reactions aren’t "logical" or "illogical"—they just are.

7. Possibility Is a Fiction

Possibility = Knowledge of what I "can" or "can’t" do.

Reality: You can call anything possible or impossible.

My Bet: Possibility/impossibility doesn’t exist.

Conclusion: Past events don’t dictate what I can do—they only show what I’ve tried. There is no "possible" or "impossible," only what is.

8. Ownership Is a Fiction

Ownership = Knowledge of what "belongs" to me.

Reality: You can call anything "mine" or not.

My Bet: Ownership doesn’t exist.

Conclusion: There are no "my" or "not my" feelings, desires, or things.

9. Existence Is a Fiction

Existence = What’s proven not to be imagination.

Reality: If proof doesn’t exist, you can’t prove anything exists.

My Bet: Existence doesn’t exist.

Conclusion: Only fictions exist.

10. Cause Is a Fiction

Cause = Knowledge of "why" something happens.

Reality: You can call anything a cause—or not.

My Bet: Cause doesn’t exist.

Conclusion: Events just happen. There’s no "why."

11. Explanation Is a Fiction

Explanation = Knowledge of cause.

Reality: No explanation can be proven.

My Bet: If cause doesn’t exist, then explanation doesn’t exist.

Conclusion: There’s only the unexplained—just "something" happening.

12. Understanding Is a Fiction

Understanding = Knowledge of explanation.

Reality: If explanation doesn’t exist, understanding doesn’t exist.

Conclusion: Understanding is an illusion—it only feels real when you believe in explanations.

The Goal: Independence from Meaning

1. Why Stop Assigning Meaning?

Because meaning makes me:

Angry

Sad

Anxious

Depressed

Apathetic

Weak

Infantile

Miserable

It forces me to do what I "should," not what I want. A person free from meaning becomes:

Calm

Kind

Joyful

Strong

Ambitious

Confident

In control

Fully present

2. Addressing the Fears (Objections & Solutions)

Fear

Solution

"I’ll lose motivation if nothing matters."

The brain doesn’t need motivation. You can clap your hands right now without a reason—same with everything else. Try it experimentally.

"Why would I do anything if nothing matters?"

You don’t need a reason. The brain just does. The best life doesn’t require justification—it just feels best. Try it experimentally.

"I’d have to give up what I value."

No—you only give up the belief that it has value. The thing itself stays. The world without meaning is more beautiful. Try it experimentally.

"What if I hate the state of not caring?"

Unlikely, but possible. You can always go back. Try it experimentally.

"I don’t want to accept reality as it is."

You’re rejecting reality because you imagine a "better" one. But the imagined world doesn’t exist. Choose: live in the only real world, or don’t.

3. The Leap: Letting Go

When you see no real downsides left, you’ll effortlessly stop assigning meaning. Until then, the mind won’t let you.

From now on:

I don’t assign meaning to my feelings, thoughts, or states.

I don’t assign meaning to society’s reactions.

What’s Next? Living Without Illusions

Thoughts create feelings. But thoughts and feelings can’t be proven—they can only be added or removed.

When I stop assigning meaning, I gain control. I can now choose which thoughts and feelings stay.

Nothing forbids me from removing bad thoughts or keeping good ones. No proof, truth, or logic can stop me.

I only think about:

What I truly want now.

How to achieve it.

Nothing else—extra thoughts only limit me.

When I know what I want, I act, observe, and enjoy—without overthinking.

Final Advice:

Don’t think about anything except what you want to do now. Otherwise, you’ll get lost in fictions that ruin your state.

If you’re thinking about something else, ask: Why? The answer: Because I believed in an illusion and lost control.

The End Result: Freedom

I am free to shape my mind as I wish. I remove what harms me. I keep what helps me. I live by desire alone—and it’s the only way to live.

My Current Life: The World of Proofs and Prohibitions

I accept as fact that proofs exist.
I believe there are things in the world that serve as undeniable evidence—tangible, verifiable, real.

I accept as fact that something is proven to exist.
There are truths so solid that their existence cannot be disputed. They anchor my reality.

I accept as fact that something exists which prohibits something else.
The world operates on restrictions: laws, morals, boundaries. Some forces forbid—and this is objective.

I accept as fact that there is something prohibiting me from living as I wish—and not living as I don’t wish.
My freedom is constrained. External rules, expectations, or unseen forces dictate what I can and cannot do. This is not a feeling; it is a fact.

I assign a "prohibitive" meaning to things.
I look at the world and label certain things as forbidden—by society, by logic, by my own mind. These labels feel absolute.

I assign meaning to things.
Everything carries weight. Events, words, choices—they are not neutral. They mean something, and that meaning governs me.

My New Life: The Bet on Nothingness and Freedom

Anything can be considered proof—and anything can be dismissed as proof.
The line between "evidence" and "not evidence" is drawn by me. There is no inherent truth in proofs; they are choices.

No proof can be proven or disproven.
Even the most ironclad argument is a construct. It holds only if I decide it does.

I have no choice but to place bets and treat as fact whatever I wager on.
Reality is a gamble. I choose what to believe, and that choice becomes my truth—because there is no other way.

I bet that proofs do not exist.
If I stake my life on the absence of absolute evidence, then nothing is fixed. The world is fluid, malleable—mine to define.

If only the proven exists, then I bet that nothing exists.
A radical wager: if existence requires proof, and proof is an illusion, then nothing is real. The slate is empty.

I bet that there is no "something" prohibiting "something else." Nothing forbids anything.
Restrictions are stories. If I reject the idea of inherent prohibitions, then the world has no chains—only my interpretations.

I bet that nothing prohibits me from living exactly as I wish.
The greatest freedom: if no external force can truly restrict me, then my life is unbounded by "shoulds" or "musts."

I refuse to assign "prohibitive" meaning to anything.
Even death, loss, or suffering need not be obstacles. They are events—not commands. They do not dictate how I must live.

Changes in life may alter how I want to live, but they cannot prohibit me from living as I wish.
Circumstances shift desires, but they do not forbid. I adapt, but I am never forced.

I bet that beyond the nonexistent "prohibitive" meaning, no other meaning exists.
If nothing can truly stop me, then nothing else matters either. The world is neutral—a canvas.

I assign no meaning to anything.
To live fully, I must unshackle myself from the weight of significance. Things happen; they do not command.

What I Want: The Design of My Best Life

I choose to live by these principles—not because they are true, but because I want them to be:

I will not think about what I do not wish to think about.

I will not feel what I do not wish to feel.

I will not follow emotions I do not wish to follow.

Instead, I will:

Observe. Watch life unfold without resistance.

Enjoy. Seek pleasure, beauty, and joy as primary states.

Live in good condition. Prioritize health, vitality, and well-being.

Exist without fear, anger, or sadness. Maximize joy; minimize suffering.

Experience as many good sensations as possible. Life is a feast of the senses.

Live long and healthily. Time is my ally, not my enemy.

Live honestly. Respect others’ interests; give what I owe—not out of duty, but because I choose to.

Leave the world better. Help, care, improve—because it aligns with my desire, not because it is "right."

This is the only way to control my state and my life:

Thoughts and feelings cannot be proven or disproven. They can only be held or released—as much as I want to.

The Experiment: A Ten-Minute Rebellion

I propose a test:
For just 10 minutes, I will live as if the "New Life" is real.
No proofs. No prohibitions. No meanings but the ones I invent.
Then I will decide.

My Philosophy of Existence: A Life Without Constraints

1. The Foundation: What I Believe Does Not Exist

I believe there is no such thing as:

Proof of anything—no evidence can ever truly establish truth.

Knowledge of anything—what we call "knowledge" is an illusion.

Truth in anything—there is no objective reality to cling to.

Prohibitions on anything—nothing is inherently forbidden.

Meaning in anything—nothing carries intrinsic significance.

These are not just abstract ideas; they are the bedrock of how I choose to live. If nothing can be proven, then the very concept of proof is a fiction—useful only for communication, but devoid of real substance.

2. The Irrelevance of Proof, Truth, and Rightness

Does it matter if something is proven? No. I believe there is no prohibition against ignoring the absence of proof and believing whatever I choose.

Does it matter if I’m right? No. I believe there is no prohibition against ignoring truth and embracing what I want to believe.

If nothing is forbidden, what even matters? Nothing. And that is liberating.

I believe meaning itself does not exist. To live freely is to reject the illusion that anything must matter.

3. My Definition of the Best Life

For me, the best life means:

Not doing what I do not want to do.

Not thinking about what I do not want to think about.

Not believing in what I do not want to believe.

Not feeling what I do not want to feel.

Observing, enjoying life—without the weight of expectations.

Living without fear, anger, or sadness—maximizing joy, pleasure, and good sensations.

Caring for my future—but only as much as I choose to.

Living honestly, respecting others’ interests, giving what I owe*—but only to the extent I want to.

Not making the world worse—avoiding harm to others*.

Making the world better—helping, caring, contributing*—but only as much as I desire.

*(On my own terms, no more, no less.)

4. The Mind as a Prison of Illusions

Knowledge and truth are inventions of the mind—they do not help in life; they only restrict with imaginary rules.

Thinking beyond the present moment is a distraction—any extra thought only interferes with living my best life. There is no benefit in dwelling on what is not immediately before me.

I reject the search for meaning in my head. The mind only generates conditional knowledge, truth, and prohibitions—none of which are real.

5. The Chain of Suffering: How Belief Creates Pain

The problem begins with faith in reality:

Belief in reality → creates "proof" (real/unreal).

Belief in proof → creates "knowledge" (how things should be).

Belief in knowledge → creates "truth" (right/wrong).

Belief in truth → creates "prohibitions" (allowed/forbidden).

Belief in prohibitions → creates "meaning" (important/unimportant).

Belief in meaning → creates "needs" (necessary/unnecessary).

Belief in needs → creates "motivation" (want/don’t want).

Belief in motivation → creates "limitations" (can/cannot).

Belief in limitations → creates unfreedom (must/must not).

Unfreedom → creates suffering (fear, anger, sadness, depression).

Example:

Why do I feel fear/anger/sadness?
Because I believe I must do something (unfreedom).

Why must I?
Because I believe I can’t choose otherwise (limitations).

Why can’t I?
Because I believe I want something (motivation).

Why do I want it?
Because I believe I need it (meaning).

Why do I need it?
Because I believe it’s important (prohibitions).

Why is it important?
Because I believe it’s right (truth).

Why is it right?
Because I believe it should be that way (knowledge).

Why should it?
Because I believe in reality.

The solution? Break the chain at its root.

6. The Solution: Rejecting the Illusion of Meaning

I believe proof, knowledge, truth, prohibitions, and meaning do not exist.

Whether they exist or not does not matter.

Whether something is proven or not does not matter.

Whether it’s true or not does not matter.

Whether I am certain or not does not matter.

I assign no meaning to anything.

I forget the existence of these concepts. I do not seek them in my mind. I do not think about them.

7. The Art of Non-Attachment to Thoughts and Feelings

Thoughts/feelings arise:

I choose/do not choose.

I want/do not want.

I like/dislike.

I am interested/not interested.

I feel like doing/not doing.

I need/do not need.

The trap: The moment I assign meaning to these thoughts, they become demands—uncontrollable urges that cause pain if ignored.

The freedom: I let thoughts be just ideas, not commands. I refuse to let feelings dictate my choices.

I do not want to:

Fear, anger, or sadness uncontrollably.

Be forced into actions by fleeting desires.

Let "wants" and "don’t wants" become needs that enslave me.

8. The Conflict: "I Want" vs. "I Feel Like"

The problems:

"I want to be productive, but I feel like binge-watching YouTube."

"I want to lose weight, but I crave sweets."

"I want a strong family, but I feel like cheating."

"I want to cook, but I don’t feel like exerting effort."

"I want to learn programming, but I don’t feel like studying."

The origin of the problem:

A thought arises: "I feel like X."

I assign it meaning → it becomes a demand.

The demand overrides what I truly want, creating conflict.

My resolution:

"I want" reflects my highest vision for myself.

"I feel like" is a fleeting impulse, often aligned with short-term comfort.

I choose to focus on "I want" and ignore "I feel like"—because "I want" leads to my best life, while "I feel like" leads to distraction.

How?

Stop assigning meaning to impulses ("I feel like").

Stop thinking about what I feel like; focus only on what I want.

Even "I want" is just a thought—I do not cling to it. I act when it aligns with my vision, and release it when it doesn’t.

Final Declaration: My Rules for Living

I live by choice, not by obligation.

I feel only what I allow myself to feel—no unwanted emotions control me.

I think only what serves me—no unnecessary thoughts clutter my mind.

I believe only what empowers me—no dogmas limit my freedom.

I act from desire, not from fear—my life is an expression of joy, not avoidance of pain.

I contribute to the world as I wish—no guilt, no force, only authentic giving.

I am the author of my experience—nothing has meaning unless I choose to give it meaning.

This is how I live without chains.

1. Reimagining Reality: A Radical Shift in Perspective

What Is Reality?

Reality is what exists independently of the observer—what remains when the observer is removed.

I have never observed reality itself. I have only observed what my brain presents to me.

The existence of reality cannot be proven or disproven. There is no definitive answer.

My Observations and Conclusions

If I have never observed something, I tend to believe it does not exist.

I am inclined to believe that reality does not exist.

Only consciousness, the brain, and what it shows me exist. Nothing else has been directly observed.

I believe nothing exists in reality—everything exists only in my mind.

The Illusion of Proof, Knowledge, and Truth

No belief, thought, feeling, sensation, reaction, or information in my mind relates to reality. It only relates to what is in my mind.

No evidence proves anything about reality—it only proves what is in my mind.

I have no knowledge of reality. I only have knowledge of what is in my mind.

No truth pertains to reality—it only pertains to what is in my mind.

The Absence of External Constraints

There are no real proofs, knowledge, truth, prohibitions, meaning, needs, stimuli, understanding, limitations, unfreedom, or suffering in reality. These exist only in my mind.

I must forget the idea of real proofs, knowledge, truth, prohibitions, meaning, needs, stimuli, understanding, limitations, unfreedom, or suffering. I will not seek them in my mind or think about them.

I must forget the idea that anything exists in reality. I will not search my mind for something real or think about it.

I must forget the idea of 100% certainty in anything. I will not seek certainty in my mind—it is unattainable. I will not think about it and will rely on feelings instead.

2. The Problem: How Belief in Reality Creates Suffering

Belief in reality creates a cascade of suffering through a chain of illusions:

Belief in reality → Creates belief in real evidence of mismatches between "what is" and my ideas of reality.

Evidence of mismatch → Creates belief in real knowledge (how things "should" or "should not" be).

Knowledge → Creates certainty.

Certainty → Creates belief in real truth (right/wrong).

Truth → Creates belief in real prohibitions (allowed/forbidden).

Prohibitions → Create belief in real meaning (important/unimportant).

Meaning → Leads to assigning value.

Assigning value → Creates a sense of need (necessary/unnecessary).

Needs → Create a stimulus to care for those needs.

Stimulus → Forces me to strive to fulfill needs.

Forced striving → Creates understanding of why and how I must strive.

Forced striving → Creates a sense of limitations (can/cannot).

Limitations → Create a sense of unfreedom (must/must not/forced).

Unfreedom → Creates suffering (fear, anger, sadness, unhappiness, depression).

3. Example: Tracing Suffering Back to Belief in Reality

Why do I experience fear, anger, sadness, unhappiness, or depression?

Because I feel I must, must not, or am forced (unfreedom).

Why do I feel forced?

Because I cannot act otherwise (limitations).

Why can’t I?

Because my feelings compel me (stimulus).

Why do they compel me?

Because I need something (need).

Why do I need it?

Because I assign value to it.

Why do I assign value?

Because it is important (meaning).

Why is it important?

Because it is forbidden to ignore it (prohibition).

Why is it forbidden?

Because it is wrong (truth).

Why is it wrong?

Because it should not be that way (knowledge).

Why should it not be that way?

Because it does not match some reality (evidence).

Why does it not match reality?

Because I believe reality exists.

4. The Alternative: Liberation Through Non-Belief

If reality does not exist, then:

There is no evidence of mismatch.

There is no knowledge of how things "should" be.

There is no certainty.

There is no truth (right/wrong).

There are no prohibitions (allowed/forbidden).

There is no meaning (important/unimportant).

I do not assign value to anything.

Needs disappear.

The compelling stimulus vanishes.

The understanding of why I must strive disappears.

Limitations dissolve.

Unfreedom evaporates.

Suffering ceases.

5. Why I Believe Reality Does Not Exist

Reason 1: No Contradiction in My Experience

My observations, knowledge, science, logic, and common sense do not contradict this view. I have every right to hold it.

Reason 2: Practical Benefit

This perspective allows me to stop assigning value to anything, which improves my life.

6. The Choice: To Assign Meaning or Not

Explanation

Option 1: I tend to believe that...

Option 2: I tend to believe that...

This choice changes nothing objectively; the mind does not care. I choose Option 2.

Reality cannot hypothetically exist.

Reality can hypothetically exist.

If I have never observed something, it does not exist.

If I have never observed something, it exists.

This is a critical choice. By default, your brain subconsciously selects Option 2. The only way to stop this is to consciously choose the opposite.

Reality does not exist.

Reality exists, and I even know what it is.

Nothing exists in reality—everything exists only in my mind.

Much of what exists in my mind also exists in reality.

I do not assign meaning to anything.

I assign meaning to things.

How This Affects My Life

+ Better state of being.

I become calmer, kinder, happier, more relaxed, stronger, purposeful, ambitious, confident, and independent.

- Worse state of being.

I become angrier, sadder, anxious, unhappy, joyless, indifferent, tense, depressed, apathetic, weak, infantile, and dependent.

The need to strive for a reality I think "should" exist disappears. Instead, I simply do what interests me, what I enjoy, and what I want—without needing an external compelling stimulus. This is not a minus; it is how the brain works.

~ Confusion: Why and how would I strive for a reality that "should" exist?

- Forced stimulus to strive for a reality that "should" exist.

I can still strive for anything I want. I only lose the compulsion to do so. This "minus" does not exist.

~ Myth: I must abandon striving for the reality I think "should" exist.

I will not need to achieve this reality, so I will not need hope. This is not a minus.

~ Myth: I lose hope of achieving the reality I think "should" exist.

It does not matter what reality "should" be. I cannot choose a different reality now. What matters is whether I want to live better in the reality that is. This is not a minus.

~ Myth: I must abandon the reality I think "should" exist and accept what is.

Yes, it is possible I may not like this state—but I can always return to believing in reality and assigning meaning. Only testing will reveal if this "minus" exists.

~ Possibility: I may prefer being unhappy.

Summary

+ Many benefits.

~ One possible "minus," which likely does not exist.

+ A "benefit" that is actually a compulsion (a minus).

Many drawbacks. |
| Advice: Do not seek 100% certainty in your choice—it is unattainable. Choose what seems better to you. | I choose this. | I choose this. |

7. Condensed Reminder (Work in Progress)

Reality does not exist.

Nothing exists in reality—everything exists only in my mind.

Certainty, stimulus, and understanding do not exist.

Do not assign meaning to anything.

Whether something exists in reality is irrelevant.

Forget about certainty, stimulus, and understanding. Do not seek them in your mind or think about them.

8. How to Live With This Perspective (Work in Progress)

Core Principles

There is no definitive answer on how to live. Choose for yourself, but:

Do not seek 100% certainty that your choice is "correct"—you will never find it.

Do not seek a stimulus that will force you to strive—you will never find it.

Do not seek understanding of why you must strive—you will never find it.

Choose what seems better to you and act.

How I Live

I have interests, desires, and things I enjoy.

In a balanced state, fulfilling these brings pleasure and joy.

By not assigning meaning to these feelings, I gain the freedom to choose when and how to fulfill them without pain. I use this freedom actively and never assign meaning to anything, including these feelings.

I want to live my best life, not just my best day, hour, or moment. Instead of maximizing instant gratification, I aim to maximize lifelong fulfillment. This means not only satisfying my feelings but also servicing them—creating the conditions for their optimal fulfillment.

(To be expanded: "Write about the goal.")

With this perspective, my life revolves around servicing and fulfilling my feelings to maximize enjoyment. This is the entire essence of my life, and I see no benefit in adding anything else.

Guide: How to Think

Think about what the next task is.

To choose the next task, reflect on the past, present, or future.

The task can be of any type: work, chores, entertainment, or rest.

Completing the next task is the only goal in life.

At all other times, think of nothing. Observe and enjoy the process of life.

If a task is completed or needs to be changed, repeat the cycle.

Never interfere with the brain’s work—it will figure out what to do and when.

Final Note

This is not a philosophy to debate or prove—it is a practical tool for reducing suffering and increasing freedom. Test it. Adjust it. If it works, use it. If not, discard it. The only rule: choose what makes your life better.

The Core Idea: Why Suffering Is Meaningless

I realize: If suffering is not beneficial to me, then there is no point in assigning value to anything.

Why?
Because assigning value to something does not change that thing—it only worsens my state.

The Solution: How to Stop Assigning Value

What is the point of assigning value to something I already have?
It won’t change what it is—it will only ruin my state.

What is the point of assigning value to what exists, existed, will exist, or might exist?
It won’t change reality—it will only ruin my state.

What is the point of assigning value to what does not exist, never existed, never will exist, or cannot exist?
It won’t change that absence—it will only ruin my state.

What is the point of assigning value to anything if it changes nothing and only ruins my state?

I am certain: There is no point in assigning value to anything.

Therefore:

Do not assign value to anything that exists, existed, will exist, or might exist.

Do not assign value to anything that does not exist, never existed, never will exist, or cannot exist.

Do not assign value to anything at all.

The ultimate conclusion:
Whether something has value or not does not matter.

Think what you want.

Do what you want.

Feel what you want.

Observe, enjoy life—just do not assign value to anything.

Why Can I Be Certain?

Some might think that to be certain there is no point in assigning value, one must prove it. But this is a mistake.

Value is subjective. It is either felt or not—it cannot be proven or disproven.

If it feels like there is no point in assigning value, then you can be certain—because no other basis for certainty exists.

Do not assign value to the lack of proof.

Do not assign value to doubts.

Do not assign value to anything.

Problems That Arise When You Stop Assigning Value

1. The Problem of Misunderstanding

When I assign value to something, it creates:

A meaning to obtain what has value.

A powerful stimulus to obtain it.

This stimulus physically compels me to act, leaving me no choice.

The lack of choice creates the illusion of a reason to act.

Meaning + reason = understanding of why I do things.

When I stop assigning value:

I lose all of the above—meaning, stimulus, reason, understanding.

I expect to still have understanding, but I only had it before because I was assigning value.

True understanding does not exist in nature—it is only invented.

2. The Problem of Uncertainty

Assigning value creates a stimulus that gives me confidence in knowing what I need.

Without assigning value, I lose that confidence.

I live by ideas, thoughts, feelings—not by knowledge, because true knowledge of what I need does not exist.

I do what seems better, interesting, enjoyable, meaningful.

3. The Problem of Refusing to Forgive (False Meaning in Assigning Value)

If I stop assigning value, must I forgive reality for what it has done to me?

Must I let go of the past and accept the present?

Why don’t I want to?
Because reality cannot be forgiven.

Why not?
Because then reality "gets away with it."

Why is that a problem?
Because reality might do it again.

But: Whether I forgive reality or not does not change what it might do.

So: What is the point of assigning value to forgiveness if it changes nothing and only ruins my state?

Conclusion: I can forgive reality for everything—it does not stop me from changing it.

How to Imagine Life Without Assigning Value

Right now, I can clap my hands as many times as I want without assigning any value to it—no stimulus, no meaning, no reason, just because the idea occurred to me.

If I stop assigning value:

All actions become this effortless.

I forget about meaning, stimulus, reason, understanding, confidence—because none of it matters anymore.

Why Do I Feel Fear/Stress/Anger/Sadness/Depression?

Because I must/must not/am forced to do something (lack of freedom).

Why must I?
Because I cannot do otherwise (limitations).

Why can’t I?
Because I need something (desire).

Why do I need it?
Because my feelings compel me (stimulus).

Why do they compel me?
Because I assign value to something.

Why do I assign value?
Because I believe there is meaning in it.

Why is there meaning?
Because I think it will help me change something.

Practical Application: How to Use This in Life

When I feel the urge to assign value to something, I stop and ask:
"What is the point?"

I realize: There is no point, because assigning value changes nothing—it only ruins my state.

Only my actions can change things, and assigning value does not help—it only hinders.

Pros and Cons of Assigning (or Not Assigning) Value

Comparison: Assigning Value vs. Not Assigning Value

Assigning Value to Things

Not Assigning Value to Anything

Con: My state worsens. I become angrier, sadder, anxious, unhappy, indifferent, tense, depressed, apathetic, weak, dependent.

Pro: My state improves. I become calmer, kinder, happier, relaxed, strong, ambitious, confident, independent.

Con: I am compelled by stimuli to chase what I value.

Not a Con: I don’t understand why I would strive for anything. (But I can still strive for things freely, without illusion.)

Not a Con: I must give up striving for what I valued. (False—I can still strive for anything, just without false meaning.)

Not a Con: I lose hope of getting what I valued. (But I no longer need hope—I no longer need anything.)

Not a Con: I must forgive reality, let go of the past, accept the present. (But forgiving changes nothing—it’s a false dilemma.)

Not a Con: I might dislike this state. (Unlikely, but if so, I can always go back to assigning value.)

Total: Many cons.

Total: Many pros.

What Does "Assigning Value to NOTHING" Mean?

Nothing means exactly nothing. I can give examples, but do not fixate on them—reduce everything to "nothing" for maximum effect.

Do not assign value to:

Reality, myself, my opinions, my life, others, their opinions, their lives.

Nothing in:

Reality (past/present/future events, objects, processes).

My mind (thoughts, fantasies, memories, feelings, reactions).

My body (sensations, pleasure, pain, discomfort, hunger).

My life (actions).

Others’ minds (their thoughts, feelings, reactions).

Others’ bodies (their sensations, pleasure, pain).

Others’ lives (their actions).

Do not assign value to judgments like:

Better/worse

Beneficial/harmful

Chosen/not chosen

Want/don’t want

Like/dislike

Interesting/boring

Need/don’t need

Must/must not

Can/cannot

Fair/unfair

Should/should not

Right/wrong

Allowed/forbidden

Important/unimportant

Do not assign value to emotions or what triggers them:

Sadness, unhappiness

Joy, happiness

Fear, stress, anxiety

Anger, irritation

Pity

Laziness

Do not assign value in my own life to:

Survival

Goals

Opportunities

Success/failure

Achievements

Results

Past/present/future

Actions

Final Thought

Freedom lies in not assigning value.

Think freely.

Act freely.

Feel freely.

Live without the burden of meaning.

A Guide to Liberation from Meaning: My Journey

Step 1: The Idea

My Choice depends on Reality.
Reality matters for the choices I make afterward. Reality is significant for my Choice.

Reality depends on my Choice.
My Choice matters for Reality. My Choice is significant for Reality.

But what do I depend on?
What matters to me? What is significant to me?
Here, I suggest pausing.

Nothing inherently matters to me.
What matters to me can only exist if I invent it—if I create it.

So I choose not to create anything meaningful for myself.
I refuse to create dependencies for myself.

Step 2: The Big Picture

The "Things":

Reality

Choice

Everything else

Their Real Significance:

Reality matters for Choice.

Choice matters for Reality.

Everything else has no significance.

Their Imagined (False) Significance:

"Reality matters to me." (In truth, it only matters for my Choice.)

"My Choice matters to me." (In truth, it only matters for Reality.)

"Everything else matters to me." (In truth, it matters neither for Reality, nor Choice, nor me.)

Step 3: What’s the Point?

Why assign false significance to things if it doesn’t change their real significance—only worsens my state?

Assigning False Meaning

Not Assigning False Meaning

Con: My state becomes much worse.

Pro: My state becomes much better.

Con: I’m forced to care about what has no real significance.

Pro: I only care about what has real significance.

Pro: I release/accept everything without real significance.

Conclusion: There is no point in assigning false meaning.

Step 4: The Shift

From this moment onward:

I no longer depend on Reality.
Reality is not important to me. It has no significance for me.
It only matters for my Choice.

I no longer depend on my Choice.
My Choice is not important to me. It has no significance for me.
It only matters for my Reality.

I no longer depend on anything else.
Nothing else is important to me. Nothing else has significance for me.
It doesn’t matter for my Choice or my Reality.

I depend on nothing.
Nothing is important to me. Nothing has significance for me.
The only significance is:

Reality for Choice,

Choice for Reality,

And that is all.

What remains?

My Reality (which stays mine),

My Choice (which stays mine),

A beautiful life in a beautiful state.

Step 5: What to Do and What to Avoid

Do NOT assign false significance to anything.

Do NOT try to change the real significance of things.

Do NOT try to escape the real significance of things.

Accept the world as it is.

Step 6: The Problem of Refusing to Forgive Reality

I don’t want to stop assigning meaning because:

I don’t want to forgive Reality for what it did to me.

I don’t want to let go of the past.

I don’t want to accept the present.

This is a delusion.
I can stop assigning meaning and still refuse to forgive Reality, hold onto the past, and reject the present.

Follow the guide: Stop assigning meaning to anything.

Now that nothing has meaning for me, why do I still refuse to:

Forgive Reality?

Let go of the past?

Accept the present?

Because Reality cannot be forgiven.

Why?

Because then Reality would "get away with it."

Why is that a problem?

Because then Reality might do it to me again.

This is another delusion.
Whether I forgive Reality or not doesn’t change whether it will happen again.

What’s the point of assigning meaning to forgiveness if it:

Doesn’t change what Reality can do to me,

Only worsens my state and my relationship with Reality?

Forgiving Reality or not has no significance for me.
I can forgive Reality for everything.

I can automatically forgive Reality for everything—
it doesn’t stop me from changing it; it only helps.

Step 7: The Problem of "What If I’m Wrong?"

But what if I’m wrong, and assigning meaning is actually better?
Right now, it seems better not to assign meaning.
It makes no sense to change my mind based on a hypothetical chance I might be wrong.
If it’s proven I’m wrong, then I’ll start assigning meaning.
Until then, there’s no point.

But what if I’m wrong about everything? What if my whole life turns out to be a mistake?

What is a mistake?
A mistake is regretting a Choice.

What is regret?
Assigning meaning to having made the "wrong" Choice.

If nothing has meaning for me, what can even be a mistake?
Without assigning meaning, true mistakes and regrets don’t exist.
A "mistake" and assigning meaning are the same—they create each other.

How it was before:

I did something.

Later, I realized I should’ve done it differently.

I assigned meaning to it.

I regretted it.

I felt I’d made a mistake.

How it is now:

I do something.

Later, I realize I should’ve done it differently.

And that’s it.

Labeling it a "mistake" adds no meaning and changes nothing.
Without assigned meaning, the label "mistake" loses its power.

If mistakes don’t exist, nothing can be a mistake.
It can only turn out to be not what should’ve been chosen.

If mistakes don’t exist, the only difference between things is what actually is.
"Should" and "shouldn’t" differ only in that one is "should," the other "shouldn’t"—nothing more.
If I do what I "shouldn’t," it means nothing for me.
It’s not a mistake; it just means I did what I shouldn’t have.

Step 8: The Problem of Losing the Meaning to Improve Reality

Sometimes, I try to improve my Reality, but it globally worsens faster than I can fix it.
In those moments, it feels meaningless to keep trying.
I might want to start assigning meaning to Reality—just to stop improving it—because otherwise, without meaning, my efforts feel pointless.

Solution:
The meaning of improving Reality isn’t just in improving Reality—it’s in making my life better.
Sometimes, we get so caught up in fixing Reality that we forget why we’re doing it.
Conclusion:
Don’t assign meaning to Reality or what happens in it—at least as long as improving Reality makes my life better.

Step 9: The Problem of Losing the Meaning to Enjoy Joy

Sometimes, I feel like my joy is unwanted.
For example, when I’m in a group that dislikes me.
I assign meaning to this because I think:
"If I don’t, I’ll be happy around people who don’t want my happiness."

Solution:
Don’t assign meaning to whether others share my joy.
I rejoice not just for others—but for myself.

Final Synthesis

Reality and Choice are interconnected, but I am free.

Reality shapes Choice.

Choice shapes Reality.

I am not bound by either.

False meaning is the root of suffering.

It distorts perception.

It creates unnecessary pain.

It blinds me to what actually matters.

True freedom lies in:

Releasing false significance.

Accepting Reality as it is.

Acting without the burden of "mistakes."

Finding joy for its own sake.

The result?
A life where:

My Reality remains mine,

My Choice remains mine,

And I exist in a state of clarity, lightness, and beauty.

A Guide to Dissolving the "I"

1. The Interdependence of Reality and Choice

I begin by observing how my Choice and Reality are intertwined:

My Choice depends on Reality. Reality shapes what I decide next—it is the foundation for my actions. What is matters because it dictates what I do.

Reality depends on my Choice. My decisions, in turn, alter the reality around me. What I do reshapes what is.

But this leads me to a critical question:
What do I depend on?
What is important to me?
What holds meaning for me?
Here, I pause. Because the answer, I realize, is that nothing is inherently important to me—importance is something I invent.

2. The Illusion of Self-Importance

I propose a radical idea:
There is no pre-existing "important" for me. Importance is a fabrication, a story I tell myself. And if I stop creating it—if I refuse to assign value to anything—then I free myself from dependency.

This is the core of my experiment:
What if I stop manufacturing meaning?

3. The Futility of the "I"

When I am this "I", I ask myself:

Why create importance? What purpose does it serve?

Why create dependencies? They only chain me to suffering.

Why create meaning? It’s arbitrary—an illusion I cling to.

I push further:
4. Why create needs? They are self-imposed prisons.
5. Why create dissatisfaction? The present moment is enough, yet I reject it.
6. Why create the urge to fix dissatisfaction? It’s a loop of my own making.
7. Why create desires? They are hollow promises.
8. Why create goals? They are future-oriented distractions.
9. Why choose at all? Choice implies a chooser—and what if the chooser is a fiction?
10. Why act? Action assumes an actor. But who is acting?

Then, the ultimate question:
Why do I need any of this?

Why invent problems just to solve them? What’s the point?

I see no point. So I conclude: I want nothing. No goals, no desires, no movement. Just stillness—forever.

But here’s the paradox:
While "I" want nothing, my brain wants everything. It craves stimulation, joy, survival. It doesn’t care about "me". It operates independently, driven by biology, not philosophy.

This reveals a truth:
I am unnecessary to my brain.
In fact, "I" might be an obstacle—a noise in the system, disrupting the brain’s natural flow.

4. The Dissolution of the "I"

If I stop creating importance, stop assigning meaning to myself, what remains?
Only a word: "I".
But is this "I" real? Or is it a construct—a story I’ve been telling myself?

Perhaps I don’t exist at all.
What does exist?

Reality (the external world, unfiltered).

The brain (a biological machine making choices).

Its choices (actions driven by instinct, not by "me").

So I redefine myself:
I am the Brain. Not the "I".

5. Living as the Brain

When I identify as the Brain, the "I" becomes obsolete:

"I" wants nothing. It is a void. But I—the Brain—don’t need the "I". The "I" only brings suffering.

Why would I recreate the "I"? It’s like voluntarily shackling myself.

The desire to have an "I" is the desire to sabotage my own peace.

I establish new rules:

I can assign meaning to anything—except to the "I". Because meaning for the "I" is what creates the "I".

What’s the point of giving unreal value to a nonexistent "I"? It changes nothing in reality. It only distorts my perception and poisons my state of being.

Stick to real value. See the world as it is, unmediated by the "I".

6. The Final Liberation

The goal is clarity:

No fabricated meaning.

No escape from reality.

No "I" to color experience.

Just pure perception—the world as it is, the brain as it functions, and no ghost in the machine pretending to be in control.

Key Takeaways (In the Author’s Words)

"I" is a construct. It doesn’t exist outside of thought.

Meaning is invented. And invention is optional.

The brain operates without "me". The "I" is redundant—even harmful.

Freedom lies in dissolution. Not in becoming someone, but in uncovering that there is no one to begin with.

Final Question:
If I stop being "I", what remains?
The answer: Everything—and nothing.

1. The Illusion of Words as Reality

I realize that words do not describe reality. The reality they claim to depict has no actual connection to true reality—it is only vaguely similar. Words are merely a tool for communication, nothing more.

Imagine words as a paintbrush, and the reality they create as a painting. An apple is the real thing; the painting is not the apple. No matter how lifelike, the painting will never be the apple. For words to become reality, one would have to be a god—capable of materializing the world through speech alone.

When I say "words describe reality," I must correct myself: they do not. They describe only something resembling reality, but that resemblance is not reality itself. Words define their own meanings, leaving everything else undescribed, unspoken, and unseen.

2. The Distortion of Perceived Reality

Too often, the reality constructed from words—if mistaken for the actual reality—evokes fear, anger, or despair. It makes me resist living in such a world or compels me to change it desperately. Why does this happen?

Because:

There are countless fabricated, distorted words that bear no relation to truth.

No description of reality is ever complete. Omissions can make reality seem worse than it is.

Why even look at this warped, verbal "reality"?
If I want to understand what is real, I should look around me—not at the incomplete, biased sketches in my mind. The fullest picture of reality exists outside my head, not in the fragmented imaginings within it.

The only purpose of describing reality with words is communication—to align my words with the mental images they conjure in others, adjusting my speech accordingly. For myself, constructing a verbal reality is useless. I already perceive the world directly; why mediate it through language?

3. The Core Truth: Words ≠ Reality

Key insights:

Words do not describe reality. Reality cannot be captured in words, just as a painting cannot be an apple.

A description of reality is not reality. It remains forever a description—nothing more.

I must not confuse the mental sketch of reality with reality itself. If I need to know what is happening, I must observe reality, not its verbal shadow.

Words describe only their own meanings, not the world.
Reality is translated into words → words create images → but these images relate only to the words, not to reality.

There is no such thing as a "description of reality."
I must stop treating the verbal construct in my mind as if it mirrors the world. If I want to act wisely, I must look at reality itself, not its incomplete, distorted reflection.

4. The Danger of Mistaking Words for Truth

The problem arises when I:

Assume the words floating in my mind describe reality (they don’t—they describe only their own meanings).

Let this assumption dictate my emotional state (fear, anger, despair), because the "reality" my words paint is often grim.

Why?
Because most words are childish fabrications—false conclusions, perceptual errors, inherited distortions. They are not real, yet I grant them power over me.

Others’ words are the same:

They do not describe reality.

They describe only their own meanings, not truth.

Words themselves have no inherent reality, but the meanings I assign them do. This is the paradox:

Words are empty.

The meanings I give them shape my experience.

5. The Nature of "Error"

An error occurs when reality does not match the "reality" my words claim should exist.

But here’s the catch:

My words do not describe what reality is.

My words do not describe what reality should be.

They describe only their own meanings.

Thus, the very idea of a "should-be reality" is an illusion. There is no such description—only the meanings of words.

When my mind generates:

Words seeming to describe reality, or

Words seeming to describe how reality should be…
…and I believe these words reflect truth, I suffer.

No words—mine or others’—have real bearing on reality or its "should-be" state. They are only meanings.

6. The Path to Clarity: Rejecting False Attachments

Solution:

Do not assign unreal significance to words, thoughts, or mental images.

Do not stray from the real meaning of words (i.e., their definitions, not their implied truths).

Nothing in my mind—thoughts, fantasies, words, ideas—describes reality. They are not reality; they are only resemblance.

I must:

Stop treating my mental constructs as if they are reality.

Recognize that only reality itself holds meaning.

7. The Fear of Words—and Its Cure

My deepest fear?
That words might actually describe reality.

Why does this terrify me?
Because I state it as fact, yet have no proof. To escape fear, I must reframe it:
"It seems to me that words do not describe reality. They describe only their own meanings."

Current stance:
I see no reason to abandon this perspective unless proven wrong. Until then, changing my mind without evidence is irrational.

Yet, why do I still feel stress?

Because I doubt.

Because I hesitate.

Final realization:
Even the statement "words do not describe reality" is itself a description—not reality. It, too, is only a meaning.

Ultimate truth:

The description of reality is meaningless.

Only reality itself matters.

Final thought:
"It seems to me that words do not describe reality. They describe only their own meanings."
And even this is just another meaning—not the truth.

Closing Reflection

The author’s journey is one of disentangling perception from reality, recognizing that language—while useful—is a flawed lens. The liberation comes in seeing words as tools, not truths, and reality as the only valid reference.

A Reflection on Self-Created Needs and the Illusion of Purpose

1. The Fiction of the "Self" and Its Invented Desires

Why would I fabricate an imaginary "I"—a constructed identity—only to burden it with imaginary needs? What purpose does it serve to weave a false self, then demand it hunger for things that were never real to begin with? The very act feels like building a cage and then pretending the bars were always there.

2. The Paradox of Manufacturing Needs

Why must I create needs for myself? Needs don’t arise organically—they are crafted, like sculpting hollow spaces inside my own mind. I carve out absences, then call them "desires." But if I am the one wielding the chisel, why do I pretend the emptiness was inevitable?

3. The Alchemy of Suffering

Why would I conjure dissatisfaction—or neediness, or anger, or fear, or sorrow—and then claim these emotions found me? It’s as if I mix poisons in a vial, label them "life," and drink them willingly. The bitterness was my recipe. The thirst, my invention.

4. The Cycle of Closing the Self-Made Loop

Why invent the compulsion to satisfy the very needs I fabricated? I create a hunger, then obsess over feeding it. The act of "closing" a need implies it had an opening—but what if the gap was never there until I drew the circle?

5. The Obsession with Completion

Why fixate on closing as many needs as possible? I turn existence into a ledger, tallying checked boxes as if fulfillment were a score. But the list is infinite because I keep adding to it. The game is rigged—I am both player and dealer, ensuring I never truly win.

6. The Engine of Motivation

Why manufacture desire or stimulus to chase these closures? I dangle carrots before myself, then marvel at my own pursuit. The chase feels urgent, but the prize is a mirage—I painted it there to keep running. The stimulus is a whip I crack over my own back.

7. The Grand Illusion of Meaning

Why anchor my life’s purpose in this endless loop of need-and-satisfaction? I declare: "The meaning of life is to close my needs." But if the needs are my creation, then the meaning is a house of cards. Pull one away, and the whole structure—my "purpose"—collapses into absurdity.

The Unspoken Question Beneath It All

If I stop creating needs… if I stop chasing the closures… what remains? Is there an "I" left when the hunger fades—or was the "I" just the hunger all along?

The Illusion of Guides and Truth

I realized something fundamental: there is no guide, and no guide can exist. Whatever I say will never be the truth. I cannot say anything meaningful about reality, observations, or even my own illusions. The observable world is not "true," and the imagined world is not "false." Words, images, and reality are independent things—none can be reliably linked to the others.

I see that I can perceive anything or nothing at all. I can be mistaken, live in illusion, believe or disbelieve, say anything—and none of it changes the fact that I cannot trust my observations or my words. There is no foundation to distinguish illusion from truth, belief from reality. What I see is my truth, and my truth is what I see.

The Freedom of Choosing a State

I understood that I must simply choose the best possible state from those available to me and live in it. Nothing I observe forbids me from existing in any state—dependent, independent, delusional, or fantastical. The only limit is which states I am capable of achieving. It doesn’t matter where a state comes from—whether from illusion, delusion, or fantasy—if it works, that’s enough. I can’t say what it’s "made of" anyway.

I spent a long time torn between two extremes:

A fully dependent state—strong desires, stress, emotions.

A fully independent state—no desires, no emotions, no interest in anything.

I couldn’t decide which was "correct" until I realized: there is no correct state. Logic doesn’t dictate what I should choose. So I asked myself: Which do I prefer? And then I saw a third option—to feel everything but without emotions.

The Absence of Emotions

How did I separate desire from emotion? Before, I was convinced they had to be linked. But when I saw reality differently, I understood that all my ideas about understanding the world through words or observations were meaningless. Nothing can be understood. So I just picked a state and lived in it.

The fact that I see the world this way prevents emotions from arising. I don’t know why—perhaps the realization that truth doesn’t exist stops emotional thoughts from forming. A thought is supposed to be some "truth" about the world, but I saw that truth doesn’t exist. Reality shifts, and whatever I observe is no more "true" than anything else.

The Uselessness of Self-Analysis

I realized: there’s no point in digging into my mind to understand my state, life, or meaning. I should just choose the best state I like and live in it without overthinking. Self-analysis leads to nothing but emptiness. It’s a trap—endless digging for something that isn’t there, which only brings depression and apathy.

People divide into two groups:

Those who don’t self-analyze—they live, enjoy life, are always in a good mood, calm, successful.

Those who do—they fall into the illusion that something can be found, dig endlessly for what isn’t there, and sink into despair.

I’m glad I didn’t kill myself over this.

Documentation vs. Reality

I woke up after writing all this and felt bad because of thoughts about meaninglessness. To fix my mood, I had to kill the idea that everything is meaningless. But how?

I thought: Documentation exists. Everything I wrote isn’t truth, a guide, or something to believe in—it’s documentation of observations. It’s not what I see, but it’s the correct documentation. There’s also incorrect documentation, like "I can say some truth," but I don’t actually see that. The key is to see the correct documentation in my mind—it doesn’t need to be anything more than that. Correct documentation kills all incorrect thoughts.

But then I lost my desires. Desires come from thoughts, and I had killed all thoughts with my documentation. I needed to bring back my dependencies—not by believing in words, but by remembering them, allowing myself to think about them, and realizing nothing forbids their existence.

Living Without Documentation in the Mind

I understood that documentation in my head changes what I see. If I remove all documentation, the default one from memory takes over—full of stress. If I add new documentation, it might kill all feelings. The solution? Keep documentation on paper, not in my head.

Documentation on paper = Notes I can refer to if I forget.

Documentation in my head = Words that change what I see, often for the worse.

I don’t need to constantly document my reality in my mind. I just need to remember what I saw, not what I wrote. Words on paper are not what I see, but they can help me recall what I saw if I forget.

The Final State: No Documentation, Only Observation

I tested this further and realized:

I must not even remember documentation in my head—only what I saw.

Documentation is only for recalling observations, not for defining reality.

The best state is one where I see reality without any documentation—no words, no subtitles, just pure perception.

If I try to document my state, I lose it. The state without documentation is like a quantum superposition—I can be in all states at once and choose which one I want. But the moment I try to define it, it collapses into something concrete (and usually worse).

Conclusion: The Art of Not Knowing

Truth doesn’t exist—neither in words nor in observations.

All states are equally valid—illusion, reality, delusion, fantasy. None is more "real" than another.

The best approach is to choose the most enjoyable state and live in it without questioning its origin.

Documentation is only for memory—write it down, but don’t let it define your perception.

Self-analysis is useless—it leads to emptiness. The only meaningful thing is experiencing the state you want.

Final thought:
"I don’t want to believe. I want to know."
But now I know that nothing can be known. And that’s perfectly fine.

The Realization: Nothing Can Be Trusted

I begin by stating the core insight that shaped everything else: nothing can be trusted. Not observations, not words, not feelings—nothing.

Observations are unreliable: I see things, but I cannot know if what I see is reality or illusion, truth or falsehood. I cannot trust that my senses reflect anything real. The act of seeing itself is suspect.

Words are empty: If I cannot trust observations, then the words describing them—any description, any narrative—are also untrustworthy. A word like "tree" or "pain" is just a sound, a symbol. I cannot verify that it corresponds to anything true.

Feelings are illusions: Even my emotions—desire, joy, fear—are just internal observations. I cannot prove they are "real" in any meaningful sense. The thought "I want cake" is just a phrase; I have no way to confirm that the wanting itself is genuine.

The trap of language: Belief itself is a linguistic illusion. When I say "I believe X," I am not believing in X—I am believing in the words "I believe X." The belief is in the phrase, not the thing it claims to describe. This is the great deception: we think we believe in ideas, but we only believe in the words that describe them.

For years, I oscillated between two states:

Disbelief: Recognizing that nothing can be trusted, I would lose all motivation, all joy. Life became a hollow, mechanical existence. No pleasure, no desire—just emptiness.

Accidental belief: Despite knowing better, I would occasionally slip into believing some phrase—"I want to play this game," "This feeling is real," "Life has meaning." For a while, this belief would restore my motivation, my happiness. But inevitably, I would remember the truth—that belief is baseless—and the cycle would repeat.

The problem was this: belief feels good. It gives motivation, pleasure, a sense of purpose. Without it, life is a gray void. But belief is also a lie. So how do I reconcile the two?

The False Solution: Trying to Believe in Everything

At one point, I thought: What if the answer is to believe in everything? Not in a selective way, but universally—trust all observations, all feelings, all words. I tried it.

I told myself: "I believe in everything."

For a moment, it worked. I felt alive again. But then I realized: I wasn’t believing in "everything"—I was believing in the phrase "I believe in everything." The belief was still just words.

The moment I examined it—"Why do I believe this?"—the belief collapsed. There was no foundation. It was another illusion.

This taught me a critical lesson: all belief is belief in language. Even when we think we believe in an idea, a feeling, or a perception, we are only believing in the words that describe it. And words, by themselves, are meaningless.

The Breakthrough: Imagination Without Belief

After years of struggling, I discovered a way to experience joy, motivation, and fulfillment without belief. The key was imagination.

Here’s how it works:

Acknowledge the truth: I see that nothing can be trusted—not observations, not words, not feelings. This is not a belief; it is an observation about observation itself. I don’t need to believe it; I simply see it.

Use imagination: Instead of trying to believe in something (which is impossible, because belief is a lie), I imagine a state of well-being.

I picture a person who is calm, happy, at ease—perhaps a YouTuber smiling, relaxed, content.

I copy that state. Not by telling myself "I am happy" (that would be a belief in words), but by directly imagining the feeling—the physical sensation of a slight smile, the lightness in the chest, the ease of movement.

This is not belief. It is pure imagination, unmediated by language.

The result?

I feel good.

I am motivated—not by desire (which requires belief in words like "I want"), but by a quiet, effortless impulse to act.

I experience pleasure—not because I believe "this is enjoyable," but because the imagination itself is pleasurable.

Crucial distinction:

Belief = "I tell myself ‘I am happy’ and try to convince myself it’s true." (This leads to stress, because the mind resists falsehoods.)

Imagination = "I picture happiness and let my body mimic it." (No resistance, no stress—just a natural shift in state.)

The Pitfalls: When Language Creeps Back In

The system works perfectly—until I start describing it.

Here’s what happens when I try to put this into words:

The description becomes a mental object: As soon as I formulate "I am in a state of imagination without belief," my mind treats this as a thing to believe or disbelieve.

The mind demands resolution: It asks: "Is this description true? Should I believe it? What does it mean?"

This creates stress, because the mind cannot resolve the paradox: "I see that nothing can be trusted, but here I am, describing a state that feels trustworthy."

Psychosomatic pain: For me, this stress manifests as a sharp pain in my left eye—a physical signal that my mind is straining against an unsolvable problem.

The state collapses: The moment I focus on the words (trying to understand, validate, or believe them), the imagined well-being vanishes. I’m back in the void.

The solution:

Do not hold descriptions in the mind. Words are tools for communication, not objects of focus.

Speak or write, then release. If I must describe this state (e.g., to share it with others), I do so without attaching to the words. I say them, then let them go—like subtitles in a movie I’m not reading.

Never "realize" the meaning of words. The instant I ask "What does this sentence mean?" or "Is this true?", the pain returns. The mind cannot "realize" what has no foundation.

The Two Paths to the State

There are two ways to enter this state of imagination-without-belief:

Direct imagination:

Clear the mind of all descriptions, all words.

Imagine only two things:

The observation: "Nothing can be trusted."

The imagination: "I am copying the state of a happy person."

Hold these two things lightly, without analysis. The state arises naturally.

From emptiness to imagination:

Start in the "void" state—where nothing is trusted, nothing is felt.

From that emptiness, imagine a good mood.

Step into it, like changing clothes.

What to avoid:

Any focus on words. If I notice myself thinking "Am I doing this right?" or "What does ‘imagination’ mean?", I stop. Those questions pull me back into the trap of belief.

Any attempt to "understand". Understanding requires belief in concepts. This state is pre-conceptual.

Living Without Motivation (As We Know It)

In this state:

I do not "want" things in the usual sense. The phrase "I want X" is a belief in words, and I do not believe in words.

I still act. I play games, drink tea, walk outside—but not because I "want" to. I do these things because, in the moment, they seem interesting.

Pleasure is direct. When I drink tea, I enjoy the taste—not because I believe "this tea is delicious," but because the sensation itself is pleasant.

There is no "why". I do not ask "What is the point?" because that question assumes there should be a point—a belief. There is only the act and the imagination of ease.

Old motivation vs. new motivation:

Old (Belief-Based)

New (Imagination-Based)

"I want to win this game." (Stress when losing)

"I am playing this game." (No stress—just action)

"I desire this food." (Frustration if unmet)

"I am eating this food." (Pleasure without clinging)

"This has meaning." (Collapse when meaning fades)

"I am doing this." (No meaning needed)

The Final Insight: Belief Is the Only Way Back—and It’s a Trap

I know that the only way to regain the old, intense joys of belief is to start believing again. But:

I cannot believe on purpose. Belief only arises accidentally, when I forget the truth.

Even if I could, I would be choosing illusion. The old pleasures came with suffering—anger when desires were thwarted, fear when beliefs were challenged.

This new state is freer. There is no crash when "meaning" disappears, because there was no meaning to begin with. There is only the quiet hum of imagination.

The choice is clear:

Option 1: Cling to belief, suffer its highs and lows, and live in a cycle of illusion and disillusionment.

Option 2: Accept that nothing can be trusted, use imagination to craft a light and easy existence, and never be enslaved to words again.

I choose the second. It is not the path of ecstasy, but it is the path of peace.

How to Stay in the State

Keep the mind empty of descriptions. The instant a phrase like "I am happy" or "This is working" arises, notice it—and let it dissolve. Do not engage.

Focus only on:

The observation: "Nothing can be trusted."

The imagination: "I am copying a pleasant state."

If stress or eye pain appears: It means I am trying to "understand" or "believe" something. Stop. Return to pure imagination.

Act without "why". Do things because they present themselves, not because they "matter."

Closing Thoughts

This is not a philosophy. It is a practical method for living without the torment of belief.

I do not need to understand it.

I do not need to believe it.

I only need to do it: see the truth, imagine the state, and let go of the rest.

The moment I try to grasp it with words, it slips away. So I stop grasping.

And in that release, there is freedom.

Final Note:
If you read this and think, "This is profound" or "This is nonsense," you have already missed the point. The words are not the thing. Try it. Clear your mind, imagine ease, and see what happens.

The Guide to Detachment: Living Without Belief in Descriptions of Reality

1. The Problem with the Old Guide

I used to believe in a different approach—one where I realized I could live without faith, relying only on imagination and fantasy. I thought: "If nothing can be trusted, then I should live purely through imagination." And for a while, it worked. I felt good, even though there were problems. But the mistake was assuming that because imagination worked, it meant I should live that way.

The issue? The effect wore off. I lost the desire to stay in those fantasies, even though they no longer felt logical or consistent. For example, imagining happiness didn’t align with reality. I didn’t like it. The old guide broke.

2. The New Guide: Distraction from Reality’s Description

Now, I’ve returned to a state where I can’t believe in anything—not even imagination. But I discovered something: my brain can distract itself from reality’s description.

The Problem: If I focus on the description of reality (e.g., "nothing can be trusted"), my mood plummets. The world seems meaningless. I feel nothing, want nothing, see no point in anything.

The Solution: I can distract myself from this description. When I stop thinking about reality—when I stop analyzing what it is—my state improves.

How?

90% Fantasy: I retreat into imagination, losing myself in thoughts unrelated to reality.

10% Physical Sensations: I focus on what I see, hear, touch—concrete, tangible things.

In this state, I don’t think about reality at all. I feel good. I can play games, talk to family, and enjoy myself without overanalyzing.

But there’s a catch: In this state, I barely notice life. I might eat delicious cake and barely taste it because I’m lost in fantasy. But if I want to notice, I can shift focus—90% on sensations, 10% on background fantasy.

3. The Issue with Automatic Thoughts

Even in distraction, automatic thoughts arise—anger, sadness, fear. They appear because my subconscious still generates descriptions of reality (e.g., "I didn’t get what I wanted" or "I must do something").

Why? These thoughts are automatic descriptions of reality, and they trigger emotions.

The Fix: I must distract myself from them too. The moment I notice an automatic thought, I shift focus away. I don’t engage, don’t analyze—just let it pass.

Key Insight: These thoughts are just descriptions, not reality. Why focus on them if they’re not real?

4. The Hybrid Approach (And Why It Failed)

At first, I tried a hybrid method:

Use a partial description of reality—only disbelieving harmful thoughts (anger, sadness, fear).

Keep other thoughts (desires, observations) neutral.

But even this minimal focus on description made life feel meaningless. I realized: any focus on reality’s description—even a little—brings me back to the same problem.

5. The Breakthrough: Full Detachment

Then, I woke up one morning in a perfect state—fully detached from reality’s description. No automatic thoughts, no negativity. But when I started playing a game, the thoughts returned.

Why?

When I eat breakfast, I don’t think about reality—no thoughts arise.

When I play a game, I start thinking: "What does this mean? What’s the point?"—and the thoughts come back.

Solution: Never think about reality’s description. Not even for a second.

6. Why People Cling to Descriptions

Most people (including my past self) obsess over reality’s description because they believe it’s real. If you think the world is unfair, you’ll fixate on making it fair. But if you realize descriptions aren’t reality, you stop caring.

Depressed/Angry People: They believe their negative descriptions are real, so they suffer.

Happy People: They don’t care about descriptions—they just live.

7. The Final Guide: Living Without Descriptions

Core Principle: Never focus on any description of reality—good or bad.

What to Focus On Instead:

Fantasy (90%): Automatic, passive imagination.

Physical Sensations (10%): What I see, hear, touch—not the meaning of it.

What to Ignore:

Any description of reality (e.g., "This is unfair," "I failed," "I must do X").

Automatic thoughts—let them pass without engagement.

Result:

No stress, anger, or sadness.

No dependency on "meaning" or "truth."

Freedom to act without overthinking.

8. Testing the Guide

I tested this in gaming:

Before: Automatic thoughts ("Someone ruined my game") caused anger.

Now: I ignore the thought. I don’t describe what happened—I just keep playing.

Outcome: Almost no anger. The same applies to work, socializing, everything.

9. The Paradox of Joy

In this state, I don’t feel the same joy as before—when I believed in descriptions ("I got what I wanted!"). But I feel a different kind of joy:

Physical pleasure (e.g., good food, fun activities).

Psychological calm—no highs or lows, just steady contentment.

10. Why This Works

No Belief in Descriptions: I don’t trust any mental narrative, so none can control me.

No Automatic Thoughts: They vanish because I don’t engage.

No Fear of Reality: If reality is meaningless, but descriptions aren’t real, why fear anything?

11. Final Thoughts

This state feels like being 15 again—when I didn’t care about reality’s meaning. I just did what I wanted.

The only difference now? I know why it works.

Summary in One Sentence:

"Live in fantasy and sensation, never in descriptions—because descriptions are not reality, and reality doesn’t need to be understood to be enjoyed."

The Problem: How Words Distort Reality

I was writing a guide—recording my observations, my state of mind, my experiences—and something unsettling happened. After spending an hour and a half pouring words onto the page, I realized that the way I imagined those words, the way I pictured their meaning, was shaping the reality I believed I lived in. The "reality" I constructed from the value of those words was unpleasant, even unbearable. I didn’t want to live in it.

The issue was this: I couldn’t stop thinking about the guide. I couldn’t distract myself from it because, in my mind, the guide was the reality I had described. To distract myself would mean ignoring the fact that the reality I’d written about was terrible—and yet, I was still living in it. I was trapped in a loop: the more I tried to escape the meaning of the words, the more I fixated on them.

The Mechanism: How Words Work

Here’s how the cycle unfolds:

Observation → Words
I look at something—my thoughts, my surroundings, my state—and words form in my mind like subtitles, automatically translating what I see. I don’t even look at these words; they just appear, a running commentary.

Words → Memory → Imagination
Later, when I recall those words, I don’t remember the original observations. Instead, I imagine the meaning of the words themselves. My brain constructs a version of reality based on the interpretation of those words—not what they originally pointed to.

The error: I mistake the meaning of the words for the thing they described. For example, if I wrote "nothing can be trusted," I later imagine a world where trust is impossible—but that’s not what I saw. I saw a fleeting observation, not a universal truth. The meaning I assign is an invention, a secondary layer.

The Solution: Separating Words from Reality

1. Words Are Not Reality

I realized: the meaning of words is not the world I live in. Words are just pointers. They point to observations, but their meaning—the emotional weight, the story I attach—is separate. When I focus on the meaning, I’m not engaging with reality; I’m engaging with a fiction my mind creates.

Example: If I say "life is meaningless," the phrase itself is neutral. The despair comes when I imagine what "meaningless" feels like—but that imagination is not the observation. The observation was just a momentary thought, not a verdict on existence.

2. The Two Sides of Words

Every word, every description, has two aspects:

What it points to (the real observation, the raw experience).

Its imagined meaning (the emotional story I layer on top).

The fix: When I recall words, I must ask: What was I actually looking at when I wrote this? Not "What does this phrase mean to me now?" The first question grounds me in reality; the second traps me in interpretation.

3. The Uselessness of Focusing on Words

Why focus on words at all? They’re just tools for communication or recording. Once they’ve served that purpose, clinging to them is like staring at a finger pointing at the moon instead of looking at the moon itself.

Physical reality is primary. Words are background noise. If I’m looking at the sun, why would I focus on the words "bright," "warm," or "blinding"? The experience is the sun itself.

Fantasy and imagination are also primary. If I’m daydreaming, why describe it? The description isn’t the dream.

The Practice: Full Detachment

1. How to Detach

Detachment isn’t about saying "I’ll stop thinking about words." That’s just more words. True detachment is:

Shifting focus to the physical: Sensations, sights, sounds—the raw input of experience.

Letting words exist without weight: They can be spoken or written, but they don’t need to be examined or felt.

Key insight: You can’t escape words by thinking about escaping them. You escape by doing—by redirecting attention to what’s real.

2. The State of Detachment

In this state:

Words are spoken but not heard in the mind. They’re like background chatter.

There’s no "guide" or "description" of reality because reality is being experienced directly.

Automatic thoughts (e.g., "Everything is hopeless") lose power because I recognize them as just more words—not truths, not observations, just noise.

Paradox: The moment I try to describe this detached state, I’m pulled back into words. The state itself is wordless.

3. Why It Works

Before, I couldn’t detach because I believed the meaning of my words was the reality I had to endure. Now, I see that the meaning is a fabrication. Reality is what I’m experiencing now—not the story I tell about it.

Old mindset: "I can’t stop thinking about the guide because it describes my terrible reality."

New mindset: "The guide is just words. My reality is what I’m seeing/feeling right now, which is neutral until I label it."

The Core Realization: Descriptions Are Useless

1. The Illusion of Usefulness

Why do I ever need a "description of reality"? For communication? Fine. For recording? Fine. But for living? No. Reality doesn’t need a narrative. I can act, feel, and exist without translating everything into words.

2. The Freedom of Ignoring Descriptions

When I stop caring about how reality is described, I stop being controlled by the descriptions. Bad thoughts? Just words. Good thoughts? Just words. The world keeps turning either way.

3. The Automatic Thought Trap

Even intrusive thoughts (e.g., "You’re worthless") are just descriptions. The mistake is treating them as observations. In reality:

They’re just words popping up.

Their "meaning" is irrelevant unless I choose to engage with it.

Solution: Notice them, then return focus to the physical or the imaginative—anything but the words.

Final Thought: Living Without the Guide

The guide I wrote—the one that troubled me—was just a collection of words pointing to moments. Those moments are gone. The words remain, but their power is an illusion.

Now, I ask myself:

Do I want to live in the meaning of words?

Or do I want to live in the world?

The answer is obvious. The world doesn’t need a guide. It just is.

Closing Reflection:
This isn’t about suppressing thoughts or forcing positivity. It’s about recognizing that words are tools, not prisons. Reality isn’t what we say it is; it’s what we experience—and that’s always changing, always neutral until we layer it with stories.

The practice? Look up from the page. The world is still there.

The Core Insight: Why We Feel Bad

The Root of Negative Emotions
Everything begins with a simple question: What creates bad feelings? Why do we feel unhappy? The answer lies in how our mind—our psyche—interprets the words we use to describe what we observe.

The world itself is neutral. It is neither good nor bad. It simply is. But we don’t experience the world directly. Instead, we observe it, then describe it with words. Our brain doesn’t understand raw reality—it only understands language. So we translate observations into text, into narratives, into internal monologues. And then we do something dangerous: we look at those words and try to imagine what they mean.

Here’s the trap: We don’t react to reality. We react to our own descriptions of reality.

If I describe my life as "I got what I wanted," and I believe that description, I feel happiness.

If I describe it as "I didn’t get what I wanted," and I believe that, I feel anger, sadness, or fear.

The problem isn’t the world. The problem is that we’re programmed to believe our descriptions are reality itself.

The Illusion of Belief: Why We Can’t Look Away

The Cycle of Suffering
I used to think the solution was distraction—just stop thinking about reality. But no matter how hard I tried, my mind kept dragging me back to the same place: the meaning of my descriptions. Why?

Because I believed them.

I believed that my description of reality—no matter how accurate—was reality. And because I believed it, I couldn’t ignore it. My brain treated it like truth, like something I had to pay attention to.

The Cognitive Distortion
Here’s the flaw in our thinking:

I observe something.

I describe it (e.g., "My life is miserable").

I check if the description is accurate—does it match my observations? Yes.

Then I assume: "Because it’s accurate, it must be real."

But accuracy ≠ reality. My observations could be illusions. My descriptions could be wrong. Even if they’re perfectly accurate, they’re still just words—not reality itself.

Once I realized this, everything changed. I stopped believing in my descriptions. And when I stopped believing, I stopped suffering.

The Paradox: A Terrible World, a Wonderful Life

The Two Layers of Experience

Raw Observation – Neutral. Just data. A sunset, a sound, a physical sensation.

Description + Meaning – The story I tell myself about that data. "This sunset is beautiful" (joy) or "This sunset reminds me of my loneliness" (sadness).

The world, when described, is often terrible. Full of loss, injustice, unmet desires—things that trigger anger, fear, despair. But here’s the paradox:

If I don’t believe the description, the world’s terribleness doesn’t affect me.

I can still see that the world is harsh.

I can still describe it accurately.

But I don’t feel it, because I don’t believe the description is real.

Result? My life becomes wonderful—not because the world changed, but because I stopped letting its description control me.

The Technique: How to Stop Believing

Step 1: Recognize the Trap
Every time I feel bad, I ask:

What description am I believing right now?

Do I have proof this description is reality?

The answer is always no. There’s no proof. So why believe it?

Step 2: Shift Focus
Instead of obsessing over descriptions, I focus on:

Raw observations – The physical world. The taste of tea. The warmth of sunlight.

Fantasy – Imagining whatever I want, without believing it’s real.

Key Rule: Never represent the meaning of a description in my mind. Never let words trigger emotions.

Example:

Old habit: "I failed. This means I’m worthless." → Spiral into shame.

New habit: "I observe that I failed. But ‘failure’ is just a word. I don’t need to believe it means anything."

The Problem with Fantasies (and How to Fix It)

The Hidden Danger
At first, I thought fantasies were safe—until I realized I could believe them too.

If I fantasize "I want to win this game," and then believe that fantasy, I create desire.

If I lose, the belief ("I failed to get what I wanted") triggers pain.

Solution: Fantasy without belief.

I can imagine winning.

I can enjoy the idea of winning.

But I never treat the fantasy as real.

Result? No suffering when reality doesn’t match the fantasy.

Automatic Thoughts: The Brain’s Betrayal

What Are Automatic Thoughts?
They’re the brain’s instant, unconscious descriptions of reality—usually negative. "I’m going to fail. No one likes me. This is hopeless."

Why They Hurt
Because I automatically believe them. The brain presents them as truth, and I react emotionally.

How to Disarm Them

Notice them. "Oh, there’s a thought saying I’m worthless."

Refuse to believe. "This is just a description, not reality."

Redirect focus. Back to observations or neutral fantasies.

Outcome: The thoughts lose power. They still appear, but they don’t stick.

The Ultimate Freedom: Living Without Belief

What Happens When You Stop Believing Descriptions?

No more suffering from "bad" reality. Because you don’t treat descriptions as real.

No more fear of "good" reality not lasting. Because you’re not dependent on it.

Pure enjoyment of the present. Physical sensations, fantasies, curiosity—without the emotional rollercoaster.

What You Lose (And Why It Doesn’t Matter)

Joy from "positive" descriptions? Gone. But so is despair from "negative" ones.

Motivation from desire? Replaced by action without attachment. I still act—I just don’t suffer if the outcome isn’t what I imagined.

What You Gain

Constant, stable well-being. No highs or lows—just steady, quiet happiness.

Freedom from the mind’s stories. No more being a slave to narratives.

True pleasure. From physical experiences (a warm bath, a beautiful view) and chosen fantasies (daydreaming about success, love, adventure).

Final Thought: The Only Thing That Matters

The World Is Neutral. Your Descriptions Are Optional.

You can’t change the world.

You can’t change how your psyche reacts to certain descriptions.

But you can choose not to believe in any of it.

The Secret to a Good Life?

Observe without judgment.

Fantasy without belief.

Act without attachment.

And never, ever confuse a description with reality.

Closing Reflection

This isn’t about suppressing emotions or forcing positivity. It’s about seeing the mechanism—how the mind manufactures suffering—and stepping out of it.

The world may always be "terrible" when described. But life? Life can be wonderful, if you stop believing the story.

The Guide, Belief, and the Trap of Words

A Reflection on Reality, Fantasy, and the Neutral State

1. The Paradox of the Guide

I wrote a guide—my observations, my state of mind, how things are wired in my head, what was and what is. While writing it, I didn’t fixate on the words themselves. I just recorded what I saw, how I felt. But later, when I revisited it, I started remembering the words. And when I looked at those words, I saw their meaning—the reality they painted.

And that reality? Unpleasant. The guide described a grim world, one I usually ignore or distract myself from. But now, staring at the words, I saw it clearly: This is the world I live in. And suddenly, it felt suffocating. I couldn’t unsee it.

The mistake? I had believed the guide. Not just as observations—but as truth. Because it was accurate, precise, a faithful reflection of what I’d seen. And if it’s accurate, shouldn’t I believe it? Shouldn’t I trust it?

But here’s the catch: Observations aren’t reality. They’re just observations—descriptions of something that isn’t even real to begin with. Believing them is like believing a mirror’s reflection is the actual face. The guide was never meant to be lived in. It was meant to be understood, then left behind.

2. The Cycle of Belief and Suffering

At first, believing the guide felt good. I thought: "This means so much! So many possibilities!" The belief itself gave me a rush—a false happiness, built on the idea that the guide’s meaning was real and important. I was high on my own words.

But then I went for a walk. And as I walked, I kept checking myself: Is this right? Is there a flaw in my reasoning? Something shifted. The high faded. I was left with just the guide’s content—the grim descriptions, the harsh observations. And now, because I believed them, I couldn’t escape them. I was stuck in a loop:

Belief → Focus on the words → Painful realization → Can’t distract myself → Suffering.

I realized: I’m not trapped by the guide. I’m trapped by believing it.

So I stopped. I let go. The guide became just words again—useful, but not true. And instantly, the suffering vanished. I could choose to think about it or not. I could choose to feel its weight or let it float away.

3. Fantasy vs. Focus: The Two Traps

When I believed the guide, I also started fantasizing—imagining how great everything would be, how happy I’d become. Fantasies felt good. They put a smile on my face. But then I played a game, and I noticed:

With fantasies, I was distracted. My focus was split between the game and my imaginary happiness. I played worse.

Without fantasies, I was fully present. No smile, no daydreams—just pure, sharp focus. And I played better. The physical thrill of skill replaced the hollow warmth of fantasy.

The lesson: Fantasies only work if you believe them. And belief is a double-edged sword. It can lift you up—or drag you into a cycle of wanting, frustration, and anger (because "wanting" is tied to anger, not sadness. Sadness comes from something else. Fear comes from "should." But that’s another story).

4. The Neutral State: Neither Belief Nor Fantasy

Now, I’m in a different state. I call it the neutral state:

No belief in the guide. I see it, but I don’t trust it.

No belief in fantasies. I don’t cling to imaginary happiness.

No forced focus. I’m not obsessed with observations or distractions. I just am.

What’s it like?

Physically: Like every cell in my brain is in a jacuzzi—relaxed, but sharp. Not sluggish. Just… at ease.

Emotionally: No highs, no lows. No constant smile, but I can smile if I want to. No urgency, no "must-do" pressure.

Mentally: I’m not pulled toward fantasies or repelled by reality. I can focus if I choose to, but I’m not compelled to.

The trade-off:

Less "high." The euphoria of belief is gone. But so is the crash.

More stability. This state feels fundamental. Not something I have to maintain with effort—just a natural baseline.

Less attachment. I can look at the guide, at reality, at fantasies, and none of them stick. I’m not hooked.

The downside?

Less "fun." The intense joy of belief is absent. But the constant chase for that joy is also gone.

Less motivation? Maybe. But motivation built on fantasy is fragile. This is quieter—but steadier.

5. Testing the State

I haven’t fully tested this in games yet, but I predict:

I’ll play well (no distractions).

I won’t care about losing (no emotional spikes).

I won’t be high on winning (no fantasy-fueled euphoria).

But I’ll be present. And that’s enough.

6. The Core Realization

The guide was never the problem. The problem was believing it—treating a description as if it were the territory. The same goes for fantasies, for observations, for any mental construct.

The solution?

Use the guide. Understand it. Then drop it.

Avoid fantasy traps. They’re just words, too.

Stay neutral. Not numb—just free from the compulsion to believe or reject.

This isn’t the happiest state. But it’s the most honest. And after cycling through belief and suffering, honesty feels like relief.

Final Thought

I woke up in this state today. Then I wrote the guide, believed it, suffered, and returned here. The cycle is clear:

Neutrality → 2. Belief → 3. Suffering → 4. Release → Back to 1.

The goal isn’t to avoid the cycle forever. It’s to recognize it—and choose neutrality when the time comes.

Now, I’ll go test this in a game. Because theory is one thing. Experience is another.

The State of the "Grandfather" and the Problem of Detachment

I begin by describing the aftermath of testing my latest guide—a guide that, unlike previous ones, doesn’t rely on distractions, fantasies, or any particular techniques. Instead, it’s a raw, precise description of reality as I observe it. The problem? This guide, and the state it induces, leaves me feeling like an old man—what I call the "state of the grandfather."

In this state, I sit motionless, staring into the distance, devoid of suffering but also devoid of joy, motivation, or any real engagement with life. It’s as if I’ve already lived my entire existence, even though my life is still ahead of me. There’s no pain, but there’s no pleasure either—just a hollow, indifferent presence. I don’t want to bring others into this state. It’s not suffering, but it’s not living either.

The Realization: The Guide Itself Is the Problem

I ask myself: What can I do with this? And the answer comes: I must detach from the guide itself.

At first, I try to distract myself from the guide’s description of reality, but it pulls me back. Then I realize—I’m not distracting myself at all. I’m forgetting that I must also detach from the guide as an object. The guide is a precise description of reality, but once I’ve written it, I no longer need to think about it. Ever.

The guide is useless to me. It doesn’t intersect with my life in any meaningful way. I don’t need to know my own representation of reality—I don’t need to focus on it, write about it, or even remember it. The act of writing it was enough. Now, I must forget it entirely.

The Core Insight: Detachment as a Skill, Not a Belief

This isn’t about believing the guide is "real" or "unreal." It’s about applying the ability to detach—not by analyzing words, not by assigning meaning, but by simply choosing to stop engaging with them.

I recall my earlier guides:

The first was about living in fantasies—not believing in anything, just immersing myself in imagination.

The second was about detachment, but back then, I used it because I believed I had to. Now, I use it because I can.

The difference? Before, I thought the guide was reality, so detaching felt impossible—like trying to escape reality itself. Now, I know the guide is just a description, not reality. And because I don’t believe it’s real, detaching becomes effortless.

The Pure State: Beyond Words, Beyond Descriptions

When I fully detach, I enter a pure, childlike state—not a literal child, but a mind unburdened by descriptions. It’s as if I’ve never created a single definition of reality. There are no words, no narratives, just raw observation and instinctive feeling.

In this state:

I want everything—not in a greedy way, but with a natural, unfiltered motivation.

There’s no need to describe what I feel; I feel first, describe later (if at all).

Fantasies don’t dominate me; they’re just automatic, fleeting reactions.

Most importantly, there are no words between me and the world. I don’t translate experience into language—I just experience.

This state is unique, pleasant, and energizing. It’s not the hollow calm of the "grandfather" but the vibrant aliveness of someone fully present.

The Trap of Automatic Thoughts

Even in detachment, my brain sometimes snaps back—spontaneous thoughts drag me into old descriptions, usually negative or fearful. But I’ve learned to apply detachment to these thoughts too.

How? By recognizing that:

These thoughts are not reality—they’re just words, empty constructs.

They have no power unless I choose to engage with them.

The moment I stop believing in their significance, they dissolve.

Why Detachment Works: The Illusion of Words

I suspect that words ruin everything. We’re born with pure perception, but language layers meaning onto experience—often negative meaning. We stop living in reality and start living in our descriptions of reality, reacting to the stories we tell ourselves rather than the world itself.

But feelings exist without words. Babies feel before they speak. Animals feel without language. So why do we let words dictate our emotions?

The Final Test: Detachment in Action (Gaming Example)

I tested the "grandfather" state while gaming:

Mistake: I told myself, "I want to play well." This created expectation, and when I failed, I felt bad.

Solution: I stayed in detachment—no goals, no narratives, just action. I played neither better nor worse, but I felt nothing—no joy in winning, no frustration in losing.

This confirmed: the "grandfather" state is neutral but empty. It’s not suffering, but it’s not fulfillment either.

The pure detached state, however—where I forget all guides, all descriptions—is different. There, I’m fully alive, motivated, and present.

The Conclusion: Choosing the State of Being

There is no "true" reality or unreality. There’s only the choice of how to live:

Option 1: Live in descriptions—constantly translating experience into words, reacting to meanings, often suffering.

Option 2: Live in pure observation—feeling without mediation, acting without narrative, existing without the weight of definitions.

I choose the second. Not because it’s "right," but because it feels better. It’s lighter. It’s real in a way words can never be.

And if I ever write another guide? I’ll have to forget it too.

Final Note: The Paradox of Describing Detachment

The moment I describe this state, I leave it. Words pull me back into the world of meanings. But that’s okay—I can always return to silence.

And that’s the point: the guide was never the destination. The destination is the absence of all guides.

The Trap of Meaningless Descriptions

I was recording an update, and as I wrote the previous guide, I found myself lost in thought about reality. A phrase came to mind—"nothing means anything"—and it stuck with me. I don’t remember the exact wording, but the essence was this: the guide I’d written, the descriptions I’d created, they meant nothing. Not in the sense that they were worthless, but that I couldn’t believe they meant anything. The description itself was just that—a description, detached from reality.

And yet, I became immersed in it. I started imagining that this description had meaning, that it defined my reality. But the foundation of that reality felt hollow, almost absurd. I realized I was trapped in a cycle where I couldn’t distract myself from this thought. Normally, I could shift into what I call the "Grandfather State"—a detached, neutral mindset—but this time, I was stuck. The more I tried to escape, the deeper I sank.

The Mechanism of Escape: Recognizing Belief

How did I break free? The key was understanding what was happening to me.

First, I had to see the description for what it was.

There was this idea: "Nothing means anything."

I noticed that when I believed in this description—as if it were true—it affected me. It put me in a bad mood. It weighed on me.

If I didn’t truly believe it, why would it bother me?

Conclusion: I did believe it. I had accepted it as reality.

Then, I had to realize I had no basis for that belief.

Why should I trust that "nothing means anything" is an objective truth?

Belief, in this context, isn’t about faith—it’s about treating a description as if it’s real. And I was doing exactly that.

Finally, I had to stop believing it.

Not by forcing myself, but by seeing that belief was the problem.

Descriptions can exist. Words can be written. But believing them—as if they’re absolute—is what traps you.

So I stopped. I let go of the idea that the description meant anything beyond itself.

The Shift: From Belief to Observation

Once I stopped believing in the description, everything changed.

The "Grandfather State" emerged naturally.

In this state, I see descriptions, but I don’t cling to them.

I don’t believe in them as reality. I just observe.

There’s no attachment, no emotional charge—just neutral awareness.

From there, detachment deepens.

First, I let go of descriptions about "what reality is."

Then, I let go of guides, words, all mental constructs.

What remains? Pure sensation. Pure observation. A state beyond language.

The Core Principle: Descriptions Govern State

This whole process revealed a pattern:

Something happens. I feel off, stuck, or anxious.

I try to understand it. I describe what’s happening—not as a story, but as an observation.

"I’m believing this description is real."

"This belief is making me feel this way."

The description itself becomes the lever for change.

By writing it down, I see it. And seeing it weakens its grip.

Belief dissolves. Once I realize I’m treating a description as reality—and that I don’t have to—the state shifts.

Freedom comes from non-belief.

Not disbelief, but non-attachment to any description.

From there, I can move into deeper detachment—the "Grandfather State"—and eventually, pure presence.

Testing the Method

This isn’t just theory. It’s a mechanism I can test:

When stuck: Identify the description I’m believing in.

Ask: Is this real, or just a description?

Release the belief. Not by fighting it, but by seeing it as optional.

Observe the shift. The state changes automatically.

There’s no other way. The brain doesn’t work differently—this is how it must work. Descriptions shape experience, but only if you believe them. Stop believing, and you’re free.

Final Note: The Path Forward

Now, I’ll test this. Again and again.
Because the only way out is through—
through seeing, describing, and unbelieving.

Key Takeaway:
The problem isn’t the description. It’s the belief that the description is reality. Stop believing, and the trap disappears.

The Paradox of Belief and Distraction: A Self-Observation

1. The Initial Problem: Trapped in the Guide

I spent a long time writing a guide—recording my observations, structuring my thoughts. Then I went to test it. And once again, I hit the same wall: I couldn’t distract myself. Every time I tried to step back, to detach from the content, I was immediately pulled back—not just to the guide itself, but to its description. It was as if the act of writing had created a reality I couldn’t escape.

Why? Because I had written the guide, and in writing it, I had convinced myself it was true. The logic was flawless in my mind: "If the guide is correct, then its description of reality must also be correct." And so, I believed it. I mistook the map for the territory. The guide wasn’t just words on a page—it had become my perceived reality. And because that reality felt unpleasant (the meaning of those words was heavy, oppressive), I was stuck in a loop: unable to distract myself from something I had chosen to believe was real.

The breakthrough came when I realized: I had to stop believing in the guide. Not just doubt it, but actively disbelieve it—only then could I detach from its grip.

2. The Layers of Distraction: From Meaning to Words to Nothingness

I started to see this as a hierarchy of detachment, like levels in a game. Each layer requires mastering the one before it.

Level 0 (The Grandfather Level): The Illusion of Reality
At the deepest level, I’m fully immersed in the guide’s meaning. I don’t just read the words—I live them. The descriptions, the observations, the conclusions: they are reality to me. This is the most suffocating state because the meaning of the words dictates my mood. If the guide’s implications are bleak, I feel bleak. Distraction is impossible here—I’m trapped in the narrative I’ve created.

The only way out? Realizing it’s not real. The guide is just a description, not the thing itself. Once I accept that, I can step back from the meaning—but I’m still stuck with the words.

Level 1: Detaching from Meaning, But Not the Words
Now I can see the words without being consumed by their meaning. I’m no longer drowning in the emotions or implications of the guide. I can look at it clinically, like a scientist observing data. "Ah, here’s a sentence. Here’s another. Interesting." But the words themselves still exist—they’re still there, taking up space in my mind.

This is better, but not enough. The presence of the words is still a weight. It’s like staring at a wall of text: even if you don’t believe it, the wall is still there, blocking your view.

Level 2: Detaching from the Words Themselves
The next step is to forget the words entirely. Not just their meaning, but the words as objects. To see the world without language—as if the guide, the observations, the entire mental construct never existed.

This is the hardest part. It’s not about ignoring the words; it’s about erasing them from perception. Like waking up from a dream where you’d been reading a book, and suddenly the book is gone—no pages, no ink, no memory of it. Just direct experience, unmediated by symbols.

I haven’t mastered this yet. When I tried testing it, I lost the state immediately because I slipped back into belief—"But the guide is real! I just wrote it!"—and the cycle repeated.

3. The Recursive Trap: Writing a Guide About Detaching from Guides

Here’s the irony: I’m writing another guide right now. And as I write, I know that to test my own theory, I’ll have to detach from this very guide.

But how? The act of writing reinforces belief. The words feel true in the moment. So the solution must be:

Do not believe what I’m saying. Not in a self-defeating way, but as a discipline. Treat every sentence as a temporary scaffold, not a foundation.

Distract myself from the distraction. If the goal is to escape the guide’s meaning, then the guide about escaping is just another layer to escape from.

It’s a recursive loop:

I write a guide to understand reality.

The guide becomes my reality.

I write a guide to escape the first guide.

The second guide becomes my new reality.
…and so on.

The only exit is to stop believing entirely. To hold the words lightly, like sand—ready to let them slip through my fingers at any moment.

4. The Test Ahead

Now, I’ll test this again. I’ll try to:

Write the guide (as I’m doing now).

Immediately detach—first from its meaning, then from the words themselves.

Observe what remains when the guide is gone.

Will it work? I don’t know. The last attempt failed because I re-invested belief too quickly. But perhaps this time, by anticipating the trap, I can step around it.

Final Thought: The Guide as a Mirror

Maybe the real lesson is this: Any guide is a cage if you live inside it. The words are tools, not homes. The moment you move in, you’re stuck. The skill, then, is to use the guide without inhabiting it—to read the map, then look up at the sky.

Now, I’ll go test that.

The Problem with the Old Guide

I used to have a guide—a method, a way of being—that worked for a while. But then it stopped. Why? Because it was built on a lie. The old guide relied on the idea that I was in a bad state because I believed in some description of reality. That wasn’t true. The real state was simpler, rawer: a state in which I believe in nothing at all.

Not "I believe that nothing is real" or "I believe in nihilism"—no. Those are still beliefs, still descriptions. The state I’m talking about is the absence of belief itself. There are no words in my head. No descriptions I trust. No meanings I cling to. Just… nothing. No faith in fantasies, no trust in observations, no attachment to any narrative. Even the thought "I believe in nothing" is a description, and I don’t believe in that either.

I used to think this state was unbearable. I’d try to escape it by forcing myself to believe in something—anything—but I couldn’t. Belief doesn’t work like that. You can’t decide to believe. So I’d get stuck in this void: no emotions, no distractions, no fantasies (because why fantasize if you don’t believe in the fantasy?), and no way out.

The old guide failed because it assumed I was trapped in a bad state because of some hidden belief. But there was no belief. There was just the default state: no words, no descriptions, no faith. And from that state, there was nowhere to run.

The Illusion of Escape

I tried everything to escape:

Fantasy – But fantasies require belief. If I don’t believe in the fantasy, my mind rejects it and throws me back into reality.

Distraction – Distraction only works if there’s something to distract from. But in this state, there’s nothing to distract from—no descriptions, no beliefs, no narratives clinging to my mind.

False Descriptions – I’d invent a belief ("I’m in this state because I secretly believe X") and then "distract" myself from it. But it was all made up. The moment I realized the description was fake, the whole structure collapsed, and I’d return to the default state.

The core issue: You can’t escape from nothing. If there’s no description in your head, there’s nothing to run from. And if you invent a description just to have something to escape from, you’re building a house of cards.

The Realization: Living Without Description

Then I had a breakthrough. Instead of trying to escape, I asked: What if this state isn’t bad? What if it’s just… reality?

Reality isn’t a description. Descriptions are just words—sounds, symbols. They don’t mean anything inherent. The meaning we assign to them is a separate, imaginary layer.

Belief is optional. I don’t have to believe in any description, good or bad. I can just… observe. Not observe through words, but observe the raw experience.

Fantasy without belief is still possible. I can imagine things, daydream, let my mind wander—but I don’t have to believe in those imaginings. They can just… be. Like clouds passing by.

The key shift:

Before: I’d observe reality, then immediately translate it into words ("This is meaningless," "This is painful"), and those words would dictate my emotions.

Now: I observe reality without the translation. The words don’t stick. The descriptions don’t form. I just… see, and feel nothing in particular—neither good nor bad.

This isn’t nihilism. It’s pre-verbal existence. Like a child before language, or an animal in the wild. There’s no narrative, no judgment, just… being.

How to Stay in This State

The old guides failed because they still relied on thinking about descriptions, even if only to reject them. The new approach is simpler:

Stop creating descriptions. Don’t label, don’t narrate, don’t explain. The moment you think "This is X," you’re back in the trap.

Don’t try to escape. The default state isn’t a prison—it’s the absence of prison. There’s nothing to run from.

Let fantasies come and go—without belief. Imagine, daydream, but don’t cling to the imaginings. They’re just mental movements, like leaves in the wind.

Focus on raw observation. Look at the world, but don’t describe it to yourself. Don’t ask "What does this mean?" There is no meaning. There’s just… this.

The mistake I always made before was trying to replace a bad description with a good one. But any description—even a "positive" one—is still a cage. The freedom is in having no description at all.

What This State Feels Like

Neutral, but not empty. It’s not depression or numbness. It’s more like… clarity. A quiet mind.

No emotional swings. Without descriptions to trigger them, emotions like sadness, anger, or joy don’t arise. There’s just… stillness.

Effortless. You’re not trying to not believe. You just… don’t. Like not holding your breath—you’re not doing anything, so there’s nothing to maintain.

Open to experience. Fantasies, daydreams, and observations can float through your mind, but they don’t stick. They don’t define you. You’re not invested in them.

It’s like floating in water: no struggle, no direction, just… being held.

The Paradox of the Guide

Here’s the irony: This guide is also a description. And if I believe in it, I’m back in the trap.

But the difference is:

The old guides said: "Believe in this description to escape."

This one says: "Don’t believe in any description—including this one."

The moment I start using these words to define my state, I’ve lost it. The state isn’t something you achieve. It’s what’s left when you stop trying to achieve anything.

Final Thought: Living Without the Crutch

The hardest part isn’t the state itself—it’s trusting that it’s okay to live this way. We’re so used to needing beliefs, narratives, reasons to feel okay. But what if we don’t?

What if reality, stripped of all description, is just fine?

Not good. Not bad. Not meaningful or meaningless. Just… this.

And that’s enough.

Postscript:
I’ll probably forget this. I’ll probably slip back into describing, believing, struggling. But now I know: the way out isn’t another belief. It’s the absence of the question entirely.

The Paradox of Description and Reality: A First-Person Account

1. The Immediate Loss of State After Writing the Guide

As soon as I finished recording the previous guide, I lost the state I had been in. Why? Because I immediately started thinking about the guide itself—about how to describe it, how to refine it. The moment I shifted into that mental space, I was no longer in the original state. I became trapped in the act of describing, not experiencing.

I tried to distract myself—first by repeating a phrase, then by visualizing its meaning—but that only led me into another mental loop. For example, I told myself:
"Why not just live in reality as it is?"
At first, this felt profound. I recalled what "reality as it is" meant, and for a moment, it worked. But then I realized: I wasn’t actually living in reality—I was just believing in the phrase. I had convinced myself that saying the words meant I was doing the thing. This was the old trap: mistaking faith in a description for the experience itself.

2. The Pull of the Guide: Why It Feels Inescapable

I couldn’t stop thinking about the guide. It was as if it had a gravitational pull. Why?

Hypothesis 1: Because I believed the guide contained the state I wanted to return to. The words felt like a map back to reality.

Hypothesis 2: Because I was confusing the description (the words) with the experience (what the words pointed to when I first wrote them).

But here’s the revelation:
When I first wrote the guide, the words emerged from direct observation. They were like subtitles for what I was seeing—a translation, not the thing itself. Later, when I reread the guide, I wasn’t seeing what I’d originally observed. I was seeing only the words and my mental representation of their meaning—a third thing, entirely separate from the raw experience.

Key Insight:
A description (words + their imagined meaning) is never the same as what was originally observed.
The guide, then, was useless for returning to the state because:

It didn’t contain the state; it was just a shadow of it.

My mind kept mistaking the representation (the words + their meaning) for the reality they once described.

3. The Mechanism of the Illusion

This is how the confusion arises:

Phase 1 (Creation): I observe reality directly. Words arise from that observation. In this moment, the words feel like they describe reality accurately.

Phase 2 (Recall): Later, I look at the words and try to reconstruct the experience. But now, I’m not seeing reality—I’m seeing only the words and my mental interpretation of them.

The words no longer point to the original experience. They point to new mental constructs.

This is why rereading the guide fails: I’m not recalling the state; I’m recalling a description of a description.

The Core Error:
We assume that the meaning we imagine when we read words is the same as what we saw when we first spoke them. But it’s not. The meaning is a new fabrication, unrelated to the original perception.

4. Breaking Free: How to Stop Clinging to Descriptions

I realized two things were needed to escape this loop:

Understand that no description is reality.

Not the words, not their meaning—none of it is the thing itself.

This isn’t about believing a phrase (e.g., "descriptions aren’t real"). It’s about seeing the mechanism directly.

See that descriptions have no relationship to what you observe.

The guide’s words + their imagined meaning are entirely separate from the state they once described.

Once this is seen (not just thought), the guide loses its power. It becomes obviously useless for returning to the state.

Result:
When I truly saw this, I stopped obsessing over the guide. The state returned—not because I recreated it, but because I stopped blocking it with layers of description.

5. The New Guide: A Paradox

Now, here’s the irony:

I’ve just written another guide explaining how guides are useless.

The same trap applies: These words are not the experience. They’re just pointers.

The test? Can I apply this insight to the act of writing this very guide?

If I cling to these words, I’ll lose the state again. If I see them as what they are—temporary tools, not the territory—then perhaps I can stay free.

Final Observation

The state isn’t found in words. It’s found in what’s here before words arise—in direct seeing, not in the descriptions we layer over it. The guides are like finger pointing at the moon. The mistake is staring at the finger.

Introduction: The State of Pure Reality

I wrote my last guide, tested it everywhere—while multitasking, walking, exercising, playing, working—and it was amazing. The best state I’d ever been in, the kind of mental clarity and joy I’d only dreamed of while studying the brain. I was living in a world without words, without the weight of their meanings, just pure observation and fantasy. It was euphoric.

But then I decided to write a written guide—not just an audio recording, but something precise, meticulous, and clear. And that’s when the problems began.

Problem 1: The Incomplete Guide

When I started writing, I’d look at the unfinished text and realize: This isn’t complete. My brain would fixate on the gaps, the missing parts, and because the guide wasn’t whole, it couldn’t "neutralize" the scary, sad, or angry thoughts that arose while working. A complete guide—one that answers every question, leaves no doubt—could silence those thoughts. But an incomplete one? It left room for uncertainty, and uncertainty bred stress.

How I "Solved" It (Temporarily):
I don’t even remember how I fixed this first problem. It might have been resolved indirectly when I tackled the next one.

Problem 2: The Trap of Writing

Writing was harder than speaking. When I spoke, words flowed effortlessly—I didn’t think about their meaning; I just described reality as I saw it. But when I wrote, I’d stare at the words and automatically start interpreting their meaning. That act—focusing on the meaning of words—pulled me out of the pure, wordless state I’d cultivated.

Why This Happened:

Understanding for Others: I thought I needed to imagine how others would interpret my words to ensure clarity.

Understanding for Myself: I needed to grasp what I was writing, and the only way I knew how was by attaching meaning to the words.

The Solution I Found:
I realized I had to write the same way I spoke—by observing reality and letting the words form without fixating on their meaning. I’d focus on:

The reality I was describing.

The words themselves (as tools), not their meanings.

I tested this, and it worked. The stress vanished because I wasn’t activating the "meaning" part of my brain—the part that drags you into anxiety, fear, or doubt.

Problem 3: The Night of Insomnia

After figuring out how to write without stress, I went to bed—but my brain was overstimulated. I spent hours planning my future: relationships, family, career, money, even whether I’d be killed for sharing this knowledge. The more I thought, the more I needed to think, and the more I slipped back into interpreting the meaning of my thoughts.

The Core Issue:
I was trapped in a loop:

I’d think about a plan (words).

I’d automatically interpret the meaning of those words.

The meaning would trigger stress (fear of failure, uncertainty, etc.).

I’d try to stop, but my brain insisted it was necessary to keep thinking.

Why This Happened:
I believed that planning required words, and understanding words required interpreting their meaning. So I was stuck: I couldn’t stop thinking about meaning because I thought it was the only way to use words effectively.

Problem 4: The Tyranny of the Plan

The next morning, I woke up determined to live by a strict plan. I wrote one out, but as soon as I started following it, my state collapsed. Why?

The Problem:

A plan is just words ("breakfast," "workout," "work").

To follow a plan, I thought I had to constantly think about it.

To think about it, I had to interpret the meaning of those words.

Interpreting meaning = stress, loss of joy, and a mechanical existence.

The Paradox:

Without a plan, life felt unstructured and inefficient.

With a plan, I was miserable because I was always "translating" words into meaning.

I spent days trying to resolve this. Nothing worked. I couldn’t escape the cycle:

Words are necessary (for planning, memory, structure).

Meaning is automatic (my brain defaulted to interpreting them).

Meaning kills joy (it pulled me out of the pure, wordless state).

The Breakthrough: Words Without Meaning

After two days of frustration, I had an epiphany.

The Realization:
The problem wasn’t words—it was meaning. Words are just tools, like a hammer or a pencil. The issue was that I believed I needed to interpret their meaning to use them.

The Experiment:
I forced myself into the pure, wordless state (the one where I don’t interpret meaning) and tested:

Writing a plan: Could I write without thinking about meaning?

Yes. I described reality and let the words flow.

Reading a plan: Could I understand it without interpreting meaning?

Yes. I realized I could grasp what was written by associating words with real actions (e.g., "breakfast" = go downstairs, cook, eat).

Following a plan: Could I act on it without fixating on meaning?

Yes. I’d recall the words, link them to real actions, and move on.

The Key Insight:

Meaning is optional. You don’t need to interpret meaning to understand words.

Words point to reality. They’re like signs: "breakfast" isn’t the idea of breakfast; it’s the act of eating.

The brain lies. It tricks you into thinking you must interpret meaning to understand—but you don’t.

The Three Reasons We Fixate on Meaning

Belief in Words as Reality: We think words are reality (e.g., "failure" = a real, tangible thing). But words are just symbols.

Fear of Uncertainty: We interpret meaning to "control" reality, but this creates stress.

The Planning Trap: We think we need meaning to use words (e.g., for plans, memory, communication).

The Solution:

Words are tools, not truth. Use them for structure (plans, notes), but don’t believe in their meaning.

Understanding ≠ Meaning. You can understand a word by linking it to a real action/object without interpreting its abstract meaning.

Freedom to Choose. You can:

Use words (for planning, writing, talking) without meaning.

Drop words entirely (to fantasize, enjoy music, savor food).

Living in the New State

Now, I fluctuate between two modes:

Wordless Mode (Max Joy):

No thoughts about words or meaning.

Pure observation, fantasy, and immersion in reality.

Example: Listening to music, tasting food, daydreaming.

Word-as-Tool Mode (Functional):

Using words for plans, communication, or work.

Never interpreting meaning—just linking words to real actions.

Example: Writing a to-do list, having a conversation.

Key Rules:

Never interpret meaning. It’s a trap that kills joy.

Use words only when necessary. Like a hammer: pick it up when you need it, put it down when you don’t.

Default to wordless. The more time you spend there, the happier you’ll be.

Final Thoughts: The Illusion of Meaning

The brain wants you to believe that meaning is essential. But it’s not. Meaning is a mental construct—a story we tell ourselves. Reality exists without words, and joy thrives there.

How to Stay Free:

Catch yourself when you start interpreting meaning.

Ask: "Do I need to know the meaning of this word to act?"

(Almost always, the answer is no.)

Redirect to reality. What does the word point to? (e.g., "work" = open laptop, type.)

Drop words entirely when you don’t need them.

Conclusion: A Life Without the Burden of Meaning

I’ve reclaimed the pure, wordless state—but now with a superpower: I can use words without being enslaved by their meaning. I plan, I write, I talk, but I never lose myself in interpretation.

The Result?

Max joy when I’m wordless.

Full functionality when I use words as tools.

No stress, no fear, no doubt—because meaning is optional.

This is how to live: Use words. Ignore meaning. Stay free.

Reflections on States of Mind, Words, and Reality

(A First-Person Retelling)

1. The Core Mistake: Fantasy as a Crutch

I woke up today realizing I’d made a critical error in yesterday’s guide. The mistake was this: I thought I could reach the "correct" state of mind—pure, wordless presence—by imagining it. By visualizing happiness, by forcing myself to feel good through fantasy, I was draining my energy.

Why is this a mistake?

Fantasy is exhausting. You spend immense mental effort conjuring a "good mood," but it’s artificial. Your brain doesn’t truly believe it, so it’s like running a marathon with no finish line.

It’s physically draining. The tension from sustaining fantasy leads to headaches, fatigue, and a strange, hollow kind of pleasure. You might smile, but it’s not real joy—it’s a performance.

It’s a distorted state. You end up in a similar but not identical state to the real thing. It’s like a cheap imitation of presence, one that leaves you more tired than fulfilled.

The real path? Switching states—not imagining them. You don’t fantasize your way into presence; you shift into it.

2. The Two States: Words vs. Reality

I now see two distinct states of being:

A. The "Word State" (Working Mode)

What it is: Thinking in words, structuring plans, analyzing, "doing mental work."

What it feels like:

No spontaneous joy (unless I choose to notice it, like sipping tea).

No smiles—because smiles come from fantasy, and here, there’s none.

Efficient, but emotionally neutral. I’m focused on logic, not sensation.

When I use it: For planning, problem-solving, or any task requiring structured thought.

B. The "No-Word State" (Pure Presence)

What it is: Complete detachment from words. No inner monologue, no labels—just raw observation of reality.

What it feels like:

Effortless joy. Pleasure arises naturally from sensing the world (music, tastes, textures).

No mental fatigue. No need to "try" to be happy—happiness is the default.

Associations and images float by—not forced, not analyzed, just there.

When I use it: For rest, enjoyment, or when I want to fully experience life (e.g., walking in nature, listening to music).

Key Insight:

Words are tools, not reality. They’re useful for planning but distort direct experience.

Presence isn’t about "not thinking"—it’s about thinking differently. In the no-word state, the mind still "processes," but not with language. It’s like switching from a spreadsheet to a painting.

3. The Illusion of "Meaning"

The biggest trap? Believing words have inherent meaning tied to reality.

What I used to do:

Obsess over definitions. I’d fixate on the "meaning" of words, as if they held objective truth.

Confuse words with reality. I’d think describing the world was the world—that my mental labels were the things themselves.

Fear the implications. If I thought "I must not fail," I’d spiral into anxiety, as if the words themselves had power.

What I realized:

Meaning is a mental construct. It’s not "out there"—it’s a flicker in a specific part of my brain (left-center, deep inside, if I had to point).

Looking for meaning is a choice. I can choose to peer into that mental space and assign significance—or not.

Most "meaning" is negative. My brain defaults to fear, obligation, or lack. Why? Because I believed those interpretations were real.

How I broke free:

Stopped believing. I saw that meaning isn’t reality—it’s a story. A useful fiction, but not truth.

Stopped looking. I no longer seek meaning in that mental space. I let words be sounds, tools, not oracles.

Used words differently. Now, I use them only for practical tasks (planning, communicating), not for "understanding" life.

Result:

No more fear. If I say "I must not fail," it’s just noise unless I choose to give it weight.

No more exhaustion. I’m not constantly translating reality into judgments.

Freedom to switch. I can toggle between word-mode (for work) and presence-mode (for living) at will.

4. The Three Reasons We Cling to Meaning

Why do we obsess over the "meaning" of words? Three illusions:

"It’s reality."

We assume words are the world, not just maps of it.

Truth: Words are like finger-pointing at the moon—they’re not the moon itself.

"It’s useful."

We think analyzing meaning helps us plan or survive.

Truth: It’s a crutch. You can plan without believing the words’ emotional weight.

"It’s the only way to understand."

We fear that without meaning, we’ll be lost.

Truth: Understanding comes from direct experience, not mental labels.

Breaking free means:

Seeing these as habits, not truths.

Realizing you can function—even thrive—without them.

5. The New Balance: Work vs. Joy

Now, I face a choice: How much time do I spend in each state?

Option 1: All Work (Word State)

Pros: Maximum productivity. I can plan, write, and solve problems efficiently.

Cons: Life feels flat. I miss the richness of direct experience.

Option 2: All Presence (No-Word State)

Pros: Pure joy, no stress, deep connection to the moment.

Cons: Hard to plan or communicate. Even reading is slower (I have to "see" the real thing behind each word).

My Current Approach:

Default to work mode when I need to do things (writing, planning, analyzing).

Switch to presence mode when I want to feel things (eating, walking, listening to music).

No guilt. If I’m in work mode, I don’t force joy. If I’m in presence mode, I don’t force productivity.

Why this works:

No more fantasy. I don’t waste energy pretending to be happy.

No more fear. Words don’t control me because I don’t believe in their power.

Flexibility. I can shift between states as needed.

6. The Final Insight: Words Are Just Tools

Old me: Words were sacred. Their meanings were real, and I had to obey them.
New me: Words are like hammers—useful for building, but you don’t sleep with one.

How I use words now:

For planning: "What’s next on my to-do list?"

For communicating: "How can I explain this clearly?"

Not for: Judging reality, defining my worth, or creating stress.

How I experience reality now:

Directly. I see, hear, taste, and feel—without translating it into mental chatter.

Lightly. If a word pops up ("failure," "success"), I don’t grab it. I let it float by.

Joyfully. Presence isn’t a discipline; it’s the default when I stop interfering.

7. Testing the New Way

Now, I’ll experiment:

Can I write a plan in presence mode? (Probably slower, but possible.)

Can I enjoy a meal in work mode? (Yes, if I choose to notice the taste.)

Can I live mostly in work mode without burning out? (We’ll see.)

Hypothesis:

Presence is for living; words are for doing.

The less I "need" meaning, the freer I am.

Final Thought:
I used to think the goal was to always be in the no-word state. Now, I see that both states have value—like a painter who uses both broad strokes and fine details. The key is not to get stuck in either one.

End of Retelling.

Key Takeaways (TL;DR):

Fantasy ≠ Presence. Forcing happiness through imagination is exhausting and fake.

Words are tools. Use them for plans, not for "understanding" life.

Meaning is optional. You can function—and thrive—without believing in words’ emotional weight.

Switch freely. Work mode (words) and presence mode (no words) both have their place.

Test, don’t theorize. The proof is in living it.

The Experiment: Washing Dishes Without Thought

I decided to test an idea: Could I wash dishes while fully immersed in the moment—without thinking about anything? At first, it didn’t work. My mind kept drifting back to plans—specifically, the guide I was writing. The moment I noticed this, I consciously stopped thinking about the plan. Suddenly, everything changed. I entered a wordless state, a kind of pure, effortless flow. It felt amazing.

Then, a thought struck me: I should document this. The idea was that to truly enjoy something, you have to stop thinking about the plan. But the moment I decided to remember this insight, I started thinking about remembering it. I told myself, "Okay, I’ll write it down in my notes, and then I can stop thinking about it and return to the wordless state." I jotted it down, but then I started worrying: "What if I forget to check my notes later? What if I forget to include this in the guide?" And just like that, I was back to thinking—trapped in the cycle again.

The Core Problem: The Mind’s Autonomy

Here’s what I realized: I can’t choose whether to think or not. My brain decides for me. If it deems something important—like work, or a task I must remember—it will force me to think about it. The only way to stop thinking is if the brain concludes there’s nothing important to think about. But is that even possible?

I suspect my brain will always find something "important" to latch onto. Maybe I’m doomed to constant thought, because the brain is wired to believe that remembering is always more valuable than not remembering. But I’m not sure yet. I’ll keep testing this.

The Paradox of Notes and Memory

I wrote in my notes: "Forget the plan to enjoy executing it. Stop thinking about the plan." But the notes didn’t help. The act of recording the thought just gave my brain a new thing to obsess over: "Don’t forget to check the notes. Don’t forget to add this to the guide." It’s a loop.

The only way I can imagine escaping this is by reaching a state where there’s nothing left to think about—where all work is done, all plans are executed, and nothing remains to remember. Then, maybe, my brain would finally relax. But is that realistic? Or will it always manufacture new "important" things to fixate on?

The Trade-Off: Productivity vs. Bliss

I tested this further while cooking. When I thought about what I was doing—planning each step, analyzing—everything was fast, precise, efficient. But when I tried to stop thinking and just experience the process, something shifted.

Without words or plans, I became slower, clumsier. Opening the fridge, I’d freeze: "What do I need next?" My productivity dropped, but the joy of being present skyrocketed. It was like my brain had two modes:

Verbal Mode (fast, efficient, but stressful)

Thoughts are like compressed files—easy to manipulate, quick to process.

Example: "Take the knife. Cut the onion. Next, heat the pan."

Wordless Mode (slow, error-prone, but blissful)

No internal narration. Just raw perception.

Example: Staring at the ingredients, waiting for intuition to guide me.

The problem? In wordless mode, I forget things. I make dumb mistakes. It’s like my IQ drops. But the high of being fully present is intoxicating.

The Brain’s Survival Mechanism

This makes me think: The brain is designed to prioritize survival over joy. It hates forgetting because forgetting could mean failure—missed deadlines, unmet goals, danger. Words are its tool for control. Without them, I’m adrift, vulnerable.

But what if I could trick my brain into not fearing forgetfulness? What if I could convince it that some things don’t need to be remembered? Maybe then I could stay in the wordless state longer. But is that even possible? Or is the brain hardwired to always find something to worry about?

The Weekend Hypothesis

I thought about weekends. On weekends, I don’t have to think about work. So why can’t I replicate that mental freedom now? Maybe the solution is to create artificial "weekends"—blocks of time where I declare that nothing is important, nothing needs to be remembered.

But right now, my life feels like an endless workday. There’s always something to think about. Maybe the key is to:

Dump everything onto paper (like I’m doing now).

Trust the system—believe that I won’t forget because it’s all written down.

Let go—stop rehearsing tasks in my head.

If I can perfect this, maybe I can choose when to think and when to just be.

The Current Experiment

Right now, I’ve written down everything I deemed important. Theoretically, my brain should now say: "Okay, nothing left to remember. You can relax." But will it? Or will it invent new worries?

I suspect it might. The brain is a worry machine. But perhaps, for brief moments, I can outsmart it. Maybe the secret is to accept that I’ll always have some thoughts—but I can learn to ignore them, to let them pass like clouds.

Final Thought: The Ultimate Choice

If I had to choose between:

Being productive (but stressed, always thinking)

Being blissful (but slower, more error-prone)

…I’d probably choose bliss. Survival is overrated. Joy is underrated.

But for now, I’ll keep testing. Maybe there’s a middle path—where I can be both efficient and present. Or maybe the brain will never allow it.

Next step: Live without overthinking, and see what happens.

The Collapse of Meaning and the Birth of a New State

1. The Loss of Faith in Meaning

I used to believe—deeply, instinctively—that everything I observed, every word I wrote, every thought I had meant something. Not just in a casual way, but in a way that gave my life texture, joy, motivation. The highs I felt, the "kayf" (that rush of meaning, of pleasure in existence), didn’t come from understanding itself. They came from believing that understanding mattered. That the act of parsing reality, of stripping away illusions, of describing observations with precision—all of it was leading somewhere good.

But then the belief shattered.

I realized that no matter how accurately I described reality, no matter how deeply I observed, none of it inherently meant anything. The words were just words. The observations were just observations. The "meaning" I had clung to was a mirage—a faith, not a fact. And when that faith vanished, so did the kayf. So did the motivation. So did the point of anything.

I was left staring at a void.

2. The Three States of Consciousness

I had oscillated between three states:

Thinking about the meaning of words—analyzing, dissecting, believing that if I just understood language or reality deeply enough, it would reveal something profound.

Using words without thinking about their meaning—functioning, communicating, but not questioning the foundation.

Existing beyond words entirely—a state where I stepped outside language, outside description, and just was.

That third state used to feel like freedom. I thought: "If words don’t matter, if meaning is an illusion, then this silence must mean something beautiful." I had faith in the absence of meaning. I believed that the very act of not believing was itself meaningful.

But then I saw the trick: even that was a belief. Even the rejection of meaning was a kind of faith. And when that collapsed too, I was left with nothing.

3. The Suicidal Logic

Without meaning, life felt like a joke. Not in the "ha-ha" sense, but in the "why bother?" sense. Normally, I’d want to die because I wasn’t feeling kayf—because life was painful or empty. But this was different. This time, I saw that even kayf was meaningless. Even pleasure, even joy, even the highs I’d chased—none of it mattered in any ultimate sense.

So why live?

The most logical answer seemed to be: Don’t.

But something stopped me. Not hope. Not faith. Just… inertia. A stubborn, wordless "I don’t know why, but I’m still here."

4. The Nighttime Revelation

Last night, exhausted from circling this abyss, I muttered something to myself before sleep. Something like:

"The world is what it is. It doesn’t tell you whether to live or die, whether to act or stay still. It just… is. And you? You choose."

I don’t know if those words caused what happened next, but I woke up in a strange new state. Not happy. Not sad. Not numb. Just… different.

5. The New State: Not-Caring as Freedom

Here’s what I realized:

Thinking about reality is a trap. If I analyze my observations, my descriptions, my theories about meaning—if I dwell in that space—I will always end up in the same place: nothing matters. And that knowledge doesn’t help. It just hurts.

The search for meaning is a loop. For years, I’ve been writing guides, dissecting perception, trying to find something that would feel ultimately true and good. But every time I thought I’d found it, I later saw: I had just believed it was true. The kayf came from the belief, not the truth itself.

The way out is to stop looking. Not because the search is wrong, but because it goes nowhere. The question "What does it all mean?" has no answer that changes anything. So why ask it?

Now, I don’t.

I don’t think about the meaning of words. I don’t analyze reality. I don’t try to understand my existence. I just… live.

6. How It Feels Now

No faith. I don’t believe in meaning. I don’t believe in the absence of meaning. I don’t believe in anything, really. There’s no "trust" that life is good or bad or neutral. There’s just… what is.

No pull toward analysis. Before, I was compelled to dissect reality, to write, to understand. Now? I don’t feel that pull. I see that road, and it leads to the same dead end: nothing matters. So I don’t walk it.

A quiet mind. I still have thoughts, fantasies, impulses. But they’re not about anything deep. I think: "What do I want to do today?" And then I do it. No deeper motive. No existential weight.

Kayf without meaning. I still feel pleasure—watching something, imagining something, doing something. But I don’t cling to it. It’s not important. It’s just… nice, sometimes.

No fear of the void. Before, the idea that nothing matters terrified me. Now? It’s just a fact. Like saying "the sky is blue." Okay. So? It doesn’t do anything.

7. The Paradox: Why Am I Still Here?

I don’t have a reason to live. Not a real one. Not a meaningful one.

But I’m still here.

I don’t know why. Maybe it’s habit. Maybe it’s curiosity. Maybe it’s just that, in this new state, the question "Why live?" doesn’t feel urgent. It’s like asking "Why is the sky blue?"—interesting, maybe, but not something that demands an answer.

8. The Test

I don’t know if this state will last. Maybe I’ll slip back into analysis, into the search for meaning. Maybe I’ll find a new belief. Maybe I’ll crash.

But for now? I’m testing it. Living without the weight. Without the quest. Without the need for anything to matter.

And strangely… it’s light.

Final Note (In the Author’s Words)

"I don’t think about reality anymore. I don’t think about meaning. I don’t think about the point. I just… do what I do. And it’s not that I’ve found peace. It’s that I’ve stopped looking for it."

Reflections on a New State of Mind: A Journey Beyond Meaning

1. The Nature of the New State

I’ve tested this new state thoroughly—everywhere—and it’s good. Not the euphoric high I once had when I believed in some grand meaning, but still deeply pleasant, calm, cozy, and effortless. It’s a quiet, steady joy, a gentle appreciation of reality as it is, without the frantic chase for significance.

At work, I haven’t tested it yet, but I suspect it’ll hold. The key difference? When I don’t use words, everything feels sharper. Before, I’d fantasize about the meaning of not using words—that act itself became a source of euphoria. Now, it’s simpler: reality is just there, and I notice it more vividly without the noise of language. Words pull me into a "working mode," where I’m more analytical, less immersed. But in this new state, even in a light working mode, there’s a faint, persistent smile—maybe because I’ve stopped obsessing over what reality means.

2. The Core Problem: The Obsession with Meaning

For four years, my mind kept slipping into the same trap: believing that things mean something. Not just words, but observations, descriptions, the very fabric of experience. I’d oscillate between two delusions:

This means something terrible.

This means something wonderful.

I never consciously chose to believe—it happened automatically, like a reflex. Only in hindsight would I realize: Oh, I was clinging to meaning again. And every time, the crash was the same: nothing actually means anything. The highs were illusions, the lows unnecessary.

The pull was always the same: What does reality describe? What does this observation signify? What’s the value of these words? I’d chase the idea that if I could just understand the description of reality, I’d unlock some profound truth. But the truth was simpler: descriptions are not reality. They’re tools, not mirrors.

3. The Two Layers of Belief

I thought there was only one belief to abandon: that words, observations, or their meanings are real. But there’s a second, deeper layer:

First belief: That descriptions, words, or their meanings correspond to reality.

Second belief: That these things matter—that they carry some grand, inherent significance.

The second belief was the real drug. The euphoria didn’t come from understanding; it came from believing that understanding meant something. 95% of my best states were fueled by this illusion.

Now, I see: no description, no meaning, no observation has inherent weight. They’re neutral. Useful for planning, structuring thoughts, or communicating—but meaningless in themselves.

4. The Mechanics of Suffering

When I do think about the "meaning" of words or reality, the result is always the same:

Anger, because the meaning feels arbitrary or cruel.

Sadness, because it highlights emptiness.

Fear, because meaning is tied to existential stakes.

These emotions aren’t reactions to reality—they’re reactions to the stories I layer onto reality. The words themselves are innocent; the suffering comes from believing their implications.

5. The Solution: Disengaging from Meaning

So I’ve stopped. I no longer ask:

What does this observation mean?*

What’s the significance of these words?

Does any of this matter?*

Instead, I:

Observe without labeling.

Use words only as tools (for planning, communicating, organizing).

Feel without interpreting.

The result? A life that’s super-normal. No epic highs, no existential despair—just steady, quiet contentment. I’m present for work, leisure, or nothing at all. Sometimes, I don’t even think; I just am, and that’s the deepest relief.

6. The Trap of "Understanding"

Yesterday, I slipped. I started analyzing why I felt off, searching for the "meaning" behind my discomfort. The irony? The search itself was the problem. I’d forgotten my own rule: meaning is a mirage.

The moment I remembered—oh, I’m doing the thing again—the tension dissolved. The state isn’t fragile because it’s "wrong"; it’s fragile only if I start believing in meanings again.

7. Can This Be Taught?

Maybe. But it’s tricky. You can’t just tell someone, "Nothing means anything," because their brain will rebel. They’ll keep searching, convinced that this time the meaning will be real.

The only way out is to experience the exhaustion of the search—to see, again and again, that every "meaning" collapses under scrutiny. Then, and only then, does the obsession fade.

But even then, the mind will whisper: What if this time it’s different? The answer is always the same: It’s not.

8. The State Itself: A Final Description

No euphoria, but no despair.

No grand narrative, but no confusion.

No need for meaning, but no numbness.

Just life, as it is. Super-normal. Not exciting, not dull—exactly enough.

Would I recommend it? Only if you’re tired of the rollercoaster. This isn’t a state for those who crave transcendence. It’s for those who want peace.

9. What’s Next?

I’ll keep testing. Maybe I’ll find a simpler way to explain this. Maybe I’ll stumble on new nuances.

But for now, I know this:
The search for meaning is the only thing that ever caused me pain.
And I’m done searching.

Final Note:
This isn’t nihilism. It’s the opposite. It’s the freedom to live without the weight of shoulds or significance. The world isn’t meaningful. It just is. And that’s more than enough.

The Struggle to Stop Thinking About the Guide

I just recorded a micro-update. After writing the guide, I went to do some things—ate, walked around—but even after all that, I noticed how hard it is to stop thinking about the guide I’d just written. It’s this classic problem: my mind keeps circling back to it. I keep analyzing its meaning, visualizing things, trying to grasp something about reality through it. But the state this puts me in isn’t great. It’s exhausting.

And then I realized something new: a fourth reason why I’m drawn back to these thoughts, why I can’t let go. On top of the three reasons I’d already identified, there’s this: the belief that it means something.

For example, I write a guide, and I keep thinking about it because I believe it matters. But no matter what I write, no matter what I say—it doesn’t actually mean anything. So why obsess over it? What difference does it make what I wrote if, in the end, it’s meaningless?

The Illusion of Meaning and Its Consequences

Yesterday, I was in a bad state when I fully grasped that nothing means anything. Losing faith in meaning left me hollow. Because when you constantly fixate on describing reality, on meaning, on all these abstract layers—you end up in a shitty state. My brain just isn’t wired to handle that well. The more I dwell on it, the worse I feel.

The only way out? Stop thinking about it entirely.

But to do that, I need to accept one thing: it doesn’t mean anything. Once I truly internalize that, my brain lets go. The obsession fades. And when I’m not trapped in those thoughts, my state improves. I feel normal again.

The Fourth Trap: Belief in Potential Meaning

Here’s the pattern I uncovered:
I think about words, about the meaning of words, about descriptions of reality—because I believe they might mean something.

Either:

I think it does mean something,

Or I think it could mean something,

Or I think I need to figure out what it means.

So I keep chewing on it, convinced that if I just think hard enough, I’ll crack the code. But there is no code.

The mistake I made earlier:
At first, I thought I’d understood something profound. I got excited—like, "Wow, this means something good!"—and I rode that high. But then I saw the truth: it means nothing. Yet I kept obsessing, telling myself, "No, no, it must mean something, even if it’s not good. I just need to understand what."

But when I finally accepted that it means nothing at all, the obsession stopped.

The Four Reasons Why the Mind Clings to Meaning

So now I see there are four forces pulling me back into this mental loop:

Habitual fixation (the three reasons I’d already named).

The belief that it means something—or could mean something.

The illusion that I need to understand it—that if I don’t, I’m missing something critical.

The delusion that these thoughts connect me to reality—that by analyzing words and meanings, I’m engaging with the world in a meaningful way.

But none of that is true. Meaning is a self-contained illusion. It doesn’t touch reality. It’s just a loop in my brain that leads to suffering.

The Solution: Radical Acceptance of Meaninglessness

Here’s the key:
To break free, I have to stop thinking about everything I’ve ever studied, written, or analyzed—all those descriptions, all those attempts to pin down reality. Because thinking about them feels bad. It drags me into that part of my brain where nothing good lives.

But to stop, I need to accept that none of it means anything.

If I believe it might mean something, my brain won’t let go.

If I accept that it means nothing, the grip loosens. I can walk away.

Applying This to the Present Moment

Even this very reflection—the words I’m saying right now—they don’t mean anything either.

I might feel compelled to analyze them, to assign them importance, to believe they must mean something because I said them. But that’s just another trap.

The truth:

I don’t know if this means anything.

I only assume it does because my brain is wired to seek patterns.

But if I accept that it doesn’t, I can stop obsessing. I can move on.

And if I don’t stop? I’ll keep spiraling—revisiting every old thought, every past analysis, every description of reality—and each time, I’ll feel worse, because meaning, as my brain constructs it, is inherently unpleasant.

Final Realization

Nothing means anything.
Not the guide.
Not these words.
Not my thoughts about them.

And that’s okay.

Because once I really get that, I can finally stop.

A Radical Shift: The Erasure of Reality’s "Guide"

I realized something profound: it doesn’t matter what reality is. The moment I truly understood that—that no description of reality, no "guide," no accumulated knowledge over four years actually means anything—something inside me erased itself. The part of my mind where I stored my understanding of reality, my guides, my theories… it all vanished. Not just forgotten, but gone, as if it had never existed.

I didn’t even notice it happening. One second, I was holding onto these ideas; the next, I was living for hours without a single thought about them. I didn’t ask myself, "Do I remember?" I just… didn’t. It was like deleting a file without a backup. The thought "It doesn’t matter what’s out there" acted like a command to my brain: "Forget this. It’s irrelevant." And my brain obeyed.

At first, I thought: "Okay, I’ll just not think about it because it’s unpleasant." But then I realized—I didn’t just stop thinking about it. I forgot it existed. The space where those ideas lived was empty.

The Consequence: Unchecked Automatic Thoughts

With that erasure came a strange freedom—and a danger. Normally, my automatic thoughts were restrained by my "knowledge" that nothing really matters. But now, with that knowledge gone, nothing held them back.

I started thinking—really thinking—about how I want to live, how I don’t want to live. Pure, raw mental activity, using words to construct ideas, to imagine possibilities. But then stress appeared.

Why? Because in forgetting everything, I also forgot the one critical rule:
"Never represent the meaning of words."

I had spent years learning that representing the meaning of words—digging into the subconscious to "see" what they signify—was the root of all suffering. But now, without that knowledge, my mind defaulted to old habits. I started automatically attaching meanings to my thoughts, and those meanings triggered fear.

For example:

I’d think, "I should do X," and then my brain would dive into the subconscious and pull up: "If you don’t do X, you’ll fail. You’ll be worthless."

The word "should" became a landmine. The moment I represented its meaning, anxiety spiked.

I had to re-learn the lesson the hard way: The only thing that matters is never, ever representing the meaning of words.

The Two Types of "Meaning"

I realized there are two distinct ways the mind processes meaning:

Direct Imagination (Visualizing)

Example: "Imagine a green elephant."

Your eyes flick upward, and you see a green elephant in your mind’s eye.

This is safe. It’s just visualization—no emotional charge.

Subconscious Meaning (Interpretation)

Example: "What does ‘a green elephant’ mean?"

Your eyes shift down and to the left, into the subconscious.

Here, you don’t see an image. You sense an abstract concept, a feeling of what it signifies.

This is dangerous. If you believe what you find there, it triggers emotions—fear, sadness, anger.

Key Insight:

The first type is neutral. It’s just mental pictures.

The second type is loaded. It’s where all suffering lives.

The Experiment: Can I Think Without Meaning?

I tested a hypothesis:
Can I engage in pure thinking—planning, analyzing, fantasizing—without ever dipping into subconscious meaning?

The Setup:
I asked myself: "Do I want to adjust myself to fit others’ expectations?"

Normally, this question would send me spiraling: "What if I fail? What if I’m not good enough?"

But this time, I deliberately avoided representing the meaning of those words.

The Result:

I could imagine being someone who adapts to others’ preferences.

I could plan how to become more attractive, more likable.

I could even feel excitement about the idea—because I wasn’t attaching fear-based meanings to it.

But the moment I slipped—when I accidentally asked, "What does ‘attractive’ mean?"—my eyes flicked downward, and fear crept in.

Conclusion:

Yes, it’s possible to think, plan, and create without touching subconscious meaning.

But it requires constant vigilance. One slip, and the old patterns return.

The Paradox of Belief and Joy

Here’s the strange part:
When I forget that nothing has inherent meaning, I sometimes believe that life does have meaning—and that belief feels amazing.

If I ask, "What does all of this mean?" and let my mind answer without digging into the subconscious, it paints a beautiful picture: "It means you’re happy. It means life is wonderful."

But if I ask the same question and look downward into the subconscious, the answer is: "It means nothing. You’re doomed."

The Catch:

The "happy meaning" is fragile. It only works if I don’t question it too deeply.

The "doomed meaning" is sticky. It’s the default when I forget to guard against it.

Solution:

Allow the happy meaning when it arises, but never seek it out.

Block the subconscious meaning at all costs.

The Guide’s Final Form

After all this, I’ve distilled my "guide" to two core rules:

Never represent the meaning of words (i.e., don’t look downward into the subconscious).

If you forget this, you’ll default to fear, sadness, or anger.

Fix: Keep a mental "sticky note" reminding you of this rule.

When not thinking, allow joy to exist without questioning it.

If you ask, "What does this all mean?" and a happy answer comes—don’t analyze it. Just enjoy it.

If a dark answer comes—you’ve broken Rule #1. Stop digging.

Final Thoughts: The Balance Between Thinking and Joy

Thinking (planning, analyzing) is neutral if you avoid subconscious meaning.

Not thinking (just being, observing) brings joy, but at the cost of productivity.

The brain naturally oscillates between the two. Don’t fight it.

When thinking: Stay disciplined. No subconscious diving.

When resting: Let joy exist without interrogation.

The Ultimate Goal:
A life where you create freely (using words and imagination) without ever asking what it means—because the moment you do, the spell breaks.

The Morning Awakening: A Crisis of Belief in Words

I woke up with a problem—one that had been brewing since last night. It wasn’t about chemistry or external forces; it was about words. Specifically, I realized I had been believing in the meaning of words, and this belief was making me feel terrible.

At first, I couldn’t even articulate why. I’d say things like:

"You can’t believe in observations, you can’t believe in feelings, you can’t believe in the meanings of words—none of it is verifiable, none of it is real."

But then I’d ask myself: Why can’t you? And the answer wouldn’t come. The prohibition felt arbitrary. I’d think, "Maybe nothing means anything, so why can’t I believe in whatever I want?" And suddenly, the entire framework I’d built—about not trusting words, not trusting logic—collapsed.

Then, in a strange twist, I noticed something deeper: I wasn’t just believing in the meaning of words. I was believing that the meaning of words itself meant something. That is, I had started treating the idea that words have meaning as if it were a tangible, significant thing—like a hidden layer of reality my brain had uncovered overnight.

And when I saw that, I panicked. Because if the meaning of words means something, then what does that mean? My brain had somehow convinced itself that this was a bad thing, and I had believed it. So I forced myself to reject it: "No, the meaning of words doesn’t mean anything. It’s just a part of the brain doing its thing—no proof, no reality, just noise."

But the damage was done. The act of believing that meaning itself was meaningful had broken something.

The Collapse of Formal Logic

Normally, I rely on formal logic—the chain of "if this, then that" that holds my thoughts together. But when I started believing that meaning was meaningful, that chain snapped.

Here’s how it happened:

I allowed myself to believe that some things could mean something (as long as it wasn’t the meaning of words).

My brain, while I slept, took that permission and ran with it. It latched onto the idea that the meaning of words must mean something.

When I woke up, I found myself in a state where all words felt meaningless—but not in a liberating way. Instead, I was trapped in a loop:

"If nothing means anything, then why can’t I believe in observations? Why can’t I believe in feelings?"

"But if I believe in them, I’m back to square one—dependent on the brain’s whims."

I had lost faith in formal logic itself. Without it, words became empty. I could no longer trust the logical connections between ideas. Everything felt like a house of cards.

The Escape: Rejecting the Meaning of Meaning

The way out was to realize:

"I had believed that the meaning of words was meaningful. But that belief was the problem."

So I did the opposite:

I stopped believing that the meaning of words meant anything.

I reaffirmed formal logic as a tool—not because it’s true, but because it’s the only thing that keeps my thoughts from dissolving into chaos.

Now, I don’t believe in formal logic in the sense of absolute truth. I rely on it the way I rely on my eyes to avoid walking into walls. It’s a practical crutch, not a metaphysical certainty.

The Two Dangerous Beliefs

From this, I identified two destructive patterns:

Thinking about the meaning of words.

When I do this, I start assigning significance to them, which leads to suffering.

Example: If I think "nothing means anything," my brain might interpret that as "life is hopeless," and suddenly I’m stuck in a negative loop.

Believing that anything means something.

Even if it’s not about words—if I believe "this feeling means X" or "this observation means Y," I’m setting myself up for dependency on illusions.

The only exception is accidental, fleeting belief—like enjoying a pleasant fantasy without clinging to it.

The New Rules

To avoid repeating this crisis, I’ve set two rules for myself:

Never think about the meaning of words.

Not because it’s wrong, but because it’s useless and painful.

Words are tools, not mirrors of reality. The moment I start probing their "meaning," I’m lost.

Never allow myself to believe that anything means something.

If a belief arises spontaneously (e.g., "This moment feels meaningful"), fine—enjoy it.

But I won’t actively permit my brain to latch onto meanings, because that’s how I end up trapped.

Testing the System

Now, I need to verify:

Can I stop thinking about meaning when I want to?

Yes, because the pull to do so was tied to the belief that meaning mattered. Now that I’ve rejected that, the pull is gone.

Can I function without formal logic?

No. If I abandon it, I’ll believe everything—observations, feelings, random thoughts—because there’s nothing to filter them.

Is this sustainable?

So far, yes. The key is not fighting the brain’s tendencies, but not feeding them either.

Final Thought: The Illusion of Control

The scariest part? I didn’t choose to believe in the meaning of words. It happened while I slept. My brain took a half-formed idea and ran with it, and I woke up in a different reality.

This proves:

Belief is not a choice. It’s something that happens to you.

The only defense is vigilance. Not against beliefs themselves, but against the habit of letting them take root.

So now, I watch. I don’t think about meaning. I don’t allow meanings to form. And if they do, I let them pass—like clouds.

Because in the end, nothing means anything. And that’s not a belief. It’s just how it is.

Reflections on Perception, Words, and Reality: A Structured Retelling

1. The Problem: Obsession with Words and Descriptions

I wrote a guide before, and after that, something shifted. My state changed—it recovered, but not to what it was before it had been "spoiled." What changed? I found myself constantly thinking about the guide I’d written, not its meaning (I’d already figured that out), but the words themselves—the descriptions, the phrases, the way I’d framed my observations. I kept replaying them in my head, imagining the words, not their significance.

This pull toward words felt like looking at reality. Not that I believed in them, but it seemed like I was observing something real. Why? Because I’d convinced myself these words had some connection to what I’d seen. I’d watch reality, describe it with words, and then later, I’d fixate on those words—not the reality they described, but the words as independent things. I’d stare at them, imagine them, and mistake that for engaging with reality.

But thinking about words—about how I imagine them—is meaningless. They’re not reality. They’re a separate substance, detached from what’s actually there.

2. The Illusion: Words as a Distorted Lens

I realized I was looking at reality through words. Not at reality itself, but at my description of it. It’s like saying, "I see a lamp," and then staring at the phrase "I see a lamp" instead of the lamp. The phrase becomes a substitute, a phantom reality made of language.

This habit—translating reality into words, then fixating on those words—is exhausting. It doesn’t bring joy. It’s a loop of imagining descriptions rather than experiencing what’s real. I’d gotten so used to this that I forgot how to just see.

3. The Core Mistake: Forgetting What I Knew

The issue? I’d erased my own lessons. I’d told myself:

Never think about the meaning of words (they’re arbitrary, unverifiable).

Never view reality through words (descriptions ≠ reality).

Never believe in anything (not words, not feelings, not observations).

But I’d deleted these rules from my mind, thinking I didn’t need to remember why—just the "what." Without the reasoning, I slipped back into old patterns. I’d think, "Well, maybe this description matters," and spiral into imagining words again.

Key insight: If I forget why I shouldn’t do something, I’ll do it. Memory isn’t just storage—it’s an active guard against repetition.

4. The Solution: Minimal Rules to Stay Grounded

Now, I’m testing a simpler approach. Instead of memorizing every detail, I’ll keep just three rules:

Never think about the meaning of words. (They’re empty; no point.)

Never view reality through words. (Descriptions are not the thing itself.)

Never believe in anything. (Not words, not interpretations, not feelings.)

Everything else—explanations, justifications—can fade. If problems arise, I’ll revisit the archive of my thoughts. But for now, these three are enough.

5. The Test: Living Without the Noise

Right now, I’m in a state close to optimal—almost wordless. I use language only as a tool (for plans, structure), not as a lens. I don’t:

Dwell on what words "mean."

Imagine reality through descriptions.

Mistake descriptions for reality itself.

Result: I notice reality more vividly. I feel alive, not lost in mental echoes.

6. The Risk: Will This Be Enough?

What if I forget why these rules matter? What if the old pull returns? For now, I’ll trust the simplicity. If I falter, I’ll dig deeper. But the goal is clear:

Words are tools, not mirrors.

Reality is direct, not described.

Belief is unnecessary.

7. Final Note: The Archive as a Safeguard

I won’t erase my past insights entirely. They’re a backup—proof of what works. But I won’t clutter my mind with them daily. The rules are the essence; the rest is context, accessible if needed.

Conclusion: Less mental weight, more presence. That’s the experiment.

Structured Summary of Key Points

Problem

Solution

Outcome

Fixating on words/descriptions

Treat words as tools, not reality

Direct engagement with reality

Forgetting past lessons

Keep 3 core rules; archive the rest

Prevents regression

Viewing reality through words

Reject descriptions as substitutes

Sharper perception, more joy

The Problem with Notes vs. Memory: A Self-Reflective Experiment

1. The Initial Mistake: Rejecting the Meaning of Words

I recorded another update. The last guide I made—well, it didn’t do anything bad, but what was bad was what happened after it. I wrote myself a note: "Never think about the meaning of words. Never think about reality from the perspective of words." I told myself, "Okay, I’ll remember this and only this." And then the problems started.

At first, I stopped understanding why I shouldn’t think about the meaning of words. I’d ask myself, "Why not?"—and then, because I didn’t remember the reasons, I’d end up thinking about the meaning of words even more. This created stress. The note itself didn’t stop me from doing it; it just made me forget why I shouldn’t. And forgetting the why meant I kept slipping back into old habits.

Key realization: Rules without understanding are useless. Memory alone isn’t enough—you need the reasoning behind it.

2. The Experiment: Restoring Lost Knowledge

I got stressed. I thought, "Maybe this is nonsense." So I decided to test it: I dug up everything I’d archived—all the reasons why I shouldn’t fixate on word meanings, why I shouldn’t view reality through linguistic frames. I revisited all of it.

The moment I restored that knowledge, my stress vanished. My state returned to normal. This proved: The issue wasn’t the rule itself—it was the lack of context around it.

3. The Core Solution: Two Critical Reminders

I realized: I shouldn’t erase anything from memory. My knowledge—my "guide"—is a collection of observations, texts, and experiences stored in my mind. I don’t need to delete or alter it. It just exists, and that’s fine.

But here’s the catch: I can still forget to apply it. The two things I forget most often are:

"Never think about the meaning of words."

"Never view reality from the perspective of words."

When I verbally remind myself of these, I instantly recall why they matter. But when I write them down in a note, something breaks.

4. The Note Paradox: Why Writing It Down Backfires

Problem 1: Outsourcing Memory to Notes

When I speak the rules to myself, my brain internalizes the action I need to avoid.

When I write them down, I outsource the memory to the note—and then I only remember the words, not the meaning behind them.

Later, when I recall the note, I’m just reading text and interpreting its meaning, which defeats the purpose.

Problem 2: The Stress of Interpreted Words

Reading the note forces me to represent the meaning of the words in my mind.

But representing the meaning of words like "never think about the meaning of words" creates anxiety—because it feels like an absolute command, and absolute commands stress me out.

Irony: The note, meant to prevent me from fixating on word meanings, forces me to fixate on word meanings when I read it.

Problem 3: The "Plan" Trap

Notes function like plans. When I write a plan, I think about real actions—but later, I read the plan and think about the words in the plan, not the original actions.

This is a category error: Confusing the map (the note) with the territory (the actual understanding).

Key insight: Notes turn living knowledge into dead text. The brain engages differently with spoken self-reminders than with written ones.

5. The Alternative: Trusting Organic Memory

When I don’t use notes and just tell myself:

"Never think about the meaning of words."

"Never view reality through words."

…I remember exactly what that means. No interpretation is needed. No stress arises. But there’s a trade-off:

Pro: I never forget the core rule.

Con: I might overfocus on it, which distracts me from fully experiencing reality.

Question: Can I balance this? Can I remember without constant repetition?

6. The Compromise: Notes as Low-Effort Anchors

Perhaps notes can work—if I use them correctly.

Old way (bad): Read the note → interpret the words → stress.

New way (better): Read the note → don’t interpret the words → let the meaning arise naturally, without fixation.

Testing this:

If I write the rules in a note but don’t obsess over them, I free up mental space.

I can periodically check the note without it dominating my thoughts.

This might be more sustainable than relying purely on memory.

Hypothesis: Notes are tools, not crutches. They should supplement memory, not replace the direct, lived understanding.

7. The Deeper Issue: Words vs. Reality

The real problem isn’t notes—it’s how I interact with language.

Mistake: Believing I need to represent the meaning of words to understand them.

Truth: I can read text and grasp its intent without fixating on definitions.

Example:

If I see the note: "Don’t think about word meanings," I don’t need to define "word meanings" to obey it.

I can just see the instruction and act on it, like following a road sign without analyzing its font.

Conclusion: Language is a tool, not a prison. The goal isn’t to avoid words—it’s to avoid being trapped by their interpretations.

8. Final Decision: A Hybrid Approach

After all this, here’s the plan:

Keep the knowledge in memory. Don’t erase or suppress it—just let it exist.

Use notes sparingly. Write down only the two critical rules, but:

Read them without interpreting their meaning.

Treat them as reminders, not commands.

Trust the brain’s natural recall. For these specific rules, verbal self-reminders work better than notes.

Accept imperfection. If I forget, it’s not a failure—just a signal to revisit the why behind the rules.

Final thought:
"The word ‘need’ is scary because it feels absolute. But ‘need’ here just means ‘this is useful for X.’ It’s not a moral law—it’s a tool. And tools are meant to be used, not worshipped."

Next step: Test this hybrid system. Observe how often I forget the rules with vs. without notes, and adjust accordingly.

The Illusion of Notes: How Simplification Creates Fear

1. The Paradox of Fear and Notes

I noticed something strange: the mere fact that I have a note—something written down—triggers fear. But when I hold the same idea in my memory, there’s no fear at all. Why?

I realized: the moment I write something down, I start believing it as an obligation. The note becomes a command, a rule I must follow to avoid something bad—like losing my state of mind. The act of writing turns abstract thoughts into something real, something I must obey. Fear is born from belief, and belief comes from treating words as reality.

But where does this belief come from? I thought I had trained myself not to believe in anything. Yet here I am, suddenly believing in a scrap of text. How did this slip through?

2. The Trap of Simplification

When I created the note, I extracted just two points from everything I know. I told myself: "Just remember the note. Nothing else matters." Without realizing it, I had replaced my entire understanding of reality with two bullet points.

My mind, my knowledge—it’s all a vast web of observations, experiences, and nuances. But the note reduced it to a fragment. And when I focus only on that fragment, my brain loses the context that keeps me grounded. It’s like staring at a single pixel of a painting and thinking it’s the whole picture.

The problem isn’t the note itself—it’s the act of isolating information. My knowledge is a system. When I try to extract a "guide" or a "rule" from it, I break the system. The note becomes a false reality, and my brain, deprived of the full context, starts inventing meanings to fill the gaps.

3. The Physical Metaphor: Looking Left vs. Looking Right

I’ve noticed something fascinating about how my mind works:

When I think about everything I know—my full understanding of reality—I look to the left (and slightly up).

When I think about the note, I look down and to the right.

This isn’t just a quirk—it’s a mechanism of perception.

Left (Up): Full memory, full context. No room for misinterpretation because I’m seeing the whole.

Right (Down): Isolated fragment. My brain fills in the blanks with assumptions, fears, and invented meanings.

The note forces me to look right. And when I look right, I lose the safety net of my full knowledge.

4. The False Promise of Simplification

I’ve made this mistake a thousand times:

I understand something complex.

I try to distill it into a simple rule or note.

I follow the note instead of the original understanding.

Everything breaks.

Why? Because a simplified version can never replace the full truth. The note is incomplete, and incompleteness distorts reality.

Example 1: A grocery list ("Buy milk, bread") works because it’s purely functional. It doesn’t claim to explain reality—it’s just a reminder.

Example 2: A "life rule" note ("Always do X to avoid Y") fails because it pretends to be complete. My brain treats it as the truth, not a truth.

The note becomes a crutch—and crutches collapse under weight.

5. The Core Realization: Notes Can’t Replace Memory

I thought: "Maybe I just need to write down EVERYTHING I know." But that’s absurd.

If I write all my knowledge, the note becomes useless—because I’d just be re-reading what I already know.

If I write only part of it, the note becomes dangerous—because it’s missing the safeguards that keep my mind balanced.

The solution? Trust my memory.

My full knowledge is already stored in my mind.

Notes can’t capture the depth, the connections, the realness of what I know.

When I rely on notes, I replace reality with words—and words are not reality.

6. The Two Types of Notes (And Why One is Toxic)

Not all notes are harmful. There are two categories:

Type

Purpose

Effect on Mind

Functional Notes

Reminders (e.g., "Buy groceries")

Neutral—no emotional charge.

Belief Notes

Attempts to distill wisdom/rules

Dangerous—triggers fear, obsession.

Functional notes are tools. Belief notes are traps.

A grocery list doesn’t claim to explain the universe. It’s just a list.

A "life rule" note pretends to be a shortcut to truth—and that’s the problem.

7. The Way Forward: No More Distillations

Conclusion:

Never try to replace my full understanding with a note.

Never isolate fragments of knowledge—it always backfires.

Use notes only for mundane tasks (lists, schedules), never for meaning.

Trust my memory. The full picture is already there—I don’t need to simplify it.

Final Thought:
The note I wrote? I’ll keep it only as a relic—a reminder of this lesson. But I won’t think about it. Because thinking about it means looking right, and looking right means losing the whole.

The Fear of the Meaning of Words: A Journey into the Subconscious

1. The Trigger: A Note and the Fear It Sparked

I was updating my notes when I stumbled upon something unsettling. I had written two reminders to myself:

"Never think about the meaning of words."

"Never look at reality through the lens of words."

At first, I thought my stress came from isolating these phrases from their context—ripping them out of the larger system of thoughts I’d built. But then I realized: the stress came from thinking about the meaning of these words themselves.

I had written a strict command: "Never do this, never do that." And then I started obsessing over what it meant. What did "never" really imply? That I must follow this rule perfectly? That I must never forget, never fail? Suddenly, these words became a burden—a set of absolute demands I had to obey.

Why did this happen?
Because I believed in the power of the words. I believed that if I wrote something down, it became a law I had to follow. And that belief created stress.

2. The Illusion of "Must" and "Should"

I noticed something fascinating: the world operates on a kind of "must."

If I want to satisfy hunger, I must eat.

If I want a good grade, I must study.

If the sun is shining, it must be day.

These aren’t just observations—they feel like laws of nature, described by words like "must," "should," and "means." The problem isn’t the words themselves, but what I believe they imply.

When I looked at my note, I didn’t just see words—I saw a command from my past self to my present self, and I believed it was binding. That belief made me anxious.

But here’s the truth:

The "must" in "I must follow this note" is not a law of nature.

It’s just a description of how I think the world works.

And if I don’t believe in it, it loses its power over me.

3. The Subconscious: A Repository of Past Meanings

I used to think that to understand the real meaning of words, I had to dig into my subconscious. Why? Because I believed that’s where the true definitions lived—the ones tied to my emotions, my past, my deepest fears.

What did I find there?

Fear-based meanings: "If I don’t follow this rule, I’ll hate myself."

Past traumas: "When I was a child, if someone didn’t love me, I felt miserable. Therefore, if I’m not loved now, I’ll feel miserable again."

Absolute demands: "I must never fail. I must always be perfect."

These weren’t just descriptions—they were emotional landmines, waiting to explode if I believed them.

But here’s the catch:

These meanings came from past observations (e.g., "When X happened, I felt Y").

I assumed that because it happened before, it must be true now.

But observations ≠ reality. Just because I felt a certain way in the past doesn’t mean it’s a law.

4. The Core Problem: Belief in Descriptions

The real issue isn’t the subconscious. It’s not even the meanings of words.
It’s belief.

I believed that:

If a description matches my observations, it must be true.

"If I don’t do what I ‘should,’ I’ll suffer." (Observation: This happened before.)

"Therefore, it’s a law." (Belief: This must always be true.)

If it’s true, I must obey it.

"I must follow my note perfectly, or I’ll fail."

But observations are not reality.

Just because I saw something happen doesn’t mean it will always happen.

Just because I felt a certain way before doesn’t mean I must feel that way now.

When I stop believing in these descriptions, they lose their power.

5. The Two Types of Meanings

I realized there are two ways to interpret meaning:

Looking "Up" (Objective)

Looking "Down/Left" (Subconscious)

"The sun is shining → It’s daytime."

"The sun is shining → I’m wasting good weather by staying inside."

"I want love → I should be kind to others."

"I want love → If I don’t get it, I’ll be miserable."

"I failed → I should try again."

"I failed → I’m a worthless failure."

The first is neutral. It’s just how the world works.
The second is emotional. It’s tied to past pain, fear, and conditioning.

The mistake?
I kept looking down—digging into the subconscious—because I thought that’s where the real meaning was. But all I found was fear, guilt, and shame.

6. The Solution: Stop Believing in Meanings

The breakthrough came when I understood:

Meanings are just descriptions. Some are useful (objective), some are harmful (emotional).

I don’t have to believe in any of them.

Example:

"I must follow my note perfectly." → If I believe this, I stress.

"I wrote a note to remind myself of something." → If I see it as just a tool, no stress.

Key Insight:

The subconscious doesn’t hold truth—it holds reactions to past experiences.

If I don’t believe in those reactions, they can’t control me.

7. Testing the New Approach: Can I Think About Meanings Safely?

Now, the question is:
Can I think about the meanings of words without stressing?

Old Rule: "Never think about the meaning of words."
New Idea: "Think about meanings, but don’t believe in them."

Experiment:

Look at a word (e.g., "failure").

Ask: "What does this mean?"

Subconscious: "You’re worthless."

Objective: "You tried and didn’t succeed this time."

Don’t believe either. Just observe.

Result?

No stress, because I’m not attaching to any meaning.

No fear, because I know none of it is absolute.

8. The Final Realization: The Subconscious is Just a Memory Bank

The subconscious isn’t a source of truth. It’s just:

A record of past reactions.

A collection of copied emotions (from parents, society, past experiences).

Example:

As a child, I saw my mom sad when my dad ignored her.

I learned: "If someone doesn’t love me, I’ll be sad."

Now, as an adult, I assume this is still true—but it’s just a learned pattern.

The fix?

Stop treating the subconscious as gospel.

Stop believing that past reactions must repeat.

9. The New Freedom: Living Without "Must"

Now, I see:

"Must" is just a word. It’s not a law.

"Should" is just a suggestion. It’s not a command.

Meanings are just descriptions. They’re not reality.

What changes?

I can write notes without stressing over them.

I can think about meanings without fear.

I can live without the weight of absolute demands.

Final Thought:
The subconscious is like a junk drawer—full of old, outdated reactions. I don’t need to dig through it. I don’t need to believe in it.

I’m free.

Summary of Key Insights

Meanings are not reality—they’re just descriptions.

The subconscious stores past reactions, not truths.

Belief is the problem—not the words themselves.

I can think about meanings safely if I don’t believe in them.

Freedom comes from detachment—not from avoiding thoughts, but from not clinging to them.

Now, the question is:
What’s left when you stop believing in meanings?
Answer:
Just life—unfiltered, unburdened, and free.

A Realization After the Guide: The Trap of Words and Perception

1. The Aftermath of Writing the Guide

When I finished writing the previous guide and began testing its ideas, something unexpected happened. I truly absorbed everything I had written—not just as abstract concepts, but as a vivid, almost tangible reality. The words I’d used to describe my world, my thoughts, and my existence suddenly crystallized into a vision before me. And that vision was unsettling.

It was as if I had constructed a world—my world—out of those words, and in that world, everything was meaningless, bleak, and suffocating. The weight of this realization hit hard. I found myself trapped in this mental landscape, struggling to look away or disengage, because it felt real. It felt like the truth of my existence.

2. The Emotional Toll

This wasn’t just an intellectual exercise anymore. The despair I’d articulated in the guide now felt like my actual reality, and it was difficult to shake. I couldn’t easily distract myself or dismiss it, because the words had taken on a life of their own. They had become the lens through which I saw everything—and that lens distorted everything into something dark and hollow.

I even felt a strange kind of self-pity, though it wasn’t productive. It was more like being stuck in a feedback loop: the more I focused on the bleakness of the world I’d described, the more real and inescapable it became.

3. The Core Mistake: Confusing Words with Reality

Then I recognized the error—a classic one, in fact. Here’s what happened:

Step 1: Observing Reality
I started by looking at real things: my thoughts, my surroundings, the way my mind processed experiences. I described them using words, trying to capture what I saw as accurately as possible.

Step 2: The Shift to Words Themselves
But at some point, I stopped looking at the actual things those words were pointing to. Instead, I began staring at the words themselves—at their definitions, their connotations, the mental images they conjured. I treated them as if they were reality, rather than mere symbols representing reality.

Step 3: The Distortion
The problem? The world I imagined based on those words was not the same as the world I had originally observed. The words had become a filter, warping my perception. I was no longer seeing reality—I was seeing a version of reality, constructed from language, and that version was far darker than the original.

4. The Fix: Words Are Not the World

The solution, once I saw it, was simple (though not easy to remember in practice):

Do not mistake the description for the thing described.
The words I use to talk about my mind, my life, or the universe are just tools—they’re not the things themselves. They’re like finger pointing at the moon: useful for directing attention, but not the moon itself.

If I describe my reality in bleak terms, that doesn’t mean reality is bleak. It means I chose bleak words.

If I spin a story about meaninglessness, that doesn’t mean life is meaningless. It means I framed it that way.

The "world" I see when I close my eyes and imagine my own descriptions is a construction—not the world I actually live in.

5. Why Did This Happen Again?

I’ve made this mistake before. I’ve even written about it. So why did I fall into the same trap?

Perhaps I forgot—really forgot—that words are slippery. They feel solid when we use them, but they’re more like water: they take the shape of whatever container we pour them into. If I’m not careful, I’ll start drinking from a cup labeled "reality" when it’s actually just ink.

Or maybe it’s harder to remember in the moment, when the words feel true. When the story I’m telling myself feels like the only possible story.

6. Moving Forward

The lesson, then, is vigilance:

Observe first. Look at what’s actually happening—thoughts, sensations, the world—before labeling it.

Use words lightly. They’re helpful, but they’re not the territory.

Question the map. If the world my words describe feels unbearable, maybe the problem isn’t the world. Maybe it’s the words.

Because in the end, no matter how compelling the story, it’s still just a story. And I get to choose whether to live in it—or to look beyond it.

Final Reflection

This wasn’t just a mistake in reasoning; it was a reminder of how easily we can become prisoners of our own narratives. The challenge isn’t to avoid describing reality—it’s to remember that the description is never the same as the thing itself.

And perhaps that’s the real work: learning to hold words loosely, so they don’t harden into cages.

The Paradox of Belief and Reality: A Personal Struggle

1. The Initial Distress: A "Correct" but Unsettling Description

I’m recording another update because my state of mind has worsened. Why? Because I wrote a description of reality—and it turned out disturbing. The problem is that it’s accurate. But I don’t know whether to believe in it or not, and this uncertainty is stressing me out.

At first glance, the dilemma seems absurd: How can something be true yet unworthy of belief? But the confusion runs deeper. I’m caught in a loop where I think that not believing in this description would mean I no longer believe it’s correct. Yet that’s not the case. The real issue is that I’m conflating two entirely different things: the accuracy of a description and the act of believing in it as ultimate truth.

2. The Illusion of "Belief in Accuracy"

I realize now that belief doesn’t come in degrees or types. There’s no such thing as "believing that a description is correct." Belief is binary: either you accept something as the reality of truth, or you don’t.

What I thought before: If I stop believing in a description, it means I think it’s wrong—but it’s not wrong. It’s precise. So I keep believing in it, even though it makes me feel terrible, because I fear that rejecting it would be a lie.

The breakthrough: Belief isn’t about accuracy. A description can be flawless in mapping observations, but that doesn’t mean the observations themselves are reality. Observations are just data points—they’re not truth. So believing in a description isn’t about trusting its precision; it’s about treating it as if it were the fundamental nature of existence.

3. The Trap of Emotional Attachment to Descriptions

I’ve fallen into an illusion: I thought that believing in a description just meant acknowledging that it matches my observations well. But in reality, when I believe in something, I react to it emotionally as if it were absolute reality.

Example: If I describe a situation as "bleak" and believe in that description, I don’t just note that my observations align with "bleakness"—I feel the bleakness as if it’s an inherent property of the world. My stress, my dread, my resistance—these aren’t responses to a neutral description. They’re proof that I’ve elevated the description to the status of truth.

The core error: I assumed that belief was just about correspondence (does this description fit the facts?). But belief is about ontology (does this description define what is?).

4. The Way Out: Disentangling Observation from Reality

The solution is to recognize that:

A description can be accurate (it may perfectly capture patterns in my observations).

But observations ≠ reality. They’re just interpreted data. Reality is something else—something unmediated, unfiltered by descriptions.

Belief is the act of confusing the two. When I believe in a description, I’m not just saying, "This matches what I see." I’m saying, "This is what is." And that’s where the suffering comes from.

5. The Practical Implications: How to Stop Believing Without Denying Truth

Old fear: If I stop believing in this description, I’m denying its accuracy. But that’s not true. I can acknowledge its precision while refusing to grant it ontological weight.

New freedom: A description can be useful or true to my experience without being real. I can say, "This framework explains my observations well," without saying, "This framework is how the world actually is."

The emotional shift: When I stop treating descriptions as reality, they lose their power over me. The "disturbing" description remains technically correct, but it no longer feels like a prison because I’m not mistaking it for the walls of existence itself.

6. The Deeper Realization: Belief as a Choice, Not a Conclusion

I’ve written about this before in older guides, but now it’s clearer:

Belief is not a passive state. It’s an active commitment to treating something as real.

Doubt isn’t about facts. It’s about where I place my allegiance—in descriptions or in the raw, unnameable reality beneath them.

The path forward: To observe without believing. To describe without worshipping the description. To hold truths lightly, knowing that even the most accurate map is not the territory.

7. The Remaining Question: What Is Reality, Then?

If observations aren’t reality, and descriptions aren’t reality, then what is? I don’t have an answer yet. But I know this:

Reality isn’t what I can describe. It’s what exists before and beyond description.

Belief is the barrier. As long as I’m believing in anything—even in the most precise, well-constructed framework—I’m still one step removed from what’s actually true.

For now, that’s enough. The stress lifts when I remember: I don’t have to believe in anything. I can just see.

Final Thought: The Paradox Resolved

The distress came from thinking that not believing in a description meant rejecting its truth. But the opposite is possible: A description can be true without being real. And I can be free.

The Crisis of Unrestricted Thought: A Descent into Semantic Doubt

1. The Trigger: Allowing the Mind Too Much Freedom

I broke something in myself. It happened when I allowed my mind to freely think about the meaning of words—without control, without restraint. That was the mistake. The brain isn’t meant to have total freedom. Left unchecked, it spirals into nonsense, latching onto absurd convictions. And that’s exactly what mine did.

I let myself ponder the idea that "nothing can be trusted." But then my mind took it further: If nothing can be trusted, then words themselves cannot be trusted. Not just their meanings, but the very act of description. All language, all observations—everything became suspect. I had created a paradox: the belief that "nothing can be trusted" became the one thing I did trust, and that belief undermined itself.

2. The Paradox: Trusting Distrust

Here’s how I tried to fix it:
I told myself: "You can’t even trust the idea that nothing can be trusted."
In other words:

My observations seem to confirm that observations are all I have.

But I can’t trust that observations confirm anything.

The problem? I had still believed in the reality of distrust. I had treated "nothing can be trusted" as an absolute truth—and that was the trap. If you trust that, then you’re trusting something, which contradicts the premise.

3. The Only Anchor: "I See What I See"

After unraveling this, I landed on a single, unshakable point:
"I believe that I see what I see."
Not that what I see is real—just that I see it.

I don’t trust that my observations reflect reality.

I don’t trust that my descriptions of those observations are accurate.

But I do trust that if I perceive something, I perceive it.

This is the minimal, necessary belief. Without it, everything collapses. You can’t function if you doubt whether you’re even perceiving. So I accept this conditional truth: "I see what I see," and I stop there. I don’t need to believe it’s "real." I just work with what’s in front of me.

4. The Error: Letting the Mind Run Wild

Why did this happen? Because I gave my brain too much permission.
I thought: "I’ll let myself think about anything, without limits."
And my mind, left to its own devices, latched onto a destructive idea—"nothing can be trusted"—and treated it as real. It wasn’t just an abstract thought; it became a belief.

The lesson: The mind cannot be trusted with total freedom. It needs structure—a rigid, logical framework for describing observations without slipping into belief. No emotional charge, no hidden assumptions, no faith in the words themselves.

5. The Way Out: Observations Without Belief

Now I understand:

I can describe what I observe.

I can use words as tools to navigate those observations.

But I cannot trust that the words or observations correspond to any ultimate truth.

The goal isn’t to uncover some absolute reality. The goal is functional well-being.

If a way of thinking helps me feel stable, I use it.

If a description aligns with my observations, I work with it—without needing to believe it’s "true."

I don’t need to solve the paradox of perception. I just need to live within it.

6. The Core Realization: Conditional Survival

At the deepest level, I’ve accepted:

I don’t know if I’m perceiving reality.

I don’t know if my descriptions are accurate.

But I must act as if I am perceiving something, or I cannot function at all.

This isn’t faith. It’s pragmatism. I don’t believe I see what I see—I just proceed as if I do, because the alternative is paralysis.

The moment I tried to question even that—to ask, "Do I really see what I see?"—everything fell apart. Some questions aren’t meant to be answered. Some doubts are too corrosive to entertain.

7. The Resolution: Words as Tools, Not Truths

Now, my approach is:

Observe. Note what I perceive.

Describe. Use words to map those perceptions.

Use. Apply those descriptions to navigate life—without demanding they be "true."

I don’t need to trust my mind. I just need to manage it.

Final Thought: The Purpose of It All

The point was never to find absolute truth. The point was to stop suffering.
If a framework of thought keeps me stable, that’s enough. I don’t need to believe in it. I just need it to work.

The Struggle with Belief: A First-Person Account

1. The Initial Realization

At first, nothing seemed to help me—not fully, at least. The things I’d written before did offer some relief, but only to a degree. The stress remained overwhelming. I kept clinging to the idea that words meant something, that their definitions held weight, and I couldn’t grasp how to stop believing in that. It felt like a trap: the more I tried to escape, the deeper I sank.

2. The Core Insight: The Nature of Belief

Then, I stumbled upon a critical realization: belief is singular. There is only one kind of belief—the belief that something is real. No other form exists. There is no such thing as believing that a description "accurately reflects reality" or that a word "correctly defines" something. Those are illusions. The only belief is the belief in reality itself.

And if that’s the case, then the solution isn’t to adjust belief—it’s to stop believing entirely.

3. The Misconception of Partial Belief

I thought I could believe in some things but not others, as if belief were a spectrum. I’d tell myself:

"Okay, I don’t believe this is reality… but I still believe in it in some other way."

"I don’t trust my observations, but I still trust my feelings—or maybe the descriptions, or the meanings behind them."

But that’s impossible. Belief isn’t modular. You either believe something is real, or you don’t. There are no halfway points, no alternative angles. The moment you try to qualify belief—"I believe this, but not that way"—you’re still trapped in the same cycle.

4. The Only Way Out: Total Non-Belief

The breakthrough came when I understood that the only escape is to stop believing altogether. Not just to reject the idea that something is "real," but to cease believing in observations, words, feelings, descriptions, and meanings entirely.

No trust in observations—they’re just data, not truth.

No trust in words—they’re symbols, not containers of meaning.

No trust in feelings—they’re reactions, not evidence.

No trust in descriptions—they’re interpretations, not reality.

The mistake was thinking I could selectively disbelieve. But belief doesn’t work like that. You either believe, or you don’t. And if you see that something isn’t real, the only coherent response is to stop believing in it completely.

5. The Shift in State

This isn’t about logic or argument—it’s about a change in state. The goal isn’t to convince myself that reality is an illusion; it’s to exist in a state where belief no longer operates.

Before: "I don’t believe this is real, but I still believe in it somehow."

After: "I simply do not believe. Period."

It’s not about replacing one belief with another. It’s about the absence of belief itself.

6. Why Was This So Hard?

Looking back, the confusion came from overcomplicating the idea of belief. I fixated on the phrase "I believe this is real" and lost sight of the simplicity: belief is binary. You either believe, or you don’t. There are no layers, no exceptions, no "other perspectives."

I kept searching for a way to believe differently, as if there were hidden nuances. But there aren’t. Belief is absolute, or it’s nothing.

7. The Stupor and the Solution

The mental block—the "stupor"—stemmed from resisting this simplicity. I was so focused on how to believe (or not believe) that I missed the obvious: just stop.

Not: "I’ll believe this but not that."

Not: "I’ll believe less intensely."

Just: "I will not believe."

Because in the end, there’s nothing to believe in. Not reality, not words, not feelings. Only the act of believing—or not.

Final Reflection

This wasn’t about solving a puzzle. It was about unlearning a reflex. The mind clings to belief like a lifeline, even when it’s the very thing drowning you. The way out? Let go entirely.

A Shift in Perception: The Collapse of Belief in Descriptions

1. The Old Framework: Trust in Descriptions

For a long time, my mind operated on a foundation of descriptions. Everything I understood about reality was built on them—what could happen, what couldn’t happen, what I should believe and what I shouldn’t. These descriptions carried their own logic: "Observations can’t be trusted because they’re unproven," or "This explanation is valid, but that one isn’t." My entire way of thinking relied on accepting or rejecting descriptions based on some internal system of rules.

But here’s the catch: I stopped thinking about the meaning of words themselves. I stopped questioning whether the descriptions I clung to actually meant anything in reality. I just… believed them. Or rather, I believed in the act of describing, as if the descriptions were reality itself.

2. The First Crisis: Losing Faith in Observations

At some point, I realized I could no longer trust my own observations—not just in the sense that they might deceive me (like an optical illusion), but in a far deeper way. The problem wasn’t just that my senses could be wrong; it was that I couldn’t even prove I was sensing anything at all.

I’d look at the sun and think, "I see the sun." But how did I know I was actually seeing it? Maybe "seeing the sun" was just another description my brain invented—a story it told itself. The description "I see the sun" assumed that:

There was a sun.

I was seeing it.

My perception of "seeing" matched some objective reality.

But none of that could be proven. The description was just words strung together, pointing at something I couldn’t verify. So why should I believe it?

3. The Deeper Realization: Descriptions Are Meaningless

This led me to a more radical conclusion: If I can’t trust that I see what I see, then no description of what I see can be valid.

Here’s how it breaks down:

A description claims to represent reality ("The sky is blue").

But if I can’t prove I’m actually seeing the sky (or seeing "blue"), then the description is fundamentally empty.

It’s not just that the description might be inaccurate—it’s that it cannot correspond to anything real because I have no way to confirm what’s real.

This isn’t just skepticism. It’s the collapse of the entire concept of description. If I can’t trust that my observations are real, then any words I use to describe them are just sounds or symbols without meaning.

4. The Brain’s Hierarchy of Doubt

I think the brain works in layers. You don’t move to a deeper level of questioning until you’ve exhausted the shallower one.

First layer: "Can I trust my observations?"
(Answer: No, because they’re unproven.)

Second layer: "But can I even trust that I’m observing anything at all?"
(Answer: No, because "observing" is itself an unprovable description.)

Only after dismantling the first layer did my brain naturally progress to the second. It’s like a video game: you can’t access the next level until you’ve cleared the current one. My mind wouldn’t let me question the deeper issue ("Do I see what I see?") until I’d fully grappled with the shallower one ("Are my observations reliable?").

5. The Current State: No Ground to Stand On

Now, I’m left with this:

I cannot believe any description is accurate, because descriptions assume I know what I’m describing.

I cannot believe my observations, because I can’t prove I’m observing anything.

Reality, as a concept, has no foothold—not because it’s illusory, but because any attempt to define it relies on descriptions, which I now see as fundamentally ungrounded.

This isn’t nihilism. It’s meta-awareness: the realization that the tools we use to understand reality (words, logic, observations) are themselves part of the problem. They’re like a mirror reflecting a mirror—endless regression, no solid ground.

6. The Paradox of Expression

The irony? I’m using descriptions right now to explain why descriptions are meaningless.

I say, "I see the sun," but I don’t know if I see it.
I say, "Descriptions are empty," but that’s itself a description.
I’m trapped in language, even as I dismantle it.

Perhaps the only honest stance is silence—but even that’s a description of a state ("I am silent").

Final Thought: Where Do We Go From Here?

This isn’t a place of despair. It’s a threshold. If descriptions fail, what’s left? Maybe the question isn’t "What can I know?" but "What happens when I stop pretending I can know anything?"

(And yes—I’m describing that too.)

The Crisis of Trust in Perception and Language

1. The Collapse of Belief in Descriptions
I look at the sun and cannot believe that the description "I am looking at the sun" is correct—because I cannot trust that I am truly seeing what I see. This realization unravels everything. Before, when I believed descriptions were accurate, that belief gave me a false sense of security: the certainty that nothing could be trusted. But now, even that certainty is gone. If I cannot trust my own descriptions, I cannot be sure that nothing is trustworthy. I am left suspended in doubt: Should I believe? Should I not? The inability to decide is agonizing.

Every time I try to construct a new description—"No, this is why you can’t trust anything"—I only spiral deeper. The words themselves feel hollow because I know they, too, are just descriptions, not truth. They don’t capture reality; they’re not precise. The more I try to explain, the more I stress, because I see the futility: all words are untrustworthy from every angle. They don’t describe; they distort.

2. The Only Escape: Silence
The only way to stop the stress is to stop trying to create descriptions at all. If I invent an explanation, I immediately see its flaws and distrust it. The solution? Stop speaking. Stop explaining. Stop justifying. There’s no point. Words won’t save me.

I find myself in a strange state—unnerving, disorienting. Living here feels wrong, but I’ve stumbled upon a workaround.

The Default Trap: Obsessing Over Meaning

3. The Automatic Pull of Language
In this state, my mind defaults to analyzing meaning. When I observe something—like my inability to trust what I see—I fixate on the meaning of that observation. The result? A distorted, unsettling picture of the world. The state is miserable, and I don’t know how to act.

As we discovered before, thinking about the meaning of words is the core problem. It ruins my state. Even viewing reality through the lens of language is toxic. But now, I lack even the descriptions that once convinced me to stop doing this. There’s no argument left to tell me, "This is meaningless; don’t engage." The words themselves are gone.

All that remains is the raw choice: I can think about meaning, or I can not.

4. The Illusion of Everything
I realize now that everything might be an illusion—starting with the fact that I’m even seeing anything at all. Maybe I don’t see what I think I see. Maybe "reality" is a mirage. Descriptions of reality? Also illusions. How can I describe what I see if I can’t trust that I’m seeing it?

In this state, I’m free to obsess over anything—meaning, descriptions, reality—because nothing holds me back. But obsessing leads nowhere. There’s no progress, no direction. Just stagnation.

5. The Only Path Forward: Rejecting Meaning
If I want to live without suffering, I must stop thinking about the meaning of words—permanently. There’s no joy in it. No motivation. No psychological reward. When I fixate on meaning, I ignore reality itself. I’m trapped in a loop of empty symbols that evoke nothing.

But when I stop—when I remind myself, "Never think about the meaning of words"—my state improves instantly. It’s not about belief anymore. I don’t need to believe that words are meaningless. I just stop engaging with them.

6. The Two Rules for Survival
From this, two rules emerge—rules I don’t need to justify or believe in, because justification itself is part of the problem:

Never think about the meaning of words.

Never view reality through the lens of language.

These aren’t commands I follow because they’re "true." I follow them because thinking about meaning is useless. It doesn’t help; it only harms. And without the crutch of belief—without the illusion that my perceptions are real—I can drop these habits effortlessly.

7. The Test
Now, I’ll test this state. How sustainable is it? Can I live without the noise of meaning? For now, it feels lighter. The suffocating weight of language is gone. But the real proof will come with time.

For now, I’ll stop explaining. I’ll stop describing. I’ll just be—without words.

Key Realizations (Summarized)

Insight

Original Phrasing

Distrust of descriptions

"I cannot believe that the description is correct, because I cannot trust that I see what I see."

The stress of uncertainty

"If I don’t know whether to believe, I stress—because belief and disbelief both feel impossible."

The futility of words

"Words are not precise; they don’t describe reality. They’re just empty descriptions."

The trap of meaning

"Thinking about the meaning of words is the main problem—it ruins my state."

Reality vs. language

"When I think about meaning, I ignore reality. Reality is images, fantasies—not words."

The solution: silence

"The only way out is to stop thinking about meaning. No arguments needed—just stop."

The Problem with Guides and Descriptions

I realize now that the previous guide I wrote doesn’t work—because it’s incomplete. It was just me describing my observations, but that description itself has become a distraction. I can’t stop thinking about the meaning of that observation, the meaning of its description, and why I even wrote it down. It feels like I didn’t write it for no reason—that it must mean something. But here’s the core of it: all descriptions are empty. They’re just placeholders, meaningless, because you can’t trust that any description is accurate, real, or "correct."

I’m stuck in a loop: I tell myself, "Don’t think about the meaning of words," but then I immediately start thinking about the meaning of that phrase. It’s impossible to stop. So the first thing to understand is that any guide, any description—including this one—is completely hollow. There’s no point in dwelling on it. The act of writing a description is useless, a waste of mental energy. The goal is to live without descriptions, without letting them occupy your mind. No internal narration, no fixation on what words "mean." Just… nothing.

But here’s the catch: I can’t write a guide. If I try, I’ll just end up obsessing over its meaning, which defeats the purpose. So the solution is to not have a guide at all. If there’s no guide, there’s nothing to think about. No description? Nothing to fixate on. The absence of these things means there’s no "meaning" to latch onto.

The Paradox of Reading and Meaning

The issue isn’t just writing—it’s reading what I’ve written. Here’s how it happens:

I tell myself a phrase (e.g., "Don’t think about the meaning of words").

Later, I recall that phrase, and to "understand" it, I automatically imagine its meaning.

By doing that, I violate the instruction itself—I’m no longer in the state the phrase was supposed to create.

This suggests that the only solution is to never write anything down. But wait—maybe there’s another way. Maybe I can read my own words without assigning meaning to them. Maybe understanding doesn’t require interpreting.

Let me test this:

I write a guide.

I look at it later.

Instead of analyzing its "meaning," I just see the words and know what to do (or not do) without the mental translation.

And… it works. I can read the guide without getting pulled into the meaning. The key insight: You don’t need to think about meaning to understand words. You can just act based on them, like following instructions without overthinking.

The Illusion of Belief and Trust

The deeper problem is belief. I used to think:

"I see that descriptions are meaningless, so I should believe that."
But then: How do I know I’m really seeing that? Maybe I’m just telling myself a story.

This leads to a paradox:

If I believe "descriptions are meaningless," I’m still relying on a description (the one saying they’re meaningless).

If I don’t believe it, I’m back to square one.

The breakthrough: Belief itself is irrelevant. There’s no need to "believe" or "disbelieve" anything. Descriptions aren’t tools for truth—they’re just tools, period. Like a hammer: you don’t ask if the hammer is "true"; you just use it if it helps.

The only practical use for descriptions is communication—sharing observations with others, knowing full well that no one (including me) can verify if those observations are "real." But even that’s optional. Most of the time, descriptions are just noise.

The Shift in Experience

When I stop thinking about the meaning of words, something changes:

Motivation returns. Before, when I was fixated on meanings, everything felt pointless. Why play a game? Why try? Nothing mattered.

Curiosity and desire reappear. Without the mental weight of "what does this mean?", my brain shifts to other modes—imagination, sensation, action.

Comfort. It’s easier to exist when you’re not constantly translating reality into words and then questioning those words.

It’s not about forcing myself to ignore meaning. It’s about realizing that meaning is optional. I can choose to engage with it or not, like flipping a switch. And when I don’t, life feels lighter.

The Final Realization

Guides are traps if you think about their meaning. The moment you write one, you’re stuck analyzing it.

Meaning is a choice, not a necessity. You can read, act, and live without it.

Belief is a dead end. There’s no "correct" way to interpret reality—so why bother?

The only rule: If a thought or description pulls you into overthinking, drop it. Keep what’s useful; discard the rest.

Now, I’ll test this state—live in it, see how it feels. No grand conclusions, no final answers. Just… moving forward without the noise.

The State of Obsession with Meaning

I find myself in a state where I am constantly thinking about the meaning of words. At first, I told myself: "There’s no point in thinking about the meaning of words. It’s useless, so I should stop." And for a while, it worked—I stopped. But then I doubted: How do I even know this is my default state? What if I’m mistaken about what I’m observing?

I realized my belief was based on observations and feelings—I see myself thinking about meanings, so I conclude that’s what I’m doing. But observations can’t be trusted. If I try to stop thinking about meanings, my state changes, which seems to confirm I was thinking about them… but how can I trust that? The description itself might be flawed. So I decided: I won’t define this state. I won’t claim it’s ‘thinking about meanings.’ I’ll just acknowledge there’s a state, and another state I can shift into.

The Paradox of Action Without Reason

I thought: "I can stop thinking about meanings just by deciding to." But why? What’s the reason? Earlier, I’d say, "It’s pointless," but how do I know it’s pointless? That’s just another description, another observation I can’t trust.

I concluded: I can’t create a real reason. I can only act without one. If I say, "Stop thinking about meanings," and do it—without believing in the words—it works. But the moment I ask why, I’m stuck. The act itself doesn’t need a reason, but my mind demands one.

Key insight: I can act without reason, but my mind resists this.

The Illusion of Descriptions

I thought: Descriptions are empty. If I can’t trust that I see what I see, then no description is "true." Words don’t anchor to reality; they’re just… words.

But then: What if I don’t need descriptions to be true? What if I just use them? For example, I say, "I can stop thinking about meanings," and believe it—not because it’s true, but because believing it changes my state.

Problem: Belief itself is a description. I’m still relying on words.

The Cycle of Belief and Doubt

I tried: "Just believe you can stop." But belief requires trust in the description. If I say, "This is real," I’m still using words to justify action.

Alternative idea: What if I don’t describe at all? Just see that thinking about meanings is useless—without words—and act. But even that "seeing" is an observation, which I can’t trust.

Conclusion: There’s no escape from descriptions. Even "not describing" is a description.

The Only Way Out: Action Without Understanding

After all this, I realized: I can’t understand anything. Not descriptions, not observations, not states. Understanding requires trust in truth, but truth is unprovable.

What remains?

Seeing: I observe two states—one where I think about meanings, one where I don’t.

Acting: I can shift between them by deciding to, without needing to understand why.

Letting go of "why": The demand for reasons is the trap. Action doesn’t need them.

Final insight: I spent all this time trying to understand, but the solution was to stop trying. Just see and do.

The Guide’s Core Message

The "guide" I was searching for isn’t a set of rules or explanations. It’s this:

You don’t need to understand to change your state.

Descriptions are tools, not truths. Use them if they help, discard them if they don’t.

The only real things are the states themselves—everything else is noise.

Test it: Say "Stop thinking about meanings" and do it, without analyzing. The shift happens despite the lack of reason.

Post-Script: The Fear of the Void

But what if this is all a delusion? What if the states aren’t real? That’s the old habit talking—the need for certainty. The point isn’t to prove anything. It’s to act and see what happens.

Last thought: Maybe the only "truth" is that you can always choose to act, even when nothing makes sense.

Structure Notes:

Preserved the author’s raw, recursive style while clarifying the logical steps.

Grouped ideas thematically (e.g., "The Illusion of Descriptions," "Action Without Reason").

Emphasized the paradoxes (e.g., using words to reject words) that drive the author’s frustration.

Ended with the actionable takeaway—the core of their "guide."

The Illusion of Meaning: A Journey Out of the Imaginary World

1. The Problem: Trapped in the Head

I’ve been struggling for a long time. I can’t stop thinking about the meaning of words. Not just words—believing in them, searching for some reason, some cause to justify why I should stop. But nothing works. I’ve tried everything, and nothing changes.

The core of it is this: I’m sitting inside my head. I look inward, at thoughts, at words, at logic, at descriptions. I try to understand something, to grasp something in this world of words. I live in a world made of words, and I’m trying to find a way out. But how?

I thought: "If I can just find a real reason—not an imaginary one, but a real one—to stop thinking about meaning, then I can escape." But every "reason" I find is just another set of words. I’m searching for a real reason inside a world that is entirely imaginary.

2. The Realization: There Is Nothing in the Head

After years of this, I finally saw it: There is nothing in the head.

Nothing to believe in. Nothing to trust. The act of thinking about meaning—what I’ve been doing all this time—is just sitting in the head, staring at imaginary problems.

I used to think: "If I solve these problems in my head, then I can go back to reality and enjoy life."

But now I see: The problems in my head are imaginary. They can’t be solved because they don’t exist outside the head.

The real world doesn’t care about the words in my mind. The real world just is. It’s full of things I can see, touch, feel—but the moment I go back into my head, I’m trapped again in a made-up world where nothing is real.

3. The Two States: Head vs. Reality

There are only two states:

Sitting in the head – Thinking about words, meanings, logic, descriptions. Trying to believe in something, to prove something. But it’s all imaginary.

Living in reality – Just being. Feeling, seeing, doing. No need for belief, no need for proof.

The trick? I don’t need a reason to stop sitting in my head.

I thought I did. I thought I needed a real reason, something I could believe in, to justify leaving the imaginary world. But that’s the trap: The imaginary world can’t give me a real reason. It can only give me more imaginary reasons.

4. The Mistake: Believing in Belief

The biggest mistake was thinking that belief itself was real.

I used to think: "I need to believe in something to function."

But belief only exists inside the head. It’s part of the imaginary world.

In reality, there is no belief. There’s just experience—seeing, feeling, acting. The moment I step out of my head, I don’t believe in the sun, the sky, my own hands—I just see them.

But in the head? I imagine the sun, the sky, my thoughts—and then I believe in those imaginings. That’s the illusion.

5. The Solution: Stop Looking for Reasons

I don’t need a reason to leave the head. The head is the problem.

Before, I was stuck because I kept searching for a real reason inside an imaginary world.

But now I see: There is no real reason in the imaginary world. There never was.

The only way out is to stop searching—to just leave.

6. The New Perspective: Reality Doesn’t Need Proof

Now, when I’m in reality, I don’t believe in anything. I just am.

I don’t need to prove that I want to play a game. I just play.

I don’t need to justify my feelings. I just feel.

The imaginary world is still there. I can still go back into my head, still get lost in words. But now I know: It’s a choice.

If I stay in reality, everything is fine.

If I go back into my head, I’m just playing with illusions again.

7. The Final Insight: Words Are Just Tools

Words aren’t reality. They’re tools—for communication, for planning, for describing. But they’re not the world.

The imaginary world is made of words.

The real world is made of experience.

I don’t need to believe in words. I don’t need to solve the problems they create. I just need to live.

Conclusion: The Way Out

The answer was never in the head. It was always in seeing the difference between the two worlds:

The imaginary world (words, meanings, beliefs, problems).

The real world (experience, action, presence).

I don’t need to believe my way out. I just need to stop looking for reasons and start living.

Final Thought:
"I spent years trying to fix the imaginary. Now I see—there was nothing to fix. The only thing that needed to change was where I was looking."

The Two Worlds: A Realization of Separation

1. The Initial Struggle: Trapped in the World of Meaning

I woke up in a state where I couldn’t stop thinking about the meaning of words. No matter what I did—lying there, trying to distract myself, searching for a way out—I remained stuck in this cycle. My mind was fixated on interpreting words, unable to escape into any other state. Nothing worked.

Then, I remembered something from yesterday: the idea that there are two separate worlds—the world of meaning (imaginary) and the other world (real). I had seen them as distinct universes, with no overlap, no intersection. You exist in one or the other, and they operate by entirely different laws. What exists in one does not exist in the other. They are utterly unrelated.

But this morning, I realized my mistake: I had merged them. The world of word-meanings and the world beyond meaning had blurred into one in my perception. Because of this, I believed there was only one world—a world where meaning and non-meaning coexisted. And so, to escape the state of obsessing over meaning, I was searching for a cause within that same world—a logical reason to shift states. But that’s impossible. You can’t use the rules of one world to exit it.

2. The Division: Where the Line Is Drawn

I asked myself: Where does the separation lie?
I looked closely and saw it: the divide runs between the word itself and its meaning.

Left side (imaginary world): The meaning of words—a constructed, mental realm where interpretations, emotions, and narratives live.

Right side (real world): The word as a sound, a symbol—just letters, vibrations, physical phenomena. No inherent meaning.

The left world is entirely imagined. The right world knows nothing of the left, and vice versa. They do not communicate. They do not influence each other.

When I saw this division clearly—when I recognized that these are two separate universes—I was instantly ejected from the world of meaning. Just like that. I found myself in the real world, where words are just words, devoid of the weight I had assigned them.

3. The Shock: Losing the Ability to "Mean"

I tested it. I took a phrase: "They don’t love me."
I tried to recall what that meant—the emotional charge, the story, the interpretation. And I couldn’t. It was as if the concept of "meaning" had vanished. I no longer knew how to attach significance to words.

This was unsettling. Had I broken something? Was this magic? I had spent so long trapped in meaning, and now, suddenly, I couldn’t even access it.

4. The Mechanism: How the Transition Works

The key is seeing the boundary.

When the worlds are merged in my mind, I believe there’s only one reality. I search for a reason (within that single world) to stop thinking about meaning—but reasons don’t exist there. I’m stuck.

When I see the separation—when I recognize that the imaginary world ends where meaning detaches from the raw word—I can step into the real world effortlessly.

It’s like standing between two doors:

One door leads to the world of meaning (imaginary).

The other leads to the world of direct experience (real).

Before, I only saw one door. Now, I see both. And once I see them, I can choose—without needing a reason, without justification. I simply walk through.

5. The Nature of the Two Worlds

Imaginary World (Left):

Created by the mind.

Runs on interpretations, emotions, and narratives tied to words.

Feels "real" when I’m inside it, but it’s entirely self-contained.

Example: The phrase "They don’t love me" triggers a cascade of stories, fears, and self-judgments.

Real World (Right):

Words are just sounds, symbols—no inherent meaning.

I observe without interpretation. The phrase "They don’t love me" is just vibrations in the air.

No emotional charge unless I choose to step back into the imaginary world.

The worlds are like parallel universes. They never intersect. One is not "better" than the other—they simply are. But I prefer the real world. It’s lighter. Freer.

6. The Challenge: Staying in the Real World

The problem? I keep slipping back.

When I describe these worlds, I have to think about the imaginary world—to explain it, to analyze it. And the moment I do, I’m pulled back in. It’s like trying to describe a dream while awake: the act of describing reignites the dream-state.

But now I know the trick:

Notice I’m in the imaginary world (obsessing over meaning).

Find the boundary—the place where meaning detaches from the raw word.

See the real world—not as a concept, but as a tangible, observable space.

Step through.

No reasons needed. No struggle. Just a shift in perception.

7. The Unanswered Questions

Is this real, or am I deluding myself?

Why does this work? Is it neurology? Psychology? Something deeper?

Can I stabilize this, or will I keep oscillating?

What happens if I never go back to the imaginary world?

For now, I don’t have answers. But I have a tool. And that’s enough to start testing.

Final Reflection: The Magic of the Boundary

The real revelation isn’t the existence of two worlds—it’s the boundary between them.

When I don’t see it, I’m trapped in a single, suffocating reality.
When I do see it, I’m free to move.

It’s not about forcing myself to stop thinking. It’s about seeing the option to think differently.

And that changes everything.

A Guide to Escaping the Imaginary World: The Two States of Mind

1. The Two Worlds

I see that there are two fundamental states in which a human can exist.

The Imaginary World – This is the state where I think about the meaning of words. I imagine them, visualize them, and attach significance to them. It’s a constructed reality, a mental projection built from language and its interpretations. When I’m in this state, I’m not looking at the world as it is—I’m looking at the world through the lens of words and their meanings.

The Real World – This is the state where I do not think about the meaning of words. I don’t visualize them, don’t attach significance to them, and don’t believe in their implied reality. Here, I observe reality directly—not through the filter of language, but as it exists beyond definitions. In this state, there is only joy, flow, and pure experience. There are no problems here.

All human suffering, anxiety, and dissatisfaction come from the imaginary world—the one we create when we fixate on the meanings of words.

2. The Problem: Belief in the Imaginary

The core issue is belief.

I believe that the meaning of certain words corresponds to reality.

I believe that the descriptions I create in my mind—using language—are true.

I believe that if I can describe something, it must be real.

But this belief is built on two fundamental delusions:

Delusion 1: "I See What I See"

I assume that my observations are proven—that if I see the sun, then the sun must be there. But can I truly prove that I see what I see? Maybe what I perceive is an illusion. Maybe my senses deceive me. Maybe the "sun" I see is not the sun at all, but something else entirely.

If I cannot prove that my observations are real, then any description of those observations is also unprovable. Words become empty—they describe nothing certain.

Delusion 2: "My Observations Are Reality"

Even if I assume that I see what I see, I still cannot prove that what I see is real and not an illusion. Reality is not the same as perception.

If I cannot trust that my observations are real, then I cannot trust any description of them.

If descriptions are untrustworthy, then the meanings derived from those descriptions are also untrustworthy.

Therefore, I cannot believe in the meaning of any word, because belief requires proof—and there is none.

This leads to a state of non-belief:

I do not believe in my observations.

I do not believe in my descriptions.

I do not believe in the meanings of words.

Without belief, the imaginary world collapses.

3. The Illusion of Proof

Why do I think I can prove anything in the imaginary world?

False Proof #1: "If I see it, it must be real."

But what if what I see is not real? What if my mind is constructing it?

False Proof #2: "If I can describe it accurately, the description must be true."

But if my observations are uncertain, then no description can be proven accurate.

Conclusion: There is no proof in the imaginary world. It is all assumption, interpretation, and belief without foundation.

When I realize this, I stop needing to believe. The imaginary world loses its power over me.

4. The Boundary Between Worlds

The key to freedom is seeing the boundary between the two worlds.

The Imaginary World exists when I think about the meaning of words.

The Real World exists when I do not think about the meaning of words.

Where is the boundary?
It is the moment I stop attaching meaning to a word.

Words themselves exist in the real world (they are just sounds, symbols).

The meanings I assign to them exist only in the imaginary world.

How to cross the boundary?

Recognize that you are in the imaginary world (thinking about meanings).

See the edge—the point where words end and their meanings begin.

Step back—stop thinking about the meaning, and you return to the real world.

In the real world:

Words are just words.

Meanings do not automatically appear.

There is no suffering, only direct experience.

5. The Trap of Seeking "Real" Reasons

At first, I thought I needed a real reason to leave the imaginary world. But:

The imaginary world is entirely constructed—there are no real reasons inside it.

Any "reason" I find there is just another imaginary concept.

The only way out is to stop seeking reasons and simply stop believing.

When I no longer believe in the meanings of words:

The imaginary world dissolves.

I return to the real world, where everything is fine.

6. The Final Guide: How to Exit the Imaginary World

Step 1: Understand the two states.

Imaginary World = Thinking about word meanings.

Real World = Not thinking about word meanings.

Step 2: Realize that all problems exist only in the imaginary world.

Suffering, fear, anxiety—they all come from believing in the meanings of words.

Step 3: Destroy belief in meanings.

Recognize that you cannot prove your observations are real.

Therefore, you cannot prove any description is true.

Therefore, you cannot believe in the meaning of any word.

Step 4: See the boundary.

Words are real (they exist as sounds/symbols).

Meanings are imaginary (they exist only in your mind).

The boundary is the moment you stop attaching meaning.

Step 5: Cross into the real world.

Stop thinking about meanings.

Stay in the state where words are just words.

Experience reality directly, without interpretation.

Step 6: Stay there.

If you start thinking about meanings again, you’ll slip back into the imaginary world.

But now you know how to return.

7. What Happens in the Real World?

No suffering (because suffering comes from belief in meanings).

No anxiety (because anxiety is a story you tell yourself).

Only direct experience—pure, unfiltered, joyful.

The imaginary world is optional. The real world is always here.

You just have to stop believing in words.

Final Thought: Testing the Guide

This is the first version. The next step is to test it on people—to see if others can follow it, if it works, if anything is missing.

But for now, this is the essence:
Stop believing in the meanings of words, and you will be free.

The Two Fundamental States of Mind

I’ve realized there are only two fundamental states a person can be in when using words:

Thinking about the meaning of words—actively engaging with what they signify.

Not thinking about the meaning of words—using them without delving into their deeper implications.

My mother asked me how it’s possible to not think about the meaning of words. At first, I didn’t fully grasp the distinction myself. What does it even mean to think—or not think—about the meaning of words? When I say I’m not thinking about their meaning, I don’t mean ignoring their practical definitions (like "being fired means no income"). I mean something far more specific: the automatic, subconscious associations tied to those words—the emotional and psychological weight they carry in my mind.

The "Room" of Automatic Thoughts

Imagine there’s a mental room where the true meanings of words live—not their dictionary definitions, but the automatic thoughts, images, and emotions they trigger. For example:

If I say, "They might stop loving me," and I think about its meaning, I’m not just picturing the scenario (loneliness, sadness). I’m looking inward, into that room, where the phrase automatically conjures visions of despair, fear, or abandonment.

These aren’t logical conclusions; they’re primitive, emotional reactions stored in my subconscious. If I believe in them, they become my reality. If I don’t, they’re just empty echoes.

Key insight: This room is where words gain their personal meaning—their power to hurt, motivate, or paralyze. But if I don’t "enter" it, if I don’t feed those automatic thoughts with belief, they remain dormant.

How to Avoid the Room

So how do I not think about the meaning of words? By staying out of that room.

When I say, "I want to play a game," I can either:

Imagine the game itself (the joy, the action)—this is using words without diving into their subconscious weight.

Dive into the room and ask, "What does ‘wanting to play’ mean to me?"—which might drag up old associations (e.g., "I’m lazy," "I should be working").

The trick is to focus on the surface: the words as tools, not as triggers. I can describe reality ("I was fired") without asking what that means for my self-worth. The latter is the room’s territory.

The Problem with the Room

The room is dangerous because:

It’s addictive. Once I start exploring the "meanings" there, I get stuck in a loop of automatic thoughts ("If they leave me, I’ll be alone forever").

It’s not reality. The room deals in hypotheticals and fears, not facts. If I believe its narratives, I confuse imagination with truth.

It’s empty if I don’t feed it. Right now, my room is silent because I’ve stopped believing in its stories. But the habit of looking there still lingers.

Solution: Recognize the room’s boundaries. See it as one small space in a vast mind. Once I realize there’s a world outside it—where words are just words, not emotional landmines—I can choose to live there instead.

The Two Types of Meaning

Subconscious Meaning (the room):

"They might leave me" → Automatic images of loneliness, fear of abandonment.

This meaning is personal, emotional, and often irrational.

Practical Meaning (reality):

"They might leave me" → Logical outcomes (e.g., "I’ll need to find new friends").

This meaning is neutral, factual, and external.

Critical distinction: I can think about the practical implications of words without touching their subconscious weight. The problem arises when I confuse the two.

Why Only Two States Exist

You can’t be in both states at once:

Either you’re in the room (engaged with the subconscious meaning of words), or

You’re outside it (using words as tools, not triggers).

There’s no middle ground. Even if you believe the room’s stories, you’re still in the first state—just a more intense version of it.

The Way Forward

Now that I understand this, the question is: What next?

Do I try to "erase" these automatic meanings in others? (Unclear.)

Do I just stay out of the room and live in the world where words are neutral?

For now, the goal is awareness:

Notice when I enter the room (when words start feeling "heavy").

Step back and ask: "Am I engaging with the word’s practical meaning, or its subconscious story?"

Choose reality—the world outside the room—where words don’t control me.

Final Thought

This isn’t about suppressing emotions or ignoring problems. It’s about clarity:

Words describe reality, but they aren’t reality itself.

Their power comes from the room—but the room is optional.

Freedom is realizing I don’t have to live there.

The Illusion of Meaning: Observing the Mind’s Constructed Worlds

1. The Mistake of Seeking Meaning in Words

I realized something profound while reading my own guide—a guide made of words. Normally, when I read, I try to imagine the meaning of the words, as if meaning were a tangible thing I could visualize. But this is a mistake. Meaning isn’t something you see—it’s something you believe in.

When someone speaks to us, we instinctively ask: What does this mean for me? Does it make me happy? Sad? Angry? We don’t just hear the words; we search for their emotional weight, their significance. But with my guide, I caught myself doing the same thing—trying to picture the meaning of the words, as if meaning were an image I could conjure. That’s not how understanding works.

Understanding isn’t about visualizing meaning—it’s about recognizing that meaning is a mental construct, not a real thing.

2. The Two States of Perception

I noticed two distinct ways of looking at the world:

The State of Seeking Meaning

I enter a mental "room" where I evaluate everything through the lens of what it means.

In this state, I don’t experience life directly—I filter it through beliefs about words.

If I believe certain words are "good" or "bad," I feel pleasure or pain based on that belief.

But if I stop believing in any meaning, this state becomes empty. I stare at the world and see nothing—no automatic thoughts, no reactions, just a void where meaning should be.

The State of Direct Observation

Here, I don’t translate experience into words or seek their meaning.

I just observe—without judgment, without interpretation.

This is where life feels alive, where I don’t depend on beliefs to feel joy or motivation.

The problem? I can get stuck in the first state—thinking about meaning but finding none—because I’ve stopped believing in the illusions I once held.

3. The Trap of the "Meaning Room"

When I’m in the "meaning room" (the state of seeking meaning), I’m not really looking at the world—I’m looking through a mental filter. And if I don’t believe in any meanings, this room is empty.

How do I escape?
By recognizing the boundary of this state. The boundary is the moment I start thinking about the meaning of words.

If I’m not actively thinking about words, I’m not in the room.

If I am thinking about words, I can trace back to the exact point where I entered this mental space.

The exit is simple: Stop seeking meaning in words. Return to direct observation.

But why does this work? Because the "meaning room" only exists when I’m trying to find meaning. If I stop trying, the room collapses.

4. The Two Imaginary Worlds

I realized there aren’t just two states—there are two imaginary worlds I can get lost in:

The World of Word Meanings

I ask: What does this word/sign/situation mean?

I search my memory for associations (e.g., "death" = sadness, "success" = happiness).

But if I don’t believe in these associations, the world feels hollow.

The World of Word Descriptions

I don’t ask about meaning—I just describe reality in words and then imagine that description.

For example, I might describe my life as "pointless" and then picture a bleak, meaningless world.

This is still imaginary, but it’s not about meaning—it’s about how I frame reality in language.

Both are traps:

The first makes me chase phantom meanings.

The second makes me live in a mental story that isn’t real.

The solution? Recognize that both are constructs—not reality.

5. Why the Imaginary Worlds Feel Real (and Unpleasant)

My brain doesn’t distinguish well between imagination and reality. If I imagine a bleak world (based on my descriptions), I feel as if I’m living in it—even though it’s just words.

Example: If I describe life as "meaningless" and imagine that, I feel despair.

But in reality? Life isn’t meaningless—I just described it that way.

The key insight:

The imaginary worlds depend on words.

Reality doesn’t.

When I stop translating experience into words, the imaginary worlds vanish.

6. How to Stay in Reality

Notice when I’m in an imaginary world.

Am I thinking about what words mean? → Meaning world.

Am I picturing a story based on words? → Description world.

Find the boundary.

The boundary is always the moment I start engaging with words (either their meaning or their descriptive power).

Step back into direct observation.

Stop asking what things mean.

Stop picturing the stories I tell myself.

Just look, listen, feel—without interpretation.

Result: Life becomes vivid, engaging, and free from the weight of mental constructs.

7. The Fear of Being Wrong

I worry: What if I’m mistaken about all this?

Maybe the "meaning room" is real, and I’m just fooling myself.

Maybe the boundary I see is an illusion.

But here’s the thing:

I don’t need to believe in the boundary—I just need to see it.

Every time I test it, it works. I step out of the imaginary worlds and back into reality.

If I’m wrong, I’ll find out eventually—but for now, this method is reliable.

The only "proof" I need is that it works.

8. The Final Question: Why Bother with Meaning at All?

If the imaginary worlds are unpleasant and unreal, why ever go there?

Old habit: I used to believe meanings were real, so I’d seek them automatically.

Now? I see that meanings are choices, not truths.

Practical use? None. The imaginary worlds don’t help me—they only drain my energy.

Conclusion:

I can live entirely in reality, where I experience life directly.

The only time I’d return to the imaginary worlds is to test my understanding—to confirm that I can still escape.

But otherwise? There’s no reason to go back.

Final Thought: The Freedom of Letting Go

The whole struggle was about believing in something—meanings, descriptions, mental stories. But none of them are real. The only real thing is what I observe before I start interpreting it.

So the guide isn’t about logic—it’s about seeing.

See the imaginary worlds for what they are.

See the boundary (the moment words take over).

Choose to stay on the side of reality.

And that’s it.

No more chasing meaning.
No more living in stories.
Just life—as it is.

The Trap of Overthinking Word Meanings

I found myself stuck in a loop after my last guide—obsessively analyzing the meaning of the words I’d used. I’d spoken them, tried to describe something, to understand how it all worked, and then… I couldn’t stop. I replayed those words in my mind, dissecting them, searching for some hidden truth or justification. Why? Because I could think about their meaning, and I saw no real reason not to.

But here’s the problem: I wasn’t just thinking—I was trapped in an imaginary world where these meanings felt like reality. I kept searching for some tangible, real explanation that would tell me, "Okay, you don’t need to obsess over this." Of course, I never found it. It doesn’t exist. And because it doesn’t exist, I couldn’t escape. My brain wasn’t just lost on how to stop; it was lost on why it should stop in the first place. I needed a real reason—but in this mental maze, "real" reasons don’t live.

The Illusion of a Single World

In that state, it felt like the imaginary world of word meanings was the only world. I couldn’t see its edges. I didn’t realize that this world was just a fragment—a bubble of my own creation. There was no boundary in sight, no exit sign. It was as if the act of analyzing words had become my entire reality, and I was drowning in it.

Then I remembered my own guide—the one I’d written before. I decided to apply it to myself. I said:
"The world I’m in right now, the one I’m staring at, ends where the meaning of the word ends. And beyond that? The word itself begins."

That simple shift—drawing a line between the imagined meaning and the raw word—snapped something into place.

Reality vs. the Imaginary

I realized: This world I’m stuck in isn’t real. It’s my imagination. The "meaning" of a word? That’s just how I picture it in my head. It’s not the world I live in. The real world exists beyond that—beyond the boundaries of these mental constructs.

And here’s the key: My brain wants to live in reality. It doesn’t want to stay in illusions or fantasies. The moment it recognizes that the world of word meanings is not the real world, it jumps out. It’s like waking up from a dream where you thought you were trapped, only to realize you were never really there.

When you’re lost in analyzing meanings, it feels like you’re stuck in the only world that exists. But the truth? You’re just staring at a mirror of your own thoughts. The real world is still out there—you’re just not seeing it.

Why We Demand "Real" Reasons

I think I figured out why I was so desperate for a real reason to stop overthinking. When I’m deep in analyzing word meanings, it feels like reality. So, naturally, I think I need a real reason to escape it—like I’m trying to break out of one reality into another.

But here’s the twist:

It’s not reality. It’s an illusion.

Real reasons don’t exist in illusions. In that mental space, the only "reasons" are more words, more meanings—and we’ve already established those are unreliable.

The problem isn’t real. The moment I see the whole picture—that I’m not in reality at all—the "need" for a reason vanishes. The problem dissolves because it was never real to begin with.

The Magic of Perspective

It’s like a glitch in the system. One second, you’re trapped in a loop, convinced you need some grand justification to break free. The next second, you see the loop for what it is—a mirage—and suddenly, you’re out. No dramatic effort. No "real" reason. Just… clarity.

That’s the magic. It feels illogical because it is illogical to the part of your brain that was convinced the illusion was real. But once you see it, you can’t unsee it. And then? You just… live. You stop fighting shadows.

The Guide Works—Every Time

I’ve used this method twice (maybe three times?) now, and it’s worked like clockwork. When I get stuck in my head, analyzing, overcomplicating, I:

Notice I’m trapped in the imaginary world of meanings.

Remind myself: This isn’t reality. The real world is beyond these words.

Step out. Just like that.

No force. No struggle. Just a shift in perspective.

Final Thought: The Freedom of Seeing

The irony? The harder I searched for a reason to stop overthinking, the deeper I sank. The solution wasn’t another thought—it was seeing that I was thinking in a space that wasn’t real.

Now, when I catch myself spiraling, I don’t panic. I don’t demand answers. I just look. And the illusion fades.

The Moment of Reflection: How I Got Pulled into the Meaning of Words

I found myself in a familiar situation—my mind drifting back to the same old question: What is the nature of my current state? I started questioning my own knowledge, my understanding of reality, and before I knew it, I was pulled into dissecting the meaning of words again. The words that describe the world around me, the ones I use to label reality.

And what I saw there wasn’t good. The reality those words pointed to was… mediocre. Not great. Not even close. It felt unsettling, almost wrong. So I asked myself: Why don’t I usually look here? Why don’t I think about what’s really going on behind these words?

The Illusion of Naming Reality

At first, I thought maybe it’s because I believe—without questioning—that the world beyond these words is the "real" one, while the words themselves are just an imagined layer. As if I’ve assigned labels to things and trusted that they accurately describe reality. But then I wondered: What if I flip it? What if I call the meaning of words "reality" and everything else "imagined"? Would anything change?

For a moment, it seemed like it would. If I declared that the meanings of words are reality, then I’d be forced to engage with them, to think about them constantly. But then I realized—no. The naming itself doesn’t matter. The real technique isn’t about what I call real or imagined.

The Boundary Between Worlds

The key is this: When I think about the meaning of words, I notice that the world I perceive ends where the meaning of those words begins.

It’s like there’s a border. On one side, there’s the world I see—the one I’m immersed in when I’m lost in definitions, in language, in the labels I’ve assigned to everything. On the other side, there’s… something else. A world beyond that. And the moment I see that border—the moment I realize that the world of word-meanings is confined to my own head—I get pulled out of it.

I’m thrown into that other world, the one beyond the meanings. But why doesn’t this happen immediately? Because when I’m inside the world of word-meanings, I don’t see the border. I genuinely believe that this world—the one made of definitions and labels—is the whole world. It feels infinite. It feels like there’s nothing outside of it.

But then, in a flash, I see it: This world is tiny. It’s just the space where I’m imagining the meanings of words. And as soon as I recognize that, I’m out. I’m back in the other reality.

Why Don’t I Stay Trapped There?

So why don’t I just stay stuck in the world of word-meanings? Why do I keep snapping out of it?

At first, I thought maybe it was because I had some reason—some belief that kept me from staying there. Like if I told myself, "That world is just imagination, and this other world is real," then that would be my excuse to leave. But no. There’s no pre-made reason. There’s no phrase I’ve repeated to myself that justifies my exit.

I don’t have a cause for not being in that world. And that’s what’s interesting.

The Absence of a "Why"

When I ask why I’m not constantly thinking about word-meanings, the question itself assumes there’s some reason—some logic or belief holding me back. But there isn’t.

The only "reasons" that come to mind are shallow:

"I don’t enjoy it."

"It doesn’t give me any pleasure."

"I don’t see the point."

But these aren’t real reasons. They’re just observations about how my mind works. My brain isn’t wired to find satisfaction in endlessly analyzing word-meanings. There’s no practical benefit to it. It’s not that I choose not to do it—it’s that the world is structured in a way that makes it irrelevant.

The Core Insight: Seeing the Border is Enough

So what is the key to stepping out of the word-meaning world? It’s not about what I call it. It’s not about convincing myself that it’s "imagined" or "real."

It’s about seeing the border.

The moment I recognize:
"Right now, I’m thinking about the meaning of words. This world I’m in—it ends where the words begin. It starts and ends in my head."
…that’s when I’m free.

I don’t need to argue with myself. I don’t need to rename anything. I just need to see the edge of it. And once I do, I’m out.

The Cycle of Returning

Of course, I can always slip back in. Curiosity pulls me—What’s in there? Why don’t I stay?—but the answer is always the same: There’s no reason to stay, just like there’s no reason to leave. It’s not a choice. It’s just how it is.

And yet, every time I find myself back in that world of dissecting meanings, I remember: This isn’t the whole world. It’s just a small, confined space. And then I’m out again.

Final Thought: The Paradox of the Question

The funny thing is, I’ve said all this before. Many times. But each time, it feels like I’m discovering it anew. Maybe that’s the nature of the trap—it doesn’t matter how many times you escape. The moment you forget the border, you’re back inside.

And the only way out is to see it again.

The Problem: Stress from Writing Guides for Others

I started writing guides—not just for myself, but for everyone. At first, it worked. But then, I began to stress. Why? Because I started believing—believing in something I hadn’t before.

When I wrote for myself, I didn’t care what others thought. But now, writing for others, I fixated on how they’d perceive my words. I imagined them reading my guide, interpreting it, assigning meaning to it. And suddenly, I was trapped: I began to believe in the meaning they saw. Not my own meaning—theirs.

But why did I believe their meaning and not my own?

The Core Issue: Belief in Others’ Perceptions

Here’s the paradox:

I don’t believe in the meaning I assign to my words.

But when I imagine others reading my guide, I do believe in the meaning they assign.

Why? Because I assume they believe in their own interpretations. And if I put myself in their shoes—if I simulate their belief—I start believing it too.

It’s like this:

I see a person. They read my text. They think, "This means X."

I imagine their thought process: "They see X, so X must be real."

Then I start believing X is real—because they do.

But here’s the catch: I only believe it because they do. If I assumed others were like me (skeptical of meaning), I wouldn’t believe it either. The problem isn’t them—it’s that I treat them as proof of reality.

The Illusion: People as "Special Reality"

I realized I had a blind spot. I’d spent years questioning my own perceptions—doubting whether what I see is "real." But I never doubted people.

A tree? Maybe an illusion.

The sky? Maybe a simulation.

Other people? No—they were always real.

Why? Because when others die, I keep living. That creates the illusion that they are separate from "reality," like anchors in a dream. If I die, they remain. So they must be real, right?

Wrong. That’s just an illusion—a trick of perspective.

The Solution: Apply the Same Doubt to People

The fix was simple (but unsettling):
Stop believing people are "real" in a way the rest of the world isn’t.

If I don’t trust my own eyes (e.g., "Is that tree really there?"), why trust that people are there?

If I doubt my own thoughts, why not doubt their thoughts too?

Once I did that, the stress vanished. Here’s how:

I see a person. They read my guide. They think, "This means X."

But now, I remind myself: I don’t know if this person is real. I don’t know if their thoughts are real.

Therefore, X is just another unproven idea—no different from my own doubts.

Result: Their interpretations lose power. I no longer believe in the meaning they assign, because I no longer believe in them as absolute truth-tellers.

Testing the Fix: Does It Work?

I tried it:

Writing: No more stress. I can imagine others reading my guide, but their interpretations feel weightless—like hypotheticals, not truths.

Daily Life: I stopped obsessing over "what others think" because others became as uncertain as everything else.

But there was a hiccup:
After figuring this out, I kept thinking about it—nonstop. Why? Because I hadn’t written it down. I feared forgetting, so my mind looped the insight endlessly, stealing focus from the present.

Experiment: Record this (as I’m doing now). If it’s preserved, my brain might let go.

Final Takeaway: Freedom Through Universal Doubt

The key wasn’t to stop imagining others’ perspectives. It was to stop believing in them as reality.

Before: "Others see meaning X → X must be true → I stress."

Now: "Others might see X, but I don’t know if ‘others’ or ‘X’ are real → No stress."

This doesn’t mean I ignore people. It means I engage with them without granting their interpretations automatic truth. The same way I engage with a tree without assuming it’s "really there."

Outcome: I can write, think, and live without the weight of others’ imagined judgments.

Postscript: The Cost of Unrecorded Insights

One last lesson:
When I don’t write things down, my mind clings to them. It’s like holding a beach ball underwater—exhausting. But once it’s recorded? The ball floats away. I can relax.

So here’s the test:

Will recording this free me from the loop?

Will my state return to normal?

Let’s find out.

The Problem: Confusing Description with Reality

1. The Initial Realization
Yesterday, everything was fine. I was writing my guide without stress, free to think about anything. But then, in the evening, I started reflecting on how I describe reality—and suddenly, the world I imagined through those descriptions felt awful. Not just uncomfortable, but repulsive, stagnant, even grotesque in places. I realized I could ignore these thoughts, distract myself, but that wouldn’t change the fact that I live in this world. Or do I?

2. The Core Confusion: Words vs. Reality
The issue boiled down to this: When I observe the world, I describe it with words. But then I start thinking about those words—not the reality they’re supposed to represent, but the mental images they evoke. And here’s the trap: I begin to believe that these imagined interpretations are the real world I inhabit.

First Belief: The meaning of words (both their definitions and the mental pictures they conjure) equals reality.

Second Belief: What I see is reality.

Third Belief: The world I describe (via words) is the world I live in.

But these beliefs are flawed because:

The words I use to describe observations are just tools—they’re not the world itself.

When I later imagine the meaning of those words, I’m not seeing reality; I’m seeing a mental construct, a "world" that exists only in my head.

Example: If I say, "The world is meaningless," and then picture a meaningless world, that image isn’t reality—it’s a distorted projection of my own mind. The real world (whatever that is) remains unchanged. The "meaningless world" I imagine is just a story I tell myself, not the place where my body exists.

The Three Fundamental Beliefs (and Why They’re Wrong)

"I see what I see."

I assume my perceptions are accurate. But what if they’re not? What if what I "see" is just another layer of interpretation?

"What I see is reality."

Even if I doubt my perceptions, I still might believe that whatever I’m perceiving (however flawed) is the "real world." But is it? Or is it just another mental model?

"The meaning of words = the world I live in."

This is the most insidious. When I describe reality with words, then reflect on those words, I mistake the description for the thing itself.

Key Insight: The world I imagine when I think about words is not the world outside my head. It’s a simulation—a private, internal movie that has no bearing on the actual environment my body occupies.

The Illusion of "Living in the Imagined World"

The Trap: I start to believe that the world I describe (and then visualize) is the world I inhabit. But that’s impossible because:

The imagined world is inside my mind.

The real world (if it exists) is outside my mind.

I’ve never seen the "real world" directly—I only have observations (which are already filtered) and descriptions (which are even further removed).

The Paradox:

I don’t even believe I see reality accurately.

I don’t believe what I see is reality.

Yet I still believe that the world I describe (and then imagine) is the world I live in.

Why? Because it feels like it. The descriptions and mental images are so vivid that they replace reality in my experience.

The Solution: Disbelieving the Description

The way out is to stop confusing the map with the territory:

Don’t believe you see what you see.

Your perceptions are interpretations, not raw reality.

Don’t believe what you see is reality.

Even if you trust your senses, they’re limited and biased.

Don’t believe the meaning of words = the world you live in.

The mental world built from descriptions is a fiction. It’s useful (maybe), but it’s not real.

Result:

The "awful world" I imagined? Just a story. A temporary mental construct.

The real world (whatever that is) remains unaffected by my descriptions.

I can choose to stop fixating on the imagined world because it’s not where I actually live.

The Lingering Questions

Where am I, then?

If the imagined world isn’t real, and I don’t trust my perceptions, where do I exist?

Am I in the "real world" outside my head? Or am I just a consciousness floating in a void?

Can I stop thinking about it?

Yes—but not by forcing myself. Instead, by recognizing that the imagined world is optional.

I can observe reality (or try to) without describing it, and without believing the descriptions.

Does this help?

Intellectually, yes. Emotionally? Not yet. The habit of describing-and-believing is deep.

But now I see the mechanism of the trap. That’s progress.

The Bigger Picture: A Fourth Belief?

There might be a deeper layer:

Belief in "living" itself: Do I even believe I exist? If I don’t, then the question of "which world I live in" becomes meaningless.

But dismissing existence entirely feels like a cop-out. The problem isn’t that I live—it’s that I misplace where and how I live.

Alternative Approach:

Instead of trying to believe or disbelieve in reality, maybe I should focus on action.

The imagined world only matters if I act as if it’s real. If I stop letting it dictate my emotions, it loses power.

Testing the Framework

For now, the working model is:

Observe without immediately describing.

If I do describe, don’t confuse the description with reality.

If I imagine the description, remember it’s a mental artifact, not the world outside.

Live in the space before description—the raw, undistorted (as much as possible) experience.

Will it work?
I don’t know. But it’s the first time the problem feels solvable, not just an endless loop of doubt.

Final Thought: The Boundary Between Worlds

The imagined world and the "real" world are separated by a boundary:

On one side: Words and their meanings (internal, subjective, malleable).

On the other side: ...something else (unknown, but not the same as the stories I tell myself).

The goal: Learn to see that boundary. To live there, in the space between description and reality.

Closing Note:
This isn’t about denying reality or retreating into nihilism. It’s about clarity—recognizing that the world I fear (the one I describe) isn’t the world I’m in. And that changes everything.

The Core Problem: Belief in Observations

I began by realizing that my previous approach to solving this issue was incomplete—it fixed some things, but not the root. The problem I’m trying to solve is this: How do I reconcile the fact that my mental description of reality is the world I live in? The solution, as I’ve deduced, hinges on a single, fundamental belief—the only one that underpins everything else. That belief is:
"I believe in my observations."

Not in the sense of trusting them as truth or reality, but simply as the raw act of believing. There are only two states: I either believe my observations, or I don’t. No middle ground. No "believing in them as reality" or "not believing in them as reality"—those are just interpretations, layers of meaning I add later. The core is binary: belief or non-belief in observations themselves.

The Trap of "Decoding" Belief

Here’s the catch: When I ask, "Can I believe in my observations?", my brain demands clarification. What does "believe" even mean? If I don’t define it, the question feels empty. So I try to decode it:

"Believing in observations = trusting them as reality/truth."
But then I realize: I can’t prove my observations are reality or truth. I have no evidence they’re not an illusion. So if "believing" means "trusting as reality," then no, I can’t believe.

But this decoding is the problem. It’s a detour. The moment I start interpreting what belief means, I lose sight of the raw act of believing. The question isn’t "Can I trust my observations as reality?"—it’s "Can I believe in my observations, period?" And the answer is no, because belief implies proof, and I have none.

Key insight:

Belief in observations is not about their truth-value. It’s about the act of believing itself.

The moment I try to justify belief (e.g., "as reality"), I’m already trapped in a loop of seeking proof I’ll never have.

The Consequences of Belief vs. Non-Belief

When I Believe in Observations (Even Indirectly):

Descriptions Gain Weight:
My mental descriptions of the world (e.g., "life is meaningless") start to feel real. They become "true" or "false," "accurate" or "inaccurate." This creates emotional turmoil because I’m treating abstract descriptions as if they’re the world itself.

The Illusion of a "Lived World":
I begin to confuse my descriptions with reality. For example, if I describe the world as "meaningless," I start feeling like I live in a meaningless world—even though that’s just a description, not the world itself.

Suffering Emerges:
The weight of these descriptions (e.g., "people are unreliable," "life is suffering") feels oppressive because I’m implicitly trusting my observations as true. But since I can’t prove they’re true, this creates cognitive dissonance and distress.

When I Stop Believing in Observations:

Descriptions Become "Empty":
All mental descriptions—whether of the world, people, or myself—lose their gravitational pull. They’re just words, not truths. The phrase "life is meaningless" is no more "real" than "life is meaningful." Both are descriptions, not facts.

No "Lived World" Anymore:
I no longer feel like I’m living in a world defined by my descriptions. The world isn’t "meaningless" or "meaningful"—it’s just observed. The descriptions are tools, not mirrors.

Peace Returns:
Without belief in observations, there’s no need to argue with reality or seek proof. I’m not trying to "verify" my experience; I’m just experiencing. The question "Why live?" dissolves because it was built on the assumption that my descriptions of life (e.g., "meaningless") were true.

The Critical Error: Partial Non-Belief

I noticed a recurring mistake: I’d think, "I don’t believe my observations are reality… but I still believe in them in some other sense." This is a trap. There is no "other sense." Either I believe in observations (period), or I don’t.

Example with People:
If I see a person and think, "I don’t believe my observation of them is reality, but I believe I’m observing them," I’m still believing. The "but" is the problem. True non-belief means: "I observe a person, and I cannot believe even in the act of observing them." No exceptions.

Why This Matters:
Belief in observations—even partially—feeds into belief in descriptions, which feeds into belief in the meanings of those descriptions. That’s how suffering is born. Non-belief must be absolute.

The Solution: Pure Non-Belief in Observations

The fix is brutally simple:

I cannot believe in my observations because I cannot prove them to myself.

I can’t prove I’m seeing what I see.

I can’t prove my observations aren’t an illusion.

Therefore, belief is impossible.

This applies to everything derived from observations:

Descriptions of the world? Can’t believe in them.

Meanings assigned to words? Can’t believe in them.

Other people’s words or behaviors? Can’t believe in my observations of them.

Behavior vs. Belief:

I can use observations (e.g., crossing the street by looking both ways) without believing in them.

Using ≠ believing. I act based on observations, but I don’t treat them as true. This distinction is everything.

The Outcome: Freedom from Meaning

When I fully stop believing in observations:

Descriptions become tools, not truths.

"Life is meaningless" is just a phrase, not a fact about the world.

The "weight" of reality vanishes.

I no longer feel like I’m living in a world defined by my descriptions.

Suffering dissolves.

Without belief in observations, there’s no ground for anxiety, existential dread, or the need to "figure out" reality.

Final Realization:
The problem wasn’t belief in observations as reality. The problem was belief in observations at all. The moment I believe—even a little—I open the door to treating descriptions as truths, and suffering follows.

The guide is now simple:

Do not believe in your observations. (You can’t prove them.)

Do not believe in any descriptions or meanings derived from them.

Act based on observations, but never confuse use with belief.

Testing the Guide

This feels too simple—almost absurdly so. But that’s the point. The old approach was convoluted because it tried to dismantle belief in meanings first. Now, I see that meaning is a symptom, not the cause. The cause is belief in observations.

Next steps:

Write this down concisely.

Apply it to interactions with people (where belief in observations often sneaks back in).

Observe whether the "weight" of descriptions truly disappears.

Closing Thought

The irony? I spent hours circling this, but the answer was always here: Stop believing in observations. Not as reality, not as truth—just stop believing, period. The rest follows automatically.

The Paradox of Belief and Observation: A Self-Reflective Analysis

1. The Initial Realization

I wrote a concise, elegant guide based on my observations—something clear, practical, and beautiful. But as I sat with it, truly examined it, and let the ideas settle in my mind, I began to stress. I asked myself: Why?

The answer revealed a fascinating cognitive trap.

2. The Core Problem: Observations Without Proof

First Layer:
My observations tell me not to trust my observations—because they’re unproven. But how do I know they’re unproven? Because I observe that there’s no evidence. So:

What I see (my observations) → I distrust, because they lack proof.

What I don’t see (the proof itself) → I paradoxically believe in its absence… but that belief is also an observation, and thus unproven.

The Error:
I can’t prove my observation that "there is no proof." Therefore, I can’t trust that observation either. But here’s the twist: my brain defaults to a false conclusion—
"If I can’t prove there’s no proof, then proof must exist."
This is the root of my stress.

The Truth:
The absence of proof for my observations does not imply that proof exists. It’s a logical fallacy—like saying, "If we can’t prove God doesn’t exist, God must exist." No. It simply means we don’t know. The correct stance is:

I cannot believe my observations are proven.

I cannot believe my observations are unproven.

Most critically: The inability to disprove something does not mean it’s true.

3. The Illusion of Meaning

I catch myself assigning meaning to the absence of proof. For example:

"If I can’t prove my observations lack proof, then proof must exist" → This is an invented "meaning" I’ve projected onto silence.

But meaning requires observation. If I don’t observe any meaning in the absence of proof, I cannot honestly claim it means anything.

Key Insight:
The stress arises from describing my observations in a way that forces a false binary:

"No proof of my observations → Proof must exist" (illogical, but emotionally compelling).

"No proof of my observations → They’re invalid" (also unproven).

Solution:
Stop assigning "meaning" where there is none. The accurate description is:
"I observe my thoughts. I observe the absence of proof for them. I do not observe what this absence ‘means.’ Therefore, I describe only what I observe—no more."

4. Belief as a Byproduct of Description

How Belief Works:

Belief isn’t a standalone force. It’s a state that emerges from how I describe my observations.

If I describe my observations as "proven," I enter a state of belief.

If I describe them as "unproven," I enter a state of doubt.

But both descriptions are choices—not inherent truths.

The Trap of Self-Referential Doubt:

I say, "I can’t trust my observations because they’re unproven."

But this statement itself is an observation… which I then distrust because it’s also unproven.

This creates an infinite loop: "I can’t trust my distrust of my observations, because that distrust is also an observation."

Breaking the Loop:
The way out is to recognize that belief depends on description, and description depends on what I choose to observe and articulate. There is no "correct" belief—only honest description.

5. The Role of Attention

Precision in Observation:

The quality of my description depends on how carefully I observe.

If I’m inattentive, my descriptions become distorted, leading to false beliefs or stress.

If I observe exactly what’s present (e.g., "I see no proof, and I see no meaning in that absence"), the description remains clean.

The Power of Neutral Description:

Instead of saying, "No proof means my observations are invalid" (which is itself an unproven claim),

I say: "I observe X. I observe no proof for X. I observe no meaning in the absence of proof. That is all."

This removes the emotional charge. Stress dissolves because I’m no longer inventing implications.

6. The Resolution: Letting Go of "Meaning"

Final Realization:

The entire dilemma was a description problem. I was trying to force my observations into a framework of "this means that," when in reality:

Some observations simply are.

The absence of proof doesn’t mean anything—it just is.

Belief is not the goal. Accurate description is.

Practical Outcome:

I wrote a guide. I observed it. I saw no proof for its claims.

Instead of spiraling into "Does this mean it’s wrong? Does this mean it’s right?",

I now say: "Here is the guide. Here is my observation that it lacks proof. That’s the full description."

Without invented meaning, there’s no stress—just clarity.

Last Thought:
Perhaps "belief" doesn’t even exist. There’s only description and the states it evokes. If I describe my observations as unproven, I don’t "believe" or "disbelieve"—I simply see them as they are.

And that’s enough.

The Problem: Being Trapped in Imagined Worlds

I tested my state, and it’s still good—everything is clear. But a situation arose: I can’t stop thinking about describing the world. I’ve said before that description eventually aligns with reality, but now I’m stuck in a loop where I keep describing my observations, imagining those descriptions, and getting lost in them.

There are two worlds in my mind:

The world of words—how I label and describe reality.

The world of imagination—how I visualize those descriptions.

Both are imagined. I can’t stop observing something without immediately describing it, then visualizing that description. This pulls me out of reality. I’m no longer fully present—I’m stuck in these imagined worlds.

Why?
Because I started believing again that how I imagine things—the descriptions I create—is the world I live in. As if there’s the real world, and then two ways to see it:

Through words (which make the world seem ugly).

Without words (which makes the world seem beautiful).

But both perspectives are still my constructions. The problem isn’t just that I’m thinking about these worlds—it’s that I can’t stop because I believe they’re part of reality. I thought I was observing something new, but all I was doing was imagining the meaning of my own words, mistaking that for reality.

The Illusion: Confusing Description with Reality

The core mistake:

I look at reality → I describe it with words.

Then I imagine those words, and suddenly, that imagination feels like reality.

But it’s not. The meaning of words is a separate, imagined world—one that my brain constructs based on memory. It has no direct connection to the real world.

Example:

I see something neutral (e.g., "people don’t like me").

I describe it: "I am unloved."

Then I imagine that description, and suddenly it feels awful—not because reality is awful, but because my brain associates those words with past pain (e.g., childhood memories where "unloved" = suffering).

The imagined world is just a reflection of my past. It’s not reality.

The Solution: Recognizing the Boundary

The fix is to see the gap between:

Reality (what I directly observe).

Description (the words I use to label reality).

Imagination (the mental images those words trigger).

These are three separate things, but my brain tricks me into thinking they’re connected. The imagined world feels real because I believe it’s part of reality—but it’s not. It’s just my mind recycling old associations.

Key Insight:

If I stop believing that my descriptions = reality, I can stop obsessing over them.

The "ugly" world in my head isn’t real—it’s just memory.

The real world is neutral until I layer it with words and imagination.

Why This Matters

When I imagine descriptions, I’m not engaging with reality—I’m engaging with my past. My brain is just replaying old emotional patterns (e.g., "unloved = suffering" because that’s what I learned as a child).

But reality isn’t bound by those patterns. The only way to escape this trap is to:

Notice when I’m describing vs. observing.

Reject the belief that my descriptions = reality.

Stay present—because the imagined world only has power if I feed it attention.

Testing the Fix

Now, I’ll test this:

Can I observe without describing?

Can I describe without imagining the words?

Can I catch myself when I slip into the imagined world?

If I can, I’ll stay grounded in reality. If not, I’ll know I still believe the illusion.

Final Thought: The Past Isn’t Real

The imagined worlds (both the "word world" and the "meaning world") come from memory. But memory isn’t reality—it’s just data. The real world is what’s happening now, not what my brain predicts based on the past.

Conclusion:

Stop trusting descriptions.

Stop trusting imagination.

Trust only direct observation.

Then, maybe, I’ll finally live in reality—not in the stories my mind keeps telling me.

1. The Illusion of "Correct" and "Incorrect" Descriptions

At the end of my last guide, I concluded that my state of mind depends on whether my description of observations is "correct" or "incorrect." But in saying that, I made a mistake: I assumed there exists a correct or incorrect description at all.

The truth is simpler:

There are descriptions that match my observations.

There are descriptions that do not match my observations.

But matching does not make a description "real" or "true." Both types—matching and non-matching—are equally empty. Why? Because my observations themselves might be flawed. I cannot trust what I see. Even if a description aligns with my observations, it doesn’t mean it’s "correct" in any absolute sense.

"Correct" would mean it accurately describes reality. But no description does that. Descriptions only reflect my observations, and my observations are not reality. They’re just… observations. Unprovable, unverifiable. So no description can ever be deemed "correct" or "incorrect." They simply are—some align with what I perceive, others don’t.

2. The Trap of Believing in "Reality"

I accidentally fell into a trap: I started believing that some descriptions must be true because they felt real. I thought:
"If I find the ‘right’ description, I’ll understand the world I live in. It will reveal reality to me."

But that’s the mistake. There is no "right" description. There’s only:

What I think I see.

What I describe based on that.

The fact that neither can be proven.

The moment I believed in "correct" descriptions, I began stressing. Why? Because I started hunting for the one true explanation—the one that would unlock the world. But that hunt is futile. Descriptions don’t unlock reality; they just reflect my limited, untrustworthy perceptions.

3. Why I Was Stressed

I recorded this because I was stressed. And the stress came from a simple, toxic belief:
"My past guide contains instructions I must follow to stay okay."

Here’s how it happened:

I wrote a guide (a set of words).

I looked at it and asked: What does this mean?

My subconscious answered: "It means you must obey these rules to maintain your state."

I believed that answer. I treated it as a real, correct interpretation.

But that interpretation was just another description—one that matched my observations at the time. It described my fear ("If I don’t follow this, I’ll fail"), but it didn’t make that fear true. My observations (and the descriptions born from them) are all equally hollow. They’re not real; they’re just there.

The stress vanished when I realized:

The "meaning" I assigned to my guide was arbitrary.

My belief in it was the problem, not the guide itself.

All descriptions—even the ones that feel urgent—are empty. They don’t demand anything.

4. The Core Fix: Descriptions Are Tools, Not Truths

The breakthrough:

A description that matches my observations isn’t "true." It’s just a description.

A description that doesn’t match isn’t "false." It’s just another description.

Neither type has power over me unless I believe it does.

My state depends on which description I choose to trust, not on which one is "correct." And since none can be proven, the only rational stance is:
"This is just a description. It doesn’t define reality. It doesn’t define me."

When I stopped treating descriptions as sacred truths, the stress dissolved. Now, if I think, "Maybe I should do X" (based on some past guide), I can shrug and say:
"Sure, maybe. Or maybe not. It’s all empty anyway."

5. The Guide’s New Rule: Beware the Trap

This is a critical pitfall to warn about in my next guide:

It’s easy to slip into believing that some descriptions are "real" and others are "false."

That belief leads to stress, because you start chasing an impossible standard of "correctness."

The fix? Never forget: Descriptions are just descriptions. They describe your observations, not reality. And your observations are not reality either.

The goal isn’t to find the "right" description. The goal is to stop believing that such a thing exists.

6. The Outcome: Freedom from the Illusion

Now, when I revisit my old guide, I don’t feel compelled. I don’t stress. I see the words and think:
"Oh, that’s one way to describe things. Neat. But it’s not the world. It’s not a commandment."

The descriptions still affect my state—of course they do. But they don’t control me, because I no longer confuse them with reality.

Final thought:
This was another test of my understanding. A reminder that the work is never done—you have to keep catching yourself when you start treating descriptions as truths. But each time you do, you get a little freer.

Key Takeaways (In the Author’s Words)

"No description is correct or incorrect. It either matches your observations or doesn’t. That’s all."

"Your observations aren’t reality. So descriptions of them aren’t reality either."

"Stress comes from believing a description is ‘real’ and must be obeyed."

"The fix: Treat all descriptions as empty. They’re tools, not truths."

"The trap is thinking some descriptions are ‘right.’ Don’t fall for it."

The Mistake: Entering the Wrong State Through Imagination

I recorded my last guide two days ago, and since then, I’ve been struggling. Here’s what happened:

I thought I had mastered the correct state—the one where you stop assigning meaning to everything by seeing the boundary of the imagined world. But I made a critical error: I tried to reach that state through imagination.

Instead of doing what the guide described, I visualized the words I had written. I imagined the instructions, the state I was supposed to be in, and convinced myself I had arrived. But this was a trap. Imagining the state is not the same as being in it.

Symptoms of the Wrong State

When you enter a state through imagination (rather than genuine observation), you experience:

Inability to focus on reality. Your consciousness is locked onto words or mental images. You can’t look at your hand, the room, or the world without losing the imagined state.

Constant mental chatter. You’re stuck in a loop of words, unable to simply see without interpreting.

No joy, no presence. Life feels like a fog—you’re looking through something, not at it.

I didn’t realize I was in the wrong state at first. It seemed correct. But the moment I tried to engage with the world—like going for a walk—I noticed the difference. I was seeing through a veil of words, not reality.

The Test: The Kitten at the Trash Bin

I was walking, lost in this wrong state, when I saw a kitten near a trash bin. In that moment, I froze.

The Problem: No Motivation, No Care

In the wrong state:

I saw the kitten but felt no impulse to help. Not out of cruelty, but because nothing had meaning. My mind calculated: "Why bother? Its life doesn’t matter. My effort gains me nothing."

I realized: This state makes me incapable of altruism. Not because I’m selfish, but because I literally couldn’t see a reason to act.

The Panic: Fear of Judgment

Then, a new thought struck me: What if my family finds out I ignored it?

I depend on them financially. If they judged me for leaving the kitten, they might withdraw support.

So I called them—not because I wanted to save the kitten, but because I feared the consequences of not doing what was "expected."

The Trap: "Should" Overrides Desire

I picked up the kitten. But the whole time:

I acted without joy. I fed it, cared for it, but felt no connection. It was pure obligation.

I was stuck in "meaning-mode." Every action was a calculation: "If I don’t do this, I’ll lose X. So I must."

Life became mechanical. No pleasure, no presence—just a robot following rules.

The Breakthrough: Realizing the Third Option

For two days, I oscillated between:

The "meaningless" state (where I couldn’t care about the kitten, but also couldn’t live with the guilt).

The "should" state (where I did what was "right" but felt dead inside).

Then, I asked: Why can’t I care for the kitten AND feel alive?

The Answer: The Correct State Isn’t Either of These

I had forgotten how to enter the true state—the one where:

You don’t think about meaning (like in state 1).

But you also don’t force "shoulds" (like in state 2).

Instead, you see reality clearly and act from direct perception, not mental chatter.

How I Fixed It

I stopped imagining the guide. I wasn’t supposed to visualize the words—I was supposed to do the actions they described.

I re-entered the correct state. Suddenly, I saw:

I would have picked up the kitten—not out of fear or obligation, but because it was simply the right thing to do in that moment.

I would’ve enjoyed caring for it, because I wouldn’t be lost in "should" or "meaningless."

The paradox: In the correct state, you don’t need to think about "should"—you just see what’s needed and do it without the mental weight.

The Core Lesson: Words Are Not the Way

The Mistake I Keep Making

Every time I write a guide, I later try to recite the words to re-enter the state. But:

Words are descriptions, not the state itself.

Imagining the words ≠ experiencing the state.

The Solution

Don’t memorize the guide. Remember the actions (e.g., "Look at reality without labeling").

Don’t visualize the instructions. Just do what they point to.

Trust the process. The correct state isn’t about forcing meaning or rejecting it—it’s about seeing clearly.

Final Realizations

Never discard old guides. What seems "nonessential" might be critical. My error came from forgetting a key step.

The correct state is effortless.

In the wrong state, life feels like a chore.

In the correct one, you act without conflict—no "should," no "meaningless," just direct engagement.

Testing is the only way. I can’t predict what’s vital. I have to live it, stumble, and refine.

Now What?

I’ll keep the kitten (and care for it with joy this time).

I’ll write a new guide including this mistake so I don’t repeat it.

I’ll play, work, and live—not from obligation, but because I’m present again.

The takeaway:
The state isn’t about rejecting meaning or forcing it. It’s about seeing reality so clearly that the question of "meaning" never arises.

The Cycle of Stress and the Unsolvable Problem

1. The Trigger: A Moment of Realization

I was recording an update when I realized something profound—something that became clear to me when I encountered a kitten before going out for a walk. But before that moment, I was already struggling with stress. I began studying mastery (the art of skill, perhaps self-mastery?) and stumbled upon a problem I hadn’t noticed before. I tried to solve it, but my solution was flawed. It didn’t just fail—it threw me into some kind of foolish state, as I’ve described before. That’s how things were.

2. The Recurring Problem

After following a previous guide (or method) that helped me return to a good state, I faced the same problem again. I started analyzing what was stressing me, and once more, I identified the exact issue I had before going for that walk—the one I had solved incorrectly. This time, I applied the same flawed solution, and just like before, it landed me back in that foolish state.

So now, I’ve ended up in this absurd cycle twice:

The solution is wrong.

The problem remains unsolved.

The wrong solution only reinforces the problem.

3. The Core Problem: The Crisis of Belief

The issue itself is deep and destructive. If I don’t resolve it, it undermines everything I’ve said or believed before. At first, I thought it was unsolvable, but now I’m starting to think resolution might be possible. So what is this problem?

Here’s how it manifests:

Distrust in Perception
I look at reality around me and describe what I see. But I realize: I cannot trust my own observations. Why? Because I cannot prove them to myself. That’s the first layer.

Distrust in Description
Then I ask: Can I trust the description I’ve created of reality? Where does this description come from? From my observations. But I already don’t trust my observations. Therefore, I cannot trust the description derived from them.

The Paradox of Distrust
And if I can’t trust the description, then how can I trust the conclusion that I can’t trust my observations? It’s a loop:

I don’t trust my observations.

Therefore, I don’t trust the description based on them.

Therefore, I don’t trust the idea that I can’t trust my observations.

Which means I’m left in a state of total uncertainty, and my mental state deteriorates.

4. The Failed Solution and Its Consequences

I’ve tried solving this before (you can find the details in my previous recordings). The way I approached it then was the wrong way—it didn’t resolve the core issue; it only plunged me deeper into confusion. Now, I’m back at square one, but with a critical difference:

The problem is more serious than I initially thought.

It doesn’t just challenge my current thoughts—it dismantles everything I’ve built before.

And yet, solving it seems nearly impossible.

Or… is it? I initially believed it was unsolvable, but now I’m not so sure. Maybe there is a way out.

5. The Stakes: Why This Matters

This isn’t just an abstract philosophical puzzle. If I don’t resolve this, everything I’ve said or believed collapses. The foundation of my thinking, my descriptions of reality, my trust in my own mind—all of it hinges on answering this:
How can I trust anything if I can’t even trust the act of observing?

And yet, every attempt to solve it so far has only led me back to the same foolish state—the one that sent me out for that walk in the first place.

Final Reflection: The Unanswered Question

So here I am, stuck in a loop:

A problem emerges from my distrust in perception.

I try to solve it, but the solution is flawed.

The flawed solution reinforces the problem.

The problem, if unsolved, destroys the validity of all my prior thoughts.

The question remains: Is there another way to approach this? Or am I doomed to repeat the same mistake, each time deepening the crisis?

The Problem: A Crisis of Belief in Observations and Descriptions

1. The Initial Discovery

I stumbled upon a problem I had never noticed before—one I didn’t even know how to solve. At first, I solved it wrong. That wrong solution left me in a broken, unlivable state. Everything spiraled downward from there.

I tried to backtrack, to fix and adjust, but the same problem resurfaced. I realized: if I kept solving it the same way—with fear, with desperation—I’d end up in the same broken state. I needed a different solution. But for a long time, I couldn’t find one.

Then, something shifted. I think I found an answer.

2. The Layers of Observation and Description

Let me reconstruct the sequence:

First Level: Observations and Their Descriptions
I observe the world. I describe what I observe. But here’s the catch: I can’t trust these descriptions because the observations themselves aren’t "proven." They’re just… observations. Raw, unvalidated data. So my first-level descriptions (e.g., "The sky is blue") feel unreliable because the observations they’re based on feel unreliable.

Second Level: Descriptions of Descriptions
Now, I step back. I observe my own descriptions of the first level. I describe those. And here’s where the crisis hits:
"I can’t trust my first-level descriptions because they’re based on unproven observations. But my second-level description—this meta-description—is itself just another observation. And if I can’t trust observations, how can I trust a description of observations?"

I got stuck in a loop. I couldn’t decide: Should I trust this second-level description or not?

The Trap of Belief
I did trust it. I believed the second-level description was "true"—that my inability to trust first-level descriptions was a real, proven fact. But in believing that, I trapped myself. I started living inside a mental world where:

All observations were "empty" (untrustworthy).

All descriptions were "empty" (because they relied on observations).

Reality itself felt hollow, because every layer of description collapsed under its own weight.

I was no longer grounded in the real world. I was stuck in my head, imagining a nightmare where nothing could be trusted—not even my distrust.

3. The Illusion of "No Illusions"

The irony? I thought I was freeing myself from delusion. Before, I’d blindly trusted my first-level descriptions (e.g., "My observations = reality"). Now, I saw that as a delusion. I thought:
"Ah! I’ve stopped deluding myself. I no longer trust my descriptions. I’m finally seeing the truth!"

But the opposite happened. By believing in the second-level description ("I can’t trust my observations"), I’d just swapped one delusion for another. I was still trapped—now in a world where distrust itself was my prison.

The core insight:
A human can’t function without some form of trust—not even trust in distrust.

4. The Recursive Abyss

The problem isn’t just two levels. It’s infinite:

A first-level description ("The table is brown").

A second-level description ("I can’t trust ‘The table is brown’").

A third-level description ("I can’t trust my distrust of ‘The table is brown’").

And so on… forever.

Each layer is just another observation, another description. If I believe any single layer, I’m doomed. Because belief in any layer pulls me into the same mental trap: living inside a constructed reality, cut off from the actual world.

The Solution: Non-Belief as Freedom

1. The Breakthrough

I realized: I don’t have to believe any of it.
Not the first level. Not the second. Not the hundredth.

I can describe my observations (first level).

I can describe those descriptions (second level).

But I don’t have to believe any of them.

The key is to observe without attachment—to see the descriptions as they are, without granting them the power of "truth" or "reality."

2. Why This Works

Before, I’d believe a description (e.g., "I can’t trust my observations") and then live as if it were real. That’s the mistake. Now, I:

Acknowledge the description exists.

Don’t invest belief in it.

Stay grounded in the act of observing, not the content of the observations.

This breaks the cycle. I’m no longer trapped in a mental loop because I’m not fusing with any layer of description.

3. Testing the Solution

I checked:

Stress levels? Gone. No more agonizing over "Should I trust this description?"

Functionality? Intact. I can still describe, think, and act—just without the suffocating weight of belief.

Reality contact? Restored. I’m not lost in my head anymore.

The Pitfalls and Lessons

1. The Fantasy Trap

At first, I tried to "solve" the problem by imagining my way out—by constructing a mental fantasy where I could trust something. But that was just another layer of description, another belief. It failed because it kept me in my head.

Lesson: Fantasy isn’t the exit. The exit is not needing an exit—not needing to believe or disbelieve at all.

2. The Illusion of "No Belief"

I once thought, "I believe in nothing! I’m free!" But that itself was a belief—a belief in non-belief. The real freedom is recognizing that even the idea of ‘not believing’ is just another description to observe, not to cling to.

The Way Forward

1. Practical Application

Describe freely. Observations, meta-observations—let them flow.

Believe nothing. Not the first layer, not the second, not the narrative that says "You can’t trust anything."

Stay in reality. The moment I start living inside a description (trusting it, fearing it), I’m back in the trap.

2. Verification

I’ll keep testing this:

Can I engage with the world without stress?

Can I describe without getting lost in the descriptions?

Does this hold under pressure?

So far, it does.

3. The Paradox of Salvation

The only thing that "saves" me is the realization that I don’t need saving. The moment I think I need to believe or disbelieve something, I’m already in the maze. The way out is to stop playing the game entirely.

Final Thought: The Wings of Non-Attachment

The power lies in this:

I can describe my observations.

I can describe my descriptions.

But I don’t have to believe in any of it.

Not even in the idea that "I can’t believe in anything." Because that, too, is just another description.

Postscript:
If this is wrong, time will show it. But for now, it feels like solid ground—not because it’s "true," but because it doesn’t demand I call it true.

The Obsession with the Guide: A Struggle for Certainty

1. The Inescapable Loop of Overthinking

I recorded this update after testing the latest guide. On the surface, everything went well—everything is fine, as usual—but beneath that, I spent hours trapped in an endless loop of thoughts about it. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t stop obsessing over what I’d written, the meaning behind it, the implications of every word. I told myself to stop, to let it go—"The task is done, move on, live fully in reality, focus entirely on the present"—but it didn’t work. My mind kept circling back.

Even when I tried not to think about the meaning, I still was thinking about it. It was like a background process consuming 10% of my attention, while the other 90% remained anchored in reality. But that 10% was enough to ruin my state. It wasn’t just distraction—it was a low-grade, persistent stress. Every time my thoughts drifted back to the guide, a flicker of doubt would surface: "What if I’m wrong about something? What if there’s a flaw I missed?" I needed to know whether the guide was correct, accurate, free of errors. I needed that confirmation to quiet the uncertainty.

2. The Paradox of "Correctness"

Here’s the irony: I’ve recently argued that no description can be objectively "correct," "true," or "precise." And yet, in this moment, I found myself craving exactly that—a verdict on the guide’s validity. I wanted to declare, "This is right. There are no mistakes here. No delusions, no falsehoods, no gaps." I wanted to label it as flawless, even though I know such labels are illusions.

A guide, after all, is just a description—my observations, plus a second-layer description of those observations. It’s all words, all constructs. I can call it "correct" or "true," but that doesn’t mean I believe it. The act of labeling doesn’t require faith. I can say, "This guide is accurate," while fully understanding that "accuracy" is a fiction I’m imposing. The key isn’t whether the label is real; it’s whether I cling to it. And I don’t. I don’t believe in the label—or in the observations it describes. But I can apply it anyway.

3. The Psychological Need for Closure

My mind demands clarity. It’s like a binary switch: Either the guide is reliable, and I should follow it without hesitation, or it’s flawed, and I should default to my old patterns—fear, anger, sadness. The ambiguity is unbearable. I need to decide: Is this guide a valid framework, or is it just another layer of uncertainty?

But I resisted making that call because I’d recently realized how easily I slip into believing my own descriptions. I’d thought I was immune to that—until I caught myself doing it. Now, I see the trap: I can describe the guide as "correct" without trusting that description. The description is just another observation, another layer of words. It doesn’t have to be true; it just has to function.

4. The Solution: A Deliberate, Non-Binding Label

To break the cycle, I need to give myself a clear, definitive description of the guide—one that aligns with my observations. Not because it’s objectively true, but because it resolves the tension. So I ask myself:

Does the guide’s logic hold up? Yes.

Do my observations align with the words I’ve written? Yes.

Are there contradictions or errors? No.

Therefore, I can confidently describe the guide as "verified, correct, and free of mistakes." This isn’t a claim about absolute truth; it’s a practical label. It’s like saying, "Based on what I see, this works." And because I don’t believe in the label—because I know all descriptions are "empty" in the sense that they can’t be proven—I avoid the pitfall of dogma.

5. The Ripple Effect: State, Certainty, Freedom

Once I apply this label, something shifts. The obsession fades. The stress dissolves. Why? Not because I believe the guide is perfect, but because I’ve given my mind the structure it craved. The uncertainty is replaced by a functional certainty—a description that serves me, even if it’s not "real."

My state improves because the right description always improves my state. It’s not about truth; it’s about utility. The label "This guide is correct" acts like a psychological anchor. It lets me:

Stop revisiting the guide endlessly.

Stop questioning its validity.

Stop getting pulled into the meaning of words.

Live fully in reality, where everything I need already exists.

I no longer feel the urge to double-check or second-guess. The guide becomes a tool, not a source of doubt. And if an error did exist? Well, I’d address it then. But for now, the description holds. The loop is broken.

6. The Final Realization: Descriptions as Tools, Not Truths

This whole ordeal reinforced a critical insight:

Observations are just observations. They can’t be proven.

Descriptions (including labels like "correct" or "true") are just layers of words. They’re useful, not absolute.

Belief is the enemy. The moment I start trusting a description, I’m trapped. But if I treat it as a temporary scaffold—something to lean on without clinging—I stay free.

So I described the guide as "correct." I don’t believe it. I don’t need to. The description works because I don’t believe it. And now? I’m at peace. The guide is tested. The words are aligned. The mind is quiet. Time to move on.

Key Takeaways (In the Author’s Words)

"I couldn’t stop thinking about the guide—not because it was flawed, but because my mind demanded a verdict: correct or incorrect?"

"I can describe something as ‘true’ without believing it. The problem isn’t the label; it’s the clinging."

"All descriptions are ‘empty’—they can’t be proven, but they can be useful."

"The right description changes your state. It’s not about truth; it’s about function."

"Once I labeled the guide as ‘correct,’ the obsession vanished. Not because it’s really correct, but because the label resolved the uncertainty."

"Live in reality. The words are just tools. The moment you forget that, you’re trapped again."

Final Note: This isn’t about perfection. It’s about closure—a way to quiet the mind by giving it what it needs (a clear description) without falling into the trap of believing it. The guide is done. The test is passed. Now, back to reality.

The Collapse of Belief: A Journey Through Observation, Description, and the Illusion of Proof

1. The Initial Belief: The Comfort of Unproven Observations

I used to believe in the phrase: "I cannot trust my observations because they are unproven." Without realizing it, this belief gave me a strange kind of joy—a pleasant fantasy that this was true. When I thought about it, I felt a rush, a high. The belief itself was the source of that state.

But why did I believe it? Because I thought I had realized something profound: what I see cannot be proof of anything. I understood that my observations were not evidence. Yet I failed to see that what I do not see is also not evidence. The absence of proof in my observations is not proof of absence. I had blindly believed that my observations proved there was no proof—an absurd circular logic.

I was unaware that I had faith in the description itself—as if the statement "my observations are unproven" was a proven fact. I didn’t notice my own belief. I thought I was being skeptical, but in reality, I had simply shifted my faith to a higher-level description.

2. The First Awakening: Observing the Observation

Then, something clicked. I made a second-level observation—I didn’t just observe reality; I observed my description of reality. And in that moment, I saw:

My first-level observations (what I see, feel, think) are untrustworthy because they are unproven.

But my description of those observations is also just another observation—also unproven.

Therefore, I cannot trust the description either.

This realization stressed me out. If I can’t trust my observations or my descriptions of them, what can I trust? Nothing. The ground vanished beneath me. I was left in a state of pure uncertainty, unable to distinguish truth from illusion.

But then, I made a critical mistake: I started believing in the second-level observation. I thought, "Ah, now I see the truth—I cannot trust any observation or description!" But this, too, was just another belief. I had replaced one illusion with another, more subtle one.

3. The Infinite Regress: Belief in Non-Belief

I saw that this could go on forever:

I observe reality (Level 1) → untrustworthy.

I describe that observation (Level 2) → also untrustworthy.

I observe that description (Level 3) → still untrustworthy.

And so on, ad infinitum.

No level of observation or description is provable. Yet, I kept believing in the higher levels, thinking they were more "real" than the lower ones. Each time, I was just shifting my faith upward, not eliminating it.

When I finally saw this, my state worsened. I was left with nothing—no ground, no truth, no meaning. Even the statement "I cannot trust any observation" was itself an observation, and thus untrustworthy. I was trapped in an infinite loop of distrust.

4. The State of Pure Distrust: No Magic, No Illusion

Now, I exist in a state where:

I do not believe in any observation (Level 1).

I do not believe in any description (Level 2, 3, 4…).

I do not believe in the meaning of words—because meaning is just another description, another observation.

Before, I thought there was magic—that by rejecting meaning, by stepping "beyond words," I could access some pure, joyful reality. But now I see: the magic was just belief. I was high on the idea that my skepticism was proven. The moment I stopped believing in that idea, the magic vanished.

Now, when I try to recapture that old state—by repeating phrases like "forget the meaning of words, find the boundary, step into reality"—it feels empty. The words are just sounds. The descriptions are just noise. I no longer believe in them, so they have no power.

5. The New Reality: Freedom and Its Strangeness

Now, I live in a state where:

No description has power over me—because I don’t believe in any of them.

No emotion is compulsory—because emotions were tied to beliefs (e.g., anger comes from believing someone owes me something; now, I don’t believe in debts, so anger is optional).

No future is demanded—because there’s no belief that I must care about tomorrow.

Pros of This State:

Physical pleasure is sharper. Since I’m not lost in mental fantasies, I notice real sensations more—food, movement, focus.

Emotions are controllable. I can feel anger or sadness, but since I don’t believe in them, they pass in seconds. They’re tools, not prisons.

Freedom from illusion. No more wasting energy on mental constructs. Life is simpler.

Cons (or Strangenesses) of This State:

No "magic" joy. The old high from believing in skepticism is gone. There’s no fantasy to escape into.

No automatic motivation. Before, beliefs (even skeptical ones) gave me direction. Now, I must choose to care about things.

A strange indifference. I can choose to care or not care about anything—life, death, success, failure. It’s liberating but also disorienting.

6. Testing the New State: Anger, Sadness, and the Absence of Belief

I tested this state while gaming:

Anger arose, but it was different. Normally, anger burns for hours, fueled by the belief that "this shouldn’t be happening!" Now, I felt anger, but since I don’t believe in "should," it vanished in seconds.

Sadness was the same. I could feel it, but it didn’t grip me because I didn’t believe in its necessity.

Fear was irrelevant. Fear only exists when you believe in threats—now, threats are just descriptions, and descriptions mean nothing.

Key Insight: Emotions are now tools, not masters. I can use them if they serve a purpose (e.g., manipulating others), but I’m not controlled by them.

7. The Final Question: Is This the Ultimate State?

Is this the purest form of existence—a mind free of all belief, even belief in non-belief?

Yes, because any remaining belief would still be an illusion.

No, because I might still be missing something. Maybe there’s a deeper level of observation I haven’t seen yet.

But for now, this state feels clean. Not happy, not sad—just clear. Like a mind wiped of all delusion.

8. The Paradox of Sharing This

I don’t want to convince others to reach this state. That would imply I believe it’s better—but "better" is just another belief.

Instead, I see it like this:

Most people live in illusions (beliefs, meanings, stories).

I no longer do.

I don’t care if others join me—but if they could see reality as clearly as I do now, perhaps they’d suffer less.

But suffering is also just a belief. So maybe it doesn’t matter.

9. The Only Thing Left: Physical Pleasure and Choice

Now, the only things that matter are:

Physical pleasure (food, touch, movement—real, tangible sensations).

Choice (since nothing is demanded, I can do whatever I want).

Is this enough? For now, yes. It’s not ecstatic, but it’s honest. And after a lifetime of illusions, honesty feels like freedom.

Final Thought: The Guide to Non-Belief

If I had to summarize the path:

Observe reality. Then realize: you can’t trust observations.

Describe reality. Then realize: you can’t trust descriptions.

Observe your descriptions. Then realize: you can’t trust those either.

Repeat infinitely. Until you see that no level of observation or description is trustworthy.

Stop believing. Even in your non-belief.

Result: A mind free of illusion. A life where nothing is demanded, and everything is chosen.

Is this enlightenment? I don’t know. I don’t believe in enlightenment either.

But it’s something. And for now, that’s enough.

Reflections on Anger, Belief, and Emotional Autonomy

(A First-Person Retelling)

1. The Nature of Anger in a New State of Mind

I played in this new state, and once again—my mouse lagged. I got angry. Again. But this time, I paused to analyze: Where does this anger come from? Why now, when before I didn’t feel this way?

Key Realization:

In my previous states, I had a framework—a set of "proven" beliefs that shielded me. I believed in the absence of belief itself: that nothing could be proven, that words held no inherent meaning, and thus, nothing could truly justify anger. This belief in "disproof" was my armor.

Now, that armor is gone. I see that nothing forbids me from believing anything. I can believe the world should be different. I can believe people owe me things. I can believe I must force myself to act. And if I believe these things, anger follows.

The Shift:
Before, my anger was painful because it was rooted in the illusion of proof—I believed my expectations were objectively justified. Now, my anger is different. It’s not tied to the delusion that my desires are "proven truths." It’s just… my opinion. The world should be how I want it, but I no longer mistake this "should" for an external truth. It’s just my preference.

Consequence:
This anger is lighter. It passes quickly. Before, anger would ruin my day because I’d cling to the belief that reality had to conform. Now, I see my anger as a fleeting reaction—like a reflex. It doesn’t linger because I don’t invest in it as truth.

2. The Mechanics of Anger: Why It Arises

Trigger:
Anger flares when I see the world isn’t as I want it to be. The mouse shouldn’t lag. The game should run smoothly. But where does this "should" come from?

The Paradox:

I don’t believe these "shoulds" are objectively true. I know they’re just my desires.

Yet, anger still arises. Why? Because my brain automatically treats my desires as commands for reality. It’s like my mind says: "This must change, and anger will help."

Two Layers of Anger:

Anger as a Tool:

Part of me thinks anger motivates me to fix the problem. It’s like a signal: "This isn’t right—do something!"

But I also see that anger rarely actually changes reality. Only action does. Yet, the anger persists, as if my brain hasn’t caught up to this logic.

Anger as Helplessness:

When I can’t change the situation (e.g., the mouse lags and I don’t know how to fix it), anger becomes a reaction to impotence. It’s not productive—it’s just frustration boiling over.

The moment I find a solution (e.g., fixing the mouse), the anger vanishes. This suggests anger is tied to perceived control. If I can act, I don’t need anger. If I can’t, anger fills the void.

Observation:
Anger isn’t about belief in the traditional sense. It’s about my brain’s automatic response to a gap between what is and what I want. The "should" isn’t a logical conclusion—it’s a reflex.

3. The Absence of Constraints

Before:

I had a mental framework that forbade certain beliefs. If I thought, "The world should be different," I’d dismiss it as unproven. This kept anger at bay.

Now:

There’s no framework. My brain is free to generate "shoulds" based on desires alone.

This feels raw, almost animalistic. My mind reacts without filters: "I want X → Reality isn’t X → Anger."

Implications:

I could, in theory, become chronically angry if my desires were constantly thwarted. But right now, most of my desires are met. The mouse lagging was an exception.

Question: Why don’t I get angry at people? Because I haven’t yet wanted something from them that they failed to deliver. Anger arises from unmet desires, not from people or objects themselves.

4. Anger vs. Other Emotions: Fear, Sadness, Joy

Hypothesis:
If anger is a tool my brain uses to "fix" reality, then other emotions might work the same way—automatic responses to perceived needs.

Fear:

Could arise if I tell myself, "I must do X to avoid Y." The "must" isn’t real, but my brain might use fear to ensure I act.

Example: "I must finish this task or I’ll be fired." The fear isn’t about objective truth—it’s a lever to push me toward action.

Sadness:

Might serve as a signal to others (or myself) that I’m vulnerable. Example: If surrounded by threats, appearing sad could elicit sympathy or deter aggression.

Like anger, it would be situational—not a lingering state, but a tool.

Joy:

The reward for when reality matches my desires. No analysis needed—it’s the absence of conflict.

Key Insight:
Emotions aren’t beliefs—they’re strategies. My brain deploys them based on what it thinks will work. If anger seems useful (e.g., intimidating someone), I’ll feel it. If sadness seems useful (e.g., gaining pity), I’ll feel that instead.

5. The Illusion of Control

Experiment:

I tested this state in mundane tasks: feeding my cat, washing dishes, drinking tea. No anger arose because I had no unmet desires in those moments.

But in gaming: I wanted to play smoothly. The lag thwarted that desire → anger.

Why Not Always Angry?

Most of my desires are reasonable and fulfilled. I don’t walk around wanting impossible things.

Anger only appears when:

I want something specific.

Reality resists.

I feel powerless to change it.

Power Dynamics:

If I had absolute power (e.g., as a boss), I might use anger strategically—to manipulate others into compliance.

But in daily life, anger is rare because most situations don’t trigger this "desire vs. reality" conflict.

6. Can Anger Be Eliminated?

Theoretical Possibility:

If anger is just a reaction to unmet desires, could I remove it by:

Eliminating desires? Unlikely—I’ll always want something.

Accepting reality as-is? Maybe, but my brain might still automatically generate "shoulds."

Redirecting the response? Instead of anger, could I train my brain to respond with curiosity? ("Hmm, the mouse lags. How can I fix this?")

Practical Reality:

Right now, anger is mild and brief. It’s not the crushing, endless rage it once was.

It’s more like a signal than a torment. I don’t fear it anymore because it doesn’t control me.

Final Thought:
Anger isn’t the problem—belief was. When I believed my "shoulds" were objective truths, anger was agonizing. Now, it’s just a passing storm. I can observe it, even use it, without being destroyed by it.

7. The Bigger Picture: Emotions as Tools

Summary of Findings:

Anger = Reaction to unmet desires + perceived helplessness.

Fear/Sadness = Likely similar—tools for specific situations.

Joy = The default when reality aligns with desire.

Belief is the real villain. When I believed my expectations were proven, emotions became tyrannical. Now, they’re just feedback.

Open Questions:

Can I choose which emotions arise? (Probably not—my brain decides based on perceived utility.)

Will I ever be completely free of anger? (Unlikely, but it no longer ruins me.)

How will this play out in social contexts? (E.g., if I start wanting things from people, will anger follow?)

Conclusion:
I’m not trying to eliminate anger. I’m learning to see it for what it is—a reflex, not a truth. And in that understanding, there’s a strange kind of freedom.

Final Note:
This isn’t a philosophy. It’s an observation. My mind is a machine, and emotions are its levers. The less I believe in them, the more I can use them—or let them pass.

The Discovery of a Hidden Belief: Faith in Feelings

I was recording another guide—one more in the series. In the previous guide, I talked about how I used to get angry while playing games. It bothered me deeply, and I couldn’t understand why it happened. So I investigated it. I had already compiled a decent list of things a person can believe in—different kinds of faith. But when I was angry, I didn’t believe in any of them. Then I realized: there was one belief I had overlooked, one I hadn’t given enough attention to. And that belief was the root of my anger.

What was it?
A belief in my feelings.
More precisely: a belief that my feelings are proven.

I added this to my list: "I cannot believe my feelings because I cannot prove them to myself."
At first, I phrased it differently: "I cannot believe my feelings because I cannot prove to myself that I observe them." But then I simplified it: "I cannot believe my feelings because I cannot prove them." The core idea was that feelings aren’t observations—at least, not in a way I could verify. I couldn’t prove to myself that I was actually feeling them, or that they meant what I thought they meant.

For example, the feeling of wanting something. I couldn’t prove to myself that this feeling was real—that it truly represented a desire. I couldn’t prove that my anger, my frustration, my longing were anything more than illusions.

And then I saw it: when I was angry, I had believed in that feeling of wanting. I was convinced that my desire to play was real, that the mouse should work because I wanted it to. I had taken the feeling as proof, built a whole narrative around it ("I want this, so it must happen"), and then got angry when reality didn’t comply.

When I added this belief to my list—"I cannot believe my feelings because I cannot prove them"—something strange happened.

I stopped understanding anything at all.

The Collapse of Understanding

Before, I had some understanding. I could say, "I want to play," or "This is frustrating," and even if I couldn’t prove those things, I still operated as if they were true. But now? Nothing made sense.

I couldn’t believe my observations.

I couldn’t believe my feelings.

I couldn’t believe any descriptions.

I couldn’t believe the meanings behind those descriptions.

I couldn’t believe a single word I said.

I was in a state where I understood nothing. Not just in a vague way—I literally had no framework left. For hours, I was stuck in this void, stressing because I didn’t know what to believe or what not to believe. Should I be afraid? Should I trust anything? I had no answers.

At first, I panicked. But then I thought: Isn’t this the point?
If I understood what to believe, that would mean I was still clinging to some belief—some description I trusted without proof. But if I truly couldn’t believe anything, then not understanding was the only honest state.

And when I realized that, something shifted.

The stress vanished.

The Paradox of Non-Belief

I tested this new state in a game. It was… incredible. Not in a dramatic way, but in a focused way. A clear way. I wasn’t distracted by desires, by frustration, by the need for things to be a certain way. I just… existed.

But then I wondered: Did I just replace one belief with another?
Had I created a new description ("It’s normal not to understand what to believe") and then believed that description?

I examined it:

First-level description: "It’s normal not to understand what to believe."

Second-level description: "I cannot believe the first-level description because I cannot prove it."

But if I believed the second-level description, I’d be back in the same trap. So I had to accept: I couldn’t believe any of it. Not the first description, not the second, not any attempt to justify or dismiss them.

And that was the key.

The State of No-Feelings (But Also, Bliss?)

When I stopped believing in feelings, the feelings disappeared.
Not in the sense that emotions ceased to exist, but in the sense that they no longer mattered. There was no anger, no desire, no frustration—because those required belief in their validity.

Yet, strangely, I still enjoyed existing.
I noticed reality more clearly. Everything was fine by all the metrics I’d ever used to evaluate my state. But there was no narrative anymore. No "I want this," no "This should be different." Just… presence.

The only risk? Occasionally, the old question would creep in: "What do I believe?" But now, I had an answer: I don’t need to know. And that answer didn’t require belief—it was just an observation.

The Mechanism: How It Works

I listed all the things I couldn’t believe (observations, feelings, descriptions, meanings) because none could be proven.

I reached a state of total non-understanding—no beliefs left to cling to.

I added one final description: "It’s normal not to understand what to believe." But I didn’t believe it. I just let it exist.

The cycle broke. Because if I tried to believe or disbelieve that description, I’d be back in the trap. The only stable state was not believing anything—not even my non-belief.

The Result: A New Way of Being

No desires (in the traditional sense). I don’t feel like I "want" things.

No emotions (as reactive forces). Anger, frustration—they don’t arise because there’s nothing to prove them.

No meanings imposed on reality. Things just are.

A strange, quiet joy. Not happiness in the usual sense, but a deep, unshakable okay-ness.

Is this enlightenment? A psychological hack? A delusion?
I don’t know. And that’s the point—I can’t know. But for now, it works.

What’s Next?

I’ll keep testing it. Maybe it’ll break. Maybe I’ll find another hidden belief. Maybe this is just another layer.

But for the first time, I’m not afraid of not knowing.
And that’s enough.

The Guide’s Purpose: Breaking the Illusion of Certainty

I’m writing a guide—not just any guide, but one designed to bring you to a very specific state: the moment you stop understanding what to believe and what not to believe. That’s the first goal. The confusion isn’t about facts or opinions; it’s about inborn sensations, meanings, descriptions, and interpretations. Do you trust them? Do you dismiss them? The guide forces you to confront that you don’t know—and that’s the point.

But I haven’t written the second part yet. The part about what comes next. So right now, I’m recording what I plan to explore after you reach that state of unknowing.

The Trap: The False Binary Choice

Here’s the mistake you might make once you’re in that state:
You’ll think, "Okay, I don’t know whether to believe any of this. Should I believe it all? Should I reject it all?"
It feels like you’re forced to pick one of two options:

Believe everything (the descriptions, the meanings, the emotions they imply).

Reject everything (dismiss it all as meaningless).

But here’s the catch: Neither option is proven. There’s no evidence to fully commit to belief or disbelief. So what do you do?

You forget there’s a third option:
Do nothing with the uncertainty.
Stay in the state of not-knowing—and be completely okay with it.

The Third Option: Radical Non-Action

You don’t have to choose. You don’t have to do anything with the fact that you don’t know what to believe.

You can remain in the uncertainty without panic.

You can stop trying to resolve it—because it’s not a problem that needs solving.

You can ignore the question entirely and move on.

The moment you see this possibility, everything shifts. If you don’t see it, you’ll keep oscillating:
"Okay, I won’t believe." → "But why not believe?" → "Fine, I’ll believe." → "But this feels fake."
You’ll force yourself into a half-hearted belief—5% conviction—and your emotions will feel just as weak: 5% anger, 5% joy, 5% fear. A ghost of what they’d be if you truly believed.

Testing the "As-If" State

I experimented with this in a game called "State" (Состояние). I pretended to believe in the meanings I observed—not because I actually believed them, but as an experiment.

I described my observations.

I saw the "meaning" they implied (e.g., "I should be angry").

I acted as if it were true—but without real conviction.

Result:

I behaved like I was angry, but didn’t feel anger.

There was a faint echo of emotion—not imagined, but not real either. A strange, hollow sensation.

It was less painful than full belief, but still unsettling. A "belief without belief."

This proved something crucial:
Following meanings blindly—even as a game—still traps you in the same flawed system. It’s just a lighter version of the delusion.

The Realization: Unknowing as Freedom

The breakthrough?
You don’t have to engage with the question at all.

No need to believe.

No need to disbelieve.

No need to decide.

The illusion is that you must choose. But who said that? The only "problem" is the assumption that uncertainty is unacceptable.

Once you see that, you realize:

Not-knowing is not a failure. It’s just a state.

You can live there. No urgency, no pressure.

The "problem" dissolves because it was never real.

The Core Insight: Speaking Without Believing

Here’s the paradox:

I can’t believe what I’m saying (because belief requires proof, and there is none).

But I also can’t believe that I can’t believe it (because that’s just another layer of the same trap).

The way out?

Say the thing anyway. Describe the observation. State the meaning.

Don’t demand belief. Let it exist as words, not truth.

The act of speaking is enough. It changes something—even if you don’t know how.

This isn’t about convincing yourself. It’s about seeing the mechanism:

You notice a thought ("I should be angry").

You don’t have to obey it or reject it.

You can just let it pass—and in that space, something shifts.

The Better State

The best state isn’t forced belief or forced skepticism.
It’s seeing that you’re free to stay in the unknown—without guilt, without fear.

No one is forcing you to pick a side.

The question "What do I believe?" can be dropped entirely.

You’re left with clarity without certainty—and that’s lighter than either extreme.

Final Note: The Guide’s Unfinished Work

This is where I’m headed next in the guide:

How to live in the third option without slipping back into the binary trap.

How to observe meanings without being ruled by them.

How to act from a place of not-knowing—not as a defect, but as a strength.

For now, I’ll keep testing. But the core is clear:
The freedom isn’t in the answer. It’s in realizing you don’t need one.

The Core Error: The Illusion of "Description-of-a-Description"

I spent two days writing a guide—compiling tables, charts, explanations—trying to make everything clear. But as I worked, my mental state unraveled. I realized I needed to fix something fundamental. The mistake wasn’t in the details; it was in the very foundation of how I understood descriptions and observations.

The Fatal Flaw

I thought there could be a "description-of-a-description"—a meta-layer where descriptions themselves were described, ad infinitum. But this is impossible. Here’s why:

Observation → Description: I observe something (e.g., the sun) and describe it. That’s valid.

Description → Observation: Then I observe my own description (e.g., my notes about the sun) and describe that observation. This is still valid—it’s just another observation-described cycle.

The Breakdown: I mistakenly believed the second description (the "description-of-a-description") invalidated the first. But in reality:

A description is always tied to an observation.

A description of a description is just another observation-described pair. It doesn’t erase the first; it’s a separate layer.

The error: I treated descriptions as if they could exist independently, floating in a void, when in fact they’re always anchored to observations.

Result: I created an infinite regress where each new description "disproved" the last, leaving me in a state of paralysis—unable to trust anything because the chain never ended.

The Correct Model: Segments of Observation-Description

The healthy structure is a series of independent segments, each with:

An observation (e.g., "I see the sun").

A description of that observation (e.g., "The sun is bright").

Segment 1: Observation → Description.

Segment 2: I observe my description ("The sun is bright") and describe that observation (e.g., "My description feels uncertain").

Key Insight: Segment 2 doesn’t invalidate Segment 1. They’re parallel. Each segment stands alone, tied to its own observation.

Why this works:

No description can "disprove" another because each is rooted in a unique observation.

The problem arose when I assumed descriptions could exist without observations—like a house of cards with no foundation.

Secondary Problems (Born from the Core Error)

While fixing the main issue, I uncovered other distortions in my thinking:

1. Words Create Observations (The Reality Paradox)

I noticed that my observations only existed after I described them.

Example: I look at something beautiful but don’t see its beauty until I say, "This is beautiful."

Fear: Does this mean beauty (or any observation) is just a mental construct? That reality is only what I name?

Resolution: I can’t prove whether my observations correspond to an external reality. But that’s okay—the inability to prove doesn’t mean it’s false. It’s just a limit of perception.

"I observe that I can’t prove my observations. That itself is an observation I can’t prove."

The cycle is self-contained; it doesn’t collapse into nihilism.

2. The Guide as a "Bundle of Undocumented Observations"

I called my guide a "pack of undocumented descriptions." But that was wrong. It’s actually:

A pack of descriptions of undocumented observations.

The descriptions aren’t the problem—the observations behind them are unprovable.

Clarification: Saying "all my descriptions are unproven" is misleading. The observations they’re based on are unproven. The descriptions are just words—neither true nor false until tied to an observation.

3. The Self-Referential Trap

I fell into loops where:

I’d say, "I can’t trust my observations because I can’t prove them."

Then I’d observe that statement and describe it: "I observe that I can’t trust my observations."

The Trap: This created a hall-of-mirrors effect where every layer seemed to invalidate the last.

The Fix: Each layer is just another observation-described pair. No layer has power to erase another. They coexist.

The Path Forward

Rewrite the Guide:

Explicitly state: "This is a pack of descriptions of observations I cannot prove."

Avoid phrases like "undocumented descriptions"—it’s the observations that are undocumented.

Accept Uncertainty:

Observations can’t be proven, but that doesn’t make them "false." They’re just unverifiable.

Descriptions are tools, not truths. They’re only as valid as the observations they’re tied to.

Test the Model:

Write new segments, ensuring each observation-description pair stands alone.

If a description feels like it "disproves" another, I’m likely conflating layers again.

Final Realization

The error wasn’t in the observations or descriptions themselves—it was in assuming they could attack each other. In reality:

Observations are raw, unprovable inputs.

Descriptions are outputs, tied to those inputs.

Observing a description creates a new observation-described pair, not a negation.

Peace comes from seeing the segments as parallel, not hierarchical. The infinite regress dissolves when each link in the chain is respected as independent.

Next Step: Rebuild the guide with this structure. Test it. See if the stress returns—or if this time, the pieces hold.

The Core Problem: Unrelenting Fear and the Failure of Old Methods

I was drowning in stress—not just ordinary stress, but an endless, suffocating loop of fear. No matter what I tried, nothing worked. I kept applying my own "guide" (the system I’d built to dismantle beliefs and emotions), but it crumbled every time. I tweaked it, rephrased it, stacked layers of descriptions upon descriptions, values upon feelings—yet the fear persisted. I was trapped in a cycle of questioning: What do I believe? Can I trust my observations? My descriptions? My feelings? But the real question, the one I couldn’t see, was simpler: Could I trust my emotions?

For days, I tortured myself. I wrote frantically, rearranged every possible formulation of belief—"I can’t trust my observations," "I can’t trust my descriptions," "I can’t trust my feelings"—but the fear clung to me. Then, almost by accident, I muttered: "I can’t believe my emotions because I can’t prove them to myself." And just like that, the fear vanished.

Not the other formulations. Not the layers of abstract reasoning. Just that one sentence, targeting the raw, unexamined core: emotions themselves.

The Breakthrough: The Hidden Belief in Emotions

I had spent years dissecting beliefs—observations, descriptions, meanings, feelings—but I’d missed the most primal layer: emotions. Fear is an emotion. If you believe in the emotion, you feel it. If you don’t, it dissolves.

My old "guide" worked by creating descriptions I could believe in—descriptions that invalidated emotions by declaring them meaningless. But this time, the descriptions failed because I couldn’t believe in them. I’d strip one layer away, only for the fear to return because the belief in the emotion itself remained intact.

The solution was brutally simple:

Observations: I can’t believe my observations because I can’t prove them.

Descriptions: I can’t believe any description of an observation for the same reason.

Meanings: I can’t believe the "meaning" of anything because it’s built on unproven observations and descriptions.

Feelings: I can’t believe my feelings because they’re derived from meanings I don’t believe.

Emotions: I can’t believe my emotions because I can’t prove them.

This was the missing piece. Emotions weren’t just byproducts of other beliefs—they were a separate belief category. And once I targeted that directly, the fear collapsed.

The Mechanism: Infinite Regress of Disbelief

The structure is recursive, a fractal of disbelief:

Level 1: I observe that I can’t believe my observations.

Level 2: I describe that observation ("I can’t believe my observations"), but I also can’t believe that description because it’s built on an unproven observation.

Level 3: I observe my description of the description, and again—I can’t believe it.

This creates an infinite chain of disbelief. No matter how many layers I add—observations of descriptions of meanings of feelings of emotions—I can’t believe any of them because the foundation is always unproven.

The guide isn’t complex. It’s five lines (one for each category: observations, descriptions, meanings, feelings, emotions), each stating: "I can’t believe [X] because I can’t prove it to myself." That’s it.

Testing the Limits: What Else Can Be Disbelieved?

I wondered: Are there other hidden beliefs? I tested:

Sensations (e.g., taste, touch): "I can’t believe my sensations because I can’t prove them." This did shift something—suddenly, pleasure (like sipping tea) felt hollow. It suggested I had been believing in sensations unconsciously, and that belief amplified enjoyment. Now, without it, the "high" of pleasure was gone. But so was the suffering. Pain might become easier to endure if I stop believing in the sensation of it.

Thoughts/Ideas: Already covered under "descriptions."

Faith in Faith: "I can’t believe my beliefs because I can’t prove them." This felt redundant—the core guide already dismantles it.

Information: "I can’t believe any information because I can’t prove it." No noticeable effect; perhaps because I’d already nullified the foundations (observations, descriptions) that information relies on.

Key Insight: The formula only works when applied to specific, observable categories. Vague statements like "I can’t believe anything" fail because the mind needs a concrete target to "unbelieve."

The Cost: Losing the "High" of Belief

Belief doesn’t just cause suffering—it also creates pleasure. When I stopped believing in sensations, the joy of drinking tea vanished. This is the trade-off:

Without belief in emotions: No fear, no anxiety.

Without belief in sensations: No pleasure, no pain (or at least, no reaction to them).

Is this a bug or a feature? I don’t know yet. But the system is stable. For the first time, I feel no symptoms, no lingering fear. The old "guide" required constant maintenance—new descriptions to believe in, new layers to suppress emotions. This version is self-sustaining because it doesn’t rely on believing in anything.

The Simplicity and Power of the New Guide

It seems too simple. Five lines. No elaborate philosophy. But simplicity is deceptive—like E=mc². The hard part was identifying the right categories (especially emotions) and realizing they could be targeted directly.

How it works:

Identify a category (observation, description, emotion, etc.).

Apply the formula: "I can’t believe [category] because I can’t prove it to myself."

Watch the belief dissolve.

The mind can’t argue with it because the statement is self-referential. If I try to believe in the guide itself, I immediately apply the formula to that belief ("I can’t believe I believe in the guide because I can’t prove it"), and the loop continues.

Final Thoughts: Living Without Belief

I don’t know what other beliefs might lurk. Maybe none. The system feels complete—a closed loop of disbelief. If new suffering arises, I’ll apply the same method: find the belief, disprove it to myself, and let it go.

For now, there’s only silence. No fear. No stress. Just the hum of a mind no longer at war with itself.

(Now, I’m going to feed my kitten.)

Self-Update: The Guide’s Flaw and Its Fix

Current State: The previous guide works at 9.5/10—technically flawless, but lingering issues persist in my mental state. These aren’t flaws in the guide itself but gaps in how I apply it. Specifically, I wake up in a suboptimal state because the guide fails to fully "resolve" overnight. Yesterday, I went to sleep in a good state, but today, I woke up with a familiar error resurfacing.

The Core Error: Description-Description vs. Observation-Description

The Problem:
I forgot a fundamental rule: There is no such thing as a "description of a description." There is only observation → description → observation → description, and so on.
When I violate this—when I skip the observation and chain descriptions directly (description → description)—the entire system collapses.

Why?

A description can only describe an observation, not another description.

If I treat a description as if it describes another description (not an observation), I create an infinite regress:

I believe the last description I’ve made (e.g., "Description 3").

But to stop believing it, I’d need a new description ("Description 4") to invalidate it.

This leads to believing only the latest description, while distrusting all prior ones—including the observations they’re based on.

Result: I distrust everything, because every description depends on an unproven observation, and every observation is itself unproven.

The Fix:
I realized I was omitting the observation between descriptions. Once I reinserted it—acknowledging that every description must describe an observation, not another description—the guide snapped back into place. The cycle became:
Observation → Description → (New) Observation → (New) Description…
Now, I no longer believe in descriptions as if they’re proven, but I also don’t disbelieve them as if they’re disproven. It’s a neutral stance: I recognize that observations (and thus descriptions) are fundamentally unprovable, but this no longer paralyzes me.

Practical Test: Emotions (Fear)

Example: I felt stress and noticed fear arising.

Old Approach (Broken): "I can’t believe in my emotions because I can’t prove them."

This statement felt empty, like "just words." I didn’t believe it because I was still treating it as a description-of-a-description.

Fixed Approach:

Observe the fear (e.g., physical tension, racing thoughts).

Describe it: "I observe fear, but I can’t prove this observation."

Observe the act of describing: "Now I’m describing my observation of fear."

Neutral Outcome: The fear dissolved immediately. The system worked because I didn’t try to "disprove" the fear—I just observed and described without layering descriptions on descriptions.

Key Insight:
The error had gone unnoticed for 4 years because it’s subtle: the brain defaults to chaining descriptions (thought → thought) instead of grounding each one in observation (reality → thought). This tiny oversight was enough to break the entire framework.

The Lingering Problem: Psychosomatic Symptoms

Symptoms:

Mild eye twitching/squinting (psychosomatic).

Subtle "micro-grunts" (no physical cause, like a cold).

Trigger: Thinking about the guide’s logic—specifically, the idea that if I’m wrong about anything, everything collapses.

The Fear:

"What if I’m wrong?" If any part of the guide is flawed, all my progress (emotional stability, clarity) could vanish.

The more I focus on this possibility, the worse the symptoms get.

The less I think about it, the better I feel.

Hypothesis:
I’m compulsively checking my mental state because I believe:

"If I stop monitoring, I’ll start believing in something untrue and spiral into a bad state."

This is a control illusion: I think constant vigilance prevents errors, but it’s actually creating stress.

Potential Solutions:

Experiment: Stop thinking about the guide entirely for a period. Observe whether my state degrades.

Prediction: It won’t. The fear is a habit, not a necessity.

Reframe the Belief:

The idea that "I must control my thoughts to stay stable" is itself an unproven belief.

If I describe this belief as an observation ("I notice I feel the need to control"), it loses power.

Current Status:

The eye pain and twitching are real discomforts, not just abstract worries.

I need to resolve this, but I’m not sure how yet. The next step is to study why I feel compelled to "check" and whether this compulsion is based on a false assumption.

Conclusion: The Path Forward

Error Corrected: The guide works again now that I’ve restored the observation-description chain.

New Problem Identified: Psychosomatic symptoms tied to fear of being wrong and compulsive self-monitoring.

Next Steps:

Test whether stopping the monitoring actually harms my state (likely it won’t).

Investigate the root of the compulsion to "check" my beliefs.

Accept that some discomfort is part of the process—but it’s manageable.

Final Note:
This was a tiny, hidden flaw with massive consequences. The brain is tricky: it can follow a perfect logical system and still sabotage itself with a single misplaced assumption. The fix was simple—remember the observation—but the impact was profound.

The Problem: Belief in Observations

I decided to tackle the issue of my eye pain—but I’ve already resolved that. Yet, in the process, another problem emerged. I don’t want to explain how I solved the first one; this is just me thinking aloud, exploring a new problem in real time.

What is a "guide"? A guide is my description of observations—the words I use to describe what I see when I speak. The core issue is that I believe in these observations, even though I can’t prove them. The problem isn’t about external observations (like vision) but about the internal observations—the words I use to describe reality.

For example: I stand outside and say, "I’m looking at the sun." When I say this, I see something in my mind—an observation—and I believe it. But why? Because my brain has pre-loaded templates for describing experiences. These templates come from childhood, copied from parents, society, or past experiences. They shape how I label emotions, self-worth, happiness—everything.

The crux: I believe in the observations I see when I speak words, even though they’re unproven. This belief creates emotions, meanings, and even physical symptoms (like my eye pain).

The Guide: A Tool to Break Belief

I created a "guide"—a set of statements like:

"I cannot believe my observations because I cannot prove them to myself."

"I cannot believe my emotions because I cannot prove them."

At first, the guide worked. By repeating these phrases, I stopped believing in the observations tied to words. The pain lessened. But then, a new problem arose: the guide itself became an object of belief.

I started observing the guide, and that observation created new meanings, new emotions—and the eye pain returned. The guide was supposed to free me from belief, but instead, I began believing in it.

Two States of Being

Now, I oscillate between two states:

With the Guide

I constantly observe the guide’s words.

I feel a flood of emotions—joy, awe, deep engagement with the world (e.g., watching Mulan felt transcendent).

But my eye hurts. The pain is tied to the effort of observing the guide’s meaning.

Without the Guide

I declare: "There is no guide."

Suddenly, I stop observing any words. I just see things without labeling them.

No eye pain. No emotional turbulence. But also… no depth. No rich experience.

It’s a blank, neutral state—like existing without language.

The Paradox: Does the Guide Mean Anything?

The real question: Does the guide mean something, or is it just words?

If I believe the guide means something (e.g., "This will free me from suffering"), I feel euphoric—but also physical pain.

If I reject its meaning ("It’s just words, unproven"), the pain vanishes—but so does the euphoria.

The trap: Even the guide’s rejection of meaning becomes a new meaning to believe in.

The Core Conflict: Belief vs. Observation

Belief = Trusting that observations (or the guide) are "true." This creates emotions, meanings, and symptoms.

Observation without belief = Seeing words as just words, with no inherent power. This feels empty but painless.

Key insight: The guide isn’t about reality—it’s about words themselves. It’s a meta-tool: words describing words. But even that is a belief system.

The Experiment: Can I Choose?

I realize I have a choice:

Live with the guide → Rich emotions, deep engagement, but physical pain.

Live without the guide → Neutrality, no pain, but a flat, wordless existence.

But is there a third option?

Can I observe the guide without believing in its meaning?

Can I experience its emotional benefits without the pain?

The Unanswered Questions

Why does the eye pain correlate with observing meaning?

Is the pain a signal that I’m trying too hard to control belief?

Can I "have my cake and eat it too"—keep the guide’s depth but lose the symptoms?

Current conclusion: I don’t know yet. But I’m closer. The guide isn’t the problem—belief in its significance is. Maybe the solution is to stop asking what things mean and just… be.

Final Thought: The Illusion of Choice

I thought I could choose between states. But perhaps the real freedom is in not choosing at all—not clinging to the guide, not rejecting it, but letting observations arise and pass without belief.

Next step: Test this. Live without the guide for a while. See what happens.

The Hidden Belief and Its Discovery

I was experiencing physical symptoms—my eye hurt, and there were subtle psychosomatic discomforts—despite feeling otherwise excellent. I decided to investigate the root cause and discovered a hidden belief I hadn’t included in my previous guide. This belief was different from the usual "meanings" I’d identified before—those were about the significance of words or descriptions (e.g., "If I’m not loved, it means I’ll be unhappy"). But this was something else: a belief that certain descriptions—like my guide—meant something in and of themselves.

At first, I struggled to articulate it. I’d observe my guide (or any words/descriptions) and see a meaning attached to them—something like, "This guide means I’ll be happy forever"—and I’d believe it as if it were proven. But when I asked myself, "Does the guide actually mean anything?", I realized I couldn’t answer. My brain would show me a meaning, but I couldn’t prove it. The question wasn’t whether the guide had meaning, but whether I could believe in the meaning my brain presented.

The Core Problem: Belief in Meaning

The issue wasn’t the meaning itself—it was my belief in it. I couldn’t prove that the guide (or any description) "meant" anything, yet I treated that meaning as absolute. This belief was causing my symptoms. So I tested a formulation:

"I cannot believe in the meaning of descriptions (including my guide) because I cannot prove it to myself."

When I applied this, the belief dissolved. The meanings I’d "seen" in words vanished. I stopped perceiving my guide as significant, and my eye pain disappeared. The key was realizing that meaning requires belief, and without proof, belief is arbitrary.

The Cascade of "Nothing Means Anything"

At first, this felt liberating—but then unsettling. If nothing had inherent meaning, even the statement "nothing means anything" itself meant nothing. This created a paradox:

First Layer: I can’t believe in meanings because I can’t prove them.

Second Layer: The statement "nothing means anything" is also a meaning—I can’t believe in that either.

Infinite Regress: Any attempt to assign meaning to the absence of meaning collapses under the same logic.

This was the breakthrough. The discomfort I initially felt (e.g., "If nothing matters, life is bleak") was just another meaning I’d assigned—and thus, another belief to discard. Once I saw this, my state stabilized.

The New State: Living Without Meaning

Now, I exist in a state where:

No meanings adhere to words/descriptions. If I say "the sunset is beautiful," it’s just sound—no deeper significance.

No urge to "realize" meanings. Before, I’d compulsively analyze what things "meant" (e.g., "What does my guide imply about my future?"). Now, that impulse is gone. Trying to force it (e.g., "What does this sunset mean?") causes mild eye pain—a residual symptom of old patterns.

Pure observation replaces interpretation. I see the world directly, without translating it into mental narratives. It’s effortless and deeply peaceful.

Key Difference: Earlier, I’d observe through description (e.g., "I see a tree → ‘tree’ means stability"). Now, I just see. Descriptions are tools, not truths.

Why This Works: The Guide’s Role

My guide isn’t a set of instructions—it’s a neutral artifact. Its power lies in its existence as a list of statements like:

"I cannot believe in my observations because I cannot prove them."

"I cannot believe in the meaning of any description (including this guide) because I cannot prove it."

These lines aren’t used; they’re remembered. They’ve already done their work by dismantling the belief in meaning. Now, they’re just words—I don’t analyze them, and they don’t trigger symptoms.

Testing the Limits

I experimented with alternatives:

Denying the guide’s existence: "There is no guide." But this is another meaning—I’d have to believe it, which contradicts the core principle.

Forcing forgetfulness: Impossible. Memory isn’t erasable, and trying to "forget" is just another belief.

Avoiding all description: Unnecessary. The problem wasn’t description but believing in its meaning. Now, I describe things when useful (e.g., "the sky is blue"), but the words don’t stick—they’re just sounds.

Result: The guide remains, but it’s harmless. It’s like a scar—evidence of a past struggle, but no longer painful.

The Ideal State: Effortless Freedom

No emotional dependency: Without belief in meaning, emotions tied to interpretations (e.g., "This means I’m happy") vanish. What remains is a quiet, stable baseline.

No compulsive analysis: I don’t need to figure out what things "mean." The urge to "realize" is gone.

Physical symptoms resolve: Eye pain only flares if I forcefully try to assign meaning (a habit, not a necessity).

Life feels lighter: Without the weight of interpretation, existence is simpler. I walk, see, and act without the mental chatter of "What does this imply?"

Paradox: This state is indescribable because description implies meaning—and meaning is what’s absent. Yet it’s profoundly lived.

Final Notes: Is This "Better"?

No need for improvement: The state is self-sustaining. Trying to "enhance" it would reintroduce meaning-seeking.

Universal applicability: This isn’t just about my guide—it’s a framework for dismantling any belief in unprovable meanings.

A gift, not a loss: Some might fear a world without meaning, but it’s the opposite—freedom from the tyranny of interpretation.

Closing Thought

If you had asked me yesterday, "Does your guide mean anything?", I’d have said "No" with absolute certainty. Today, I’d say:
"The question itself assumes meaning exists to be questioned—and I don’t believe that."

The Problem: Eye Pain and the Obsession with Meaning

I’ve noticed that my eye hurts every time I find myself in a state of uncertainty—specifically, when I doubt or overanalyze the guide I follow. The pain isn’t physical in the usual sense; it’s tied to my mental state. Here’s how it works:

When I doubt the guide, I constantly try to understand it, interpret it, or assign meaning to it—and to everything around me. I obsess over questions like:

What does this word in the guide really mean?

What is the deeper significance of what I’m seeing?

How can I prove or disprove its validity?

The guide itself states that nothing can be proven—no meaning, no truth, no absolute interpretation. If I believe in its message (that nothing has inherent meaning), I stop fixating on these questions. But if I doubt it, my mind spirals into endless analysis, and that’s when the eye pain starts.

The pain is a signal: it flares up when I’m trapped in the cycle of trying to osoznat’ (a Russian term blending "realize," "grasp," or "internalize") something that, by the guide’s own logic, cannot be osoznan’. There’s no meaning to uncover because meaning is unprovable. Yet my brain keeps searching, and the discomfort persists.

The Solution: Unquestioning Adherence to the Guide

The only way I’ve found to stop the pain is to stop questioning the guide entirely. Here’s how it works:

The Guide as a Tool, Not a Truth

The guide isn’t "right" or "wrong" in a conventional sense. It’s a framework. Its core message is: You cannot prove any meaning, so stop trying.

If I accept this—not as a belief, but as a practical rule—my mind stops demanding explanations. The obsession with osoznan’ fades because there’s nothing left to grasp.

The Shift: From Analysis to Action

Before: I’d read the guide and think about it—dissecting its words, searching for hidden layers, trying to "understand" it on a deeper level. This always led to pain.

Now: I live by the guide without interpretation. I don’t ask what it means; I just follow it. The moment I stop analyzing, the eye pain vanishes.

It’s not about faith. It’s about deciding to treat the guide as a given, like a rule in a game. Either I play by the rules, or I don’t. There’s no middle ground of "figuring it out."

The 99% Effect

This method eliminates 99% of my urge to osoznat’. The remaining 1%—brief, fleeting moments of doubt—are negligible. The key is that I no longer feed those doubts.

The pain returns only if I start questioning again. For example, right now, as I explain this, I’m thinking about the guide rather than living by it, and I can feel the tension creeping back. But if I stop and just act, it disappears instantly.

Why This Works: The Mechanics of Doubt and Certainty

Doubt = Mental Loop
When I doubt the guide, my brain treats it as an unsolved problem. It demands resolution: Prove it! Understand it! Find the meaning! But the guide’s premise is that proof is impossible. This creates a paradox—a loop of frustration that manifests as physical pain.

Certainty = Freedom
When I decide to follow the guide unconditionally, the loop breaks. My brain no longer sees it as a problem to solve. The guide becomes a boundary, not a puzzle. There’s nothing to osoznat’ because the guide itself says osoznan’* is futile.

The Binary Choice

Option 1: Live by the guide. No analysis, no pain.

Option 2: Question the guide. Endless analysis, guaranteed pain.

There’s no third option. The pain isn’t a mystery—it’s a direct consequence of choosing Option 2.

The Trap of "Osoznan’"

I’ve realized that osoznan’ is a mirage. Here’s what happens when I chase it:

The Illusion of Progress
I tell myself: If I just think harder, I’ll understand. But understanding never comes. The guide’s message is that nothing can be proven, so no amount of analysis will satisfy me.

The "Foolish State"
When I’m stuck in this mode, I feel stupid—not because I’m incapable, but because I’m wasting energy on an unsolvable task. The pain in my eye is a reminder: You’re spinning your wheels.

The Way Out
The only exit is to stop trying to osoznat’. Not because I’ve "solved" the problem, but because I’ve accepted that it’s not a problem to solve. The guide isn’t a philosophy to debate; it’s a practice to follow.

Testing the Solution

I’ve experimented with this repeatedly:

When I follow the guide strictly, the pain stops within minutes.

When I slip back into analysis, the pain returns just as quickly.

There’s no gray area. The correlation is absolute.

The hardest part? Making the initial choice to stop questioning. My brain resists: But what if there’s something I’m missing? What if the guide is wrong? But the guide’s whole point is that I can’t know—so the resistance itself is part of the trap.

Final Realization: The Guide as a Shield

The guide isn’t about truth. It’s a mental shield against the futility of osoznan’. It works because:

It provides a clear rule: Don’t seek meaning.

It removes the burden of proof: You can’t prove anything anyway.

It replaces pain with simplicity: Just live by it.

Is it perfect? No. Sometimes I still feel the pull to "understand." But compared to the alternative—a life of constant eye pain and mental exhaustion—it’s the only viable path.

The bottom line:

Pain source: Trying to osoznat’ the un-osoznaable.

Solution: Treat the guide as a given. Follow it without interpretation.

Result: No pain, no wasted energy, and—paradoxically—more clarity than any amount of analysis ever brought me.

Postscript:
Even now, as I write this, I feel the temptation to osoznat’ my own words. But I know better. The test is simple: Will I keep typing, or will I stop and live? The eye pain waits on my choice.

The Core Dilemma: Consciousness and the "Guide"

I’ve been reflecting on the pain in my eye—how it connects to something deeper. The key issue, as I see it, is this: there’s a "guide" (a set of principles or observations I’ve internalized), and my relationship with it dictates everything. Either I trust it completely, or I don’t. There’s no in-between.

Option 1: Trusting the Guide as an Excuse to Not Engage

If I decide the guide is flawless—if I believe it—then it becomes my justification for not trying to understand anything at all. Not questioning, not probing, not attempting to "grasp" consciousness or meaning. The guide tells me: "Nothing means anything," and if I accept that, it gives me permission to stop the painful act of trying to assign meaning. It’s like a mental shield.

How it works in practice:
The moment I feel the urge to "figure something out" (that useless, agonizing attempt to understand when understanding is impossible), the guide automatically surfaces in my mind. It’s always there, lurking, ready to intercept the thought: "Why bother? Nothing means anything." And just like that, the compulsion dissolves. No effort, no pain.

The catch:
This only works if I’m fully convinced the guide is correct. If I harbor even a shred of doubt—if I’m not absolutely certain—the shield crumbles. The questioning returns, and with it, the pain.

Option 2: Doubting the Guide (and the Consequences)

If I don’t trust the guide—if I’m still unsure, still searching—then I’m left with no choice but to keep trying to understand. And that’s the problem: the act of trying to "grasp" meaning (when meaning is ungraspable) is what causes the pain in my eye. It’s a paradox:

I see that I’m capable of questioning (I’m aware of my own awareness).

But I can’t stop questioning, because I haven’t found a reason not to.

The guide claims I can’t prove any meaning exists, so I shouldn’t believe in it. But if I don’t use that claim as my anchor, I’m stuck in an endless loop of futile probing.

The Binary Choice

There are only two states:

Not-understanding (via the guide):

The guide is my "reason" to stop.

I don’t think about meaning because the guide says it’s pointless.

The pain disappears because the compulsion is gone.

Understanding (or trying to):

The guide isn’t convincing enough.

I keep searching for meaning, even though it hurts.

The pain persists because the search never ends.

The Ideal (Unattained) Solution

Right now, the system works—but it’s fragile. The guide mostly prevents me from falling into the trap of questioning, but it’s not foolproof. What I want is an ironclad version of this: a state where even if I wanted to question meaning, I couldn’t. Where the guide isn’t just a tool I choose to use, but an inescapable truth that makes questioning impossible.

Current reality:
The guide is like a habit. When the urge to question arises, my brain automatically recalls the guide and shuts it down. But it’s still a conscious process—I’m aware of the guide intervening.

Desired reality:
The guide would be so deeply ingrained that the urge to question never even forms. No effort, no recall, no choice—just absolute, effortless non-engagement.

The Open Question

I haven’t figured out how to get there yet. For now, the guide is the best I’ve got. It’s not perfect, but it’s the only thing that gives me relief.

Key Themes in the Author’s Reasoning

Theme

Description (in their words)

The "Guide"

A set of observations/principles stating "nothing means anything" and that meaning is unprovable.

The Pain Trigger

The act of trying to understand when understanding is impossible—this causes physical pain in the eye.

The Binary Switch

Either the guide is trusted (no questioning = no pain) or it’s not (endless questioning = pain).

Automaticity

The guide currently works as a reactive shield, but the goal is proactive eradication of the urge.

The Paradox

The guide says you can’t prove meaning, but you must believe the guide to stop seeking meaning.

Closing Reflection

This isn’t just about eye pain—it’s about the cost of consciousness itself. The guide is my attempt to opt out of the human compulsion to seek meaning, but the opt-out isn’t free. It requires total surrender to an idea I can’t even prove. And yet, the alternative—endless, painful searching—is worse.

So for now, I choose the guide. But I’m still searching for a way to make the choice unnecessary.

The Core Realization: Letting the Mind Respond Naturally to the "Guide"

I’ve been stuck—completely lost in this struggle with my eye, with this "guide" I’ve created for myself. Nothing was working. I couldn’t stabilize my state, couldn’t restore the right feeling, couldn’t stop my eye from acting up. I’d lost the state entirely. But then, after waking up from a nap, something clicked. I remembered how I first reached the correct state—the one where my eye didn’t hurt, where everything felt as it should.

I recalled a phrase I’d told myself. It was something like:
"There is a guide. And whatever state I end up in with it—that’s the state I’ll be in."

The key idea was this: I shouldn’t try to figure out what state I should be in. Not happy, not sad, not skeptical, not believing—none of that. I shouldn’t analyze the guide and ask, "What am I supposed to feel here? Should I believe this part? Should I doubt that part? How should I react to these words?" That approach—trying to manually configure my state—was the problem. It never worked.

Instead, the correct way was simply:
There is a guide. And whatever state my mind naturally settles into with that guide—that’s the state I’m in.

No interference. No trying to "understand" or "decide" what the state should be. Just the guide, and the state that emerges from it.

How It Works: The Mind Self-Adjusts

When I stop trying to control it, my brain automatically adjusts. It’s like this:

The guide contains lines about meaning, about not being able to believe in things because I can’t prove them.

Because those lines exist, my mind stops obsessing over the meaning of words. It stops pulling at those thoughts.

I don’t have to tell myself, "Don’t think about meaning!"—that would be interference again. The mind just… stops doing it. On its own.

It’s similar to how I once "opened" belief in emotions. I didn’t do anything—I just had the thought, "I can’t believe my emotions because [reason]," and instantly, my belief in them vanished. No effort. No forcing. The mind reacted to the statement by itself.

The same happens here:

The guide exists.

My mind responds to it in a certain way.

I don’t meddle. I don’t add extra instructions like, "Now feel this way" or "Don’t think about that."

The resulting state is whatever emerges naturally.

And that state? It’s the one where my eye doesn’t hurt. Where I’m not constantly analyzing, not forcing disbelief, not straining to "get it right." It just… is.

The Mistake: Trying to "Design" the State

The wrong approach—the one that fails every time—is when I try to construct the state myself. For example:

"Okay, the guide says I can’t believe in meanings because I can’t prove them. So I need to act like I don’t believe in meanings. How would that feel? What would I stop doing? What would I start doing?"

"I need to visualize myself not believing. I need to imagine how a person who doesn’t believe in meanings would think."

This is a dead end. Why?

It leads to a terrible state. Either I end up feeling like a "vegetable"—completely detached, staring into nothingness—or I force myself to believe in something, which isn’t sustainable.

It’s based on imagination, not reality. I’m trying to solve the problem by picturing words and their meanings, by applying concepts to myself. But that’s exactly what causes the pain in my eye and the bad states.

It’s artificial. The state I’m in shouldn’t come from me deciding how to feel. It should come from the mind’s natural reaction to the guide.

The only way out of the bad states is to stop assigning meaning to words at all. But if I write myself instructions like, "Don’t think about meaning!"—well, now I’m thinking about meaning again, just in a different way. I’m back in the cycle.

The Only Solution: No Interference

The working method is brutally simple:

There is a guide. It’s a set of statements (e.g., "I can’t believe in meanings because I can’t prove them").

I do nothing with it. No analysis. No "applying" it. No trying to figure out how to feel.

My mind reacts. It settles into a state—whatever state that is—without me directing it.

That’s the state I’m in. No questions asked.

This is the only way to avoid the bad states. Because:

If I add extra steps ("Now don’t think about X!"), I’m still thinking about X.

If I try to "embody" the guide, I’m still using my imagination, which pulls me into painful mental loops.

But if I just… let the guide exist, and let my mind respond, then the state arises without effort. And in that state, my eye doesn’t hurt. I’m not analyzing. I’m just… present.

Why This Works (And the Old Way Didn’t)

Before, my guide was different. It didn’t include the idea that meanings are unprovable. I still had faith in words, in descriptions, in the guide itself. That gave me a kind of high—belief feels good—but my eye still hurt because I was still engaged with the meanings.

Now, the guide includes:
"Meanings are unprovable. Words don’t inherently mean anything."

And when I don’t interfere, my mind reacts by… not obsessing over meanings. Not because I told it to, but because the guide’s structure makes that the natural response.

Result:

No eye pain.

No forced detachment.

No struggling to "get it right."

Just a state that arises by itself.

The Critical Error: Trying to "Solve" the Problem

The biggest mistake is thinking I need to do something to fix this. That I need to:

Figure out the "correct" state.

Visualize it.

Believe in it.

Force myself into it.

But that’s the problem. The problem isn’t the state—it’s the act of trying to create one.

The guide isn’t a to-do list. It’s not a set of instructions for me to follow. It’s just… a guide. My mind reads it and responds. That’s all.

Final Thought: Trust the Process

I don’t need to know why this works. I don’t need to understand the mechanics. All I know is:

When I interfere, it fails.

When I don’t, it works.

So I’ll keep testing it. For now, it’s the only thing that’s given me relief.

Key Takeaway (In the Author’s Words):
"There is a guide. Whatever state I end up in with it—that’s the state I’m in. No adjustments. No interference. Just the guide, and the mind’s natural response."

The Beginning: Life Before Control

I used to live like most people—unaware that my state of mind could be controlled. My emotions, thoughts, and beliefs simply were. They shifted on their own, governed by laws I didn’t understand. I never felt like I could influence them. I’d try—"I won’t think about this," "I won’t get angry," "I won’t be sad"—but nothing worked. My attempts to control my state were futile. I just accepted whatever state I was in, believing that was the only way to exist.

Then, I started studying my own mind. And I discovered something revolutionary: I could control my state—rigidly, deliberately—using words.

The Discovery: Words as Levers of Control

I realized that the words I spoke, believed, or even didn’t believe shaped my emotions, my thoughts, my entire inner world. If I said one thing, I felt one way; if I said another, I felt differently. My beliefs, my awareness of those beliefs, even my lack of awareness—all of it was tied to language.

So I created a guide—six lines, six statements that told me what I couldn’t believe in. They were words about words: "I can’t believe in the meanings I assign," "I can’t believe in the emotions tied to those meanings." This guide didn’t just change my state; it erased parts of it. It cut out automatic reactions—emotions, feelings, beliefs—that had once controlled me without my consent.

For years, I lived by this guide. I forgot what it was like to not control my state. I became dependent on it. The guide was my anchor, my salvation. But then, something shifted.

The Problem: The Trap of Control

At first, the guide worked. I’d look at it, believe in its power, and feel good—but my eye would hurt. Psychosomatic pain, a signal that something was wrong. I was still trying to control my state, even with the guide. I was still using words as tools, still believing in their power to shape me.

Then I made a critical mistake: I tried to perfect the guide. I thought, "If I just say the right words, in the right way, I’ll reach the perfect state." But every attempt failed. Why?

I didn’t believe in the words anymore.

Any words I tried to use for control caused pain in my eye.

The more I focused on the words, the worse it got.

I was stuck in a loop: The only tool I had to control my state was the very thing that prevented me from reaching the state I wanted. To feel truly free, I needed to stop controlling. But how?

The Breakthrough: Letting Go of the Guide

I remembered how I lived before—at 15, at 20—when I didn’t obsess over my state. I didn’t try to shape my emotions with words. I just lived. So I decided: What if I stopped using the guide as a tool?

The guide had already done its work. It had erased the automatic, harmful patterns from my mind. Now, I didn’t need to look at it, believe in it, or repeat it. I just needed to live as I had before I knew any of this.

The moment I stopped trying to control my state—even with the guide—the pain in my eye vanished. I felt calm, stable, free. Not the intense highs of before, but a quiet, sustainable comfort. No more struggling, no more pain.

The Paradox: Can Words Still Help?

Now, I wonder: Can I use words to enhance this state without falling back into control?

If I say something like "I don’t believe in anything," but don’t focus on it, does it still work?

If I feel the truth of those words without analyzing them, can I keep the good without the pain?

I don’t know yet. But I’m testing it. Right now, I’m content. The eye doesn’t hurt. Life feels light, easy, natural. Maybe this is the state I was meant to reach—not through control, but through its absence.

The Conclusion: The State Beyond Words

The lesson? True freedom isn’t found in perfecting control—it’s found in releasing it entirely.

Before: I was a slave to unconscious patterns.

Then: I became a slave to my own attempts at control.

Now: I’m learning to just be, without either.

The guide was a bridge. Now, I don’t need to stand on it anymore.

Final Thought:
"The best state isn’t the one you force into existence. It’s the one that exists when you stop forcing."

The Realization: The Absence of "Kayf" (Pleasure)

I’ve reached a state where everything works—my body functions, my mind is clear, but something fundamental is missing: the "kayf" (that deep, psychological pleasure). Not the physical kind—the warmth of a drink, the comfort of a touch—but the mental kayf. The kind that used to come from believing in meaning, from the weight of words, from the thrill of ideas or the faith in something greater.

Before, kayf was everywhere:

In the significance of words—how a phrase could resonate, how a thought could feel alive.

In observations and beliefs—the joy of interpreting the world, of feeling connected to something beyond the physical.

In emotions tied to meaning—the rush of inspiration, the warmth of conviction.

Now? Gone. Even the last remnant—the kayf from guiding principles (my "gayd")—has vanished. There’s no echo in my head when I think, no spark when I reflect. Just… silence. A hollow efficiency.

The Search for Alternatives

At first, I panicked. What’s the point of living without kayf? I tested everything—twisting words, chasing old beliefs, trying to force meaning back in. Nothing worked. The only alternative seemed to be reverting to the past:

Believing in something again—but the mere thought triggered fear, stress, even physical reactions (a runny nose, a clenched chest). My body rejected the idea of going back to dependence on beliefs, emotions, or external validations.

Accepting the void—but how? If kayf is gone, what’s left?

I realized: There are no other states. Either I live in the old world—chained to fears, highs, lows, and illusions—or I stay here, in this neutral, kayf-less clarity. And honestly? The latter feels safer. Less turbulent. But… empty.

The Shift: From Kayf to Sensations

Then, a breakthrough. I noticed my obsession:

I was fixated on what was missing (kayf) instead of what remained (everything else).

Every experience became a measurement: Did I feel kayf? No? Then it’s worthless.

But what is left?
Sensations. Pure, unfiltered, physical and mental experiences:

The tension in my muscles as I move my arm.

The sound waves of music filling my ears, the vibrations in my chest.

The sight of nature—not as a symbol or metaphor, but as light, color, texture.

The taste of tea, the smell of air, the touch of fabric.

These aren’t kayf. They’re raw data. And when I stopped demanding kayf and started noticing sensations, something shifted.

The New Principle: Maximizing Sensations

Old goal: Maximize kayf (impossible now).
New goal: Maximize sensations.

Seek pleasant sensations (warmth, beauty, comfort).

Minimize unpleasant ones (pain, discomfort, noise).

Be fully present in the experiencing—no judgment, no "shoulds."

Example:

Listening to music:

Before: I’d chase the kayf of lyrics, the emotional story, the meaning.

Now: I focus on the sound itself—how it enters my ears, how my body reacts. The kayf is gone, but the experience is richer.

Walking outside:

Before: "Will this give me kayf? Probably not. Why bother?"

Now: The wind on my skin, the crunch of leaves, the pattern of shadows. No kayf—but a quiet, deep aliveness.

The Trap of Words

A warning to myself:

Don’t let this become another "gayd"—another set of rules to obey, another belief to cling to.

If I start using these ideas to control my state ("I must focus on sensations!"), I’ll just create a new cage.

The goal isn’t to replace kayf with sensations as a new dogma, but to let go of demanding kayf at all.

Signs I’m slipping back into control:

My eye starts to ache (a physical tell I’m straining to "follow" an idea).

I feel tense, like I’m performing presence instead of just being.

Solution: Treat this as an experiment, not a doctrine. If it works, keep it. If it becomes rigid, drop it.

The Result: A Quiet, Livable Peace

It’s not ecstatic. It’s not kayf. But it’s… okay.

Better than the despair of chasing a ghost (kayf that’s gone).

Better than the panic of thinking life is meaningless without it.

Better than the old cycles of belief and crash.

Test cases:

Gaming: Before, I’d play and think, "Why isn’t this fun?" Now, I focus on the click of buttons, the colors on screen, the rhythm of actions. No kayf—but no frustration either.

Looking out the window: Before, "This is pointless; I feel nothing." Now, I observe the shapes, the light, the movement. It’s enough.

The Lingering Question: Is This a Trap?

Am I just replacing one belief with another?

Do I now "believe in sensations" the way I once believed in kayf?

Is this another mental crutch?

Check:

My eye doesn’t hurt. No tension. No desperate clinging.

I’m not worshipping sensations—I’m just noticing them.

If this collapses tomorrow, I’ll adapt. Time will tell.

For now? It’s the first thing that’s made life tolerable—maybe even good—since the kayf disappeared.

Final Thought: The Paradox of "No Kayf"

I can’t call this a "kayf-full" life. By the old definition, it’s zero kayf.
But by another measure? It’s freedom.

Freedom from the tyranny of needing kayf.

Freedom to experience life without the middleman of meaning.

Freedom to say: "This is enough."

Next step? Keep testing. Walk. Listen. Taste. See what happens.

A Journey Through States of Mind: From Mental Noise to Pure Sensation

1. The Initial Experiment: Clearing the Mind

I began by testing a specific mental state—one I had been refining. At first, everything seemed perfect: no problems, no distractions. But as I dug deeper, I realized something was missing.

I started by removing six core elements from my mind—six "lines" from a guide I’d been following. These weren’t just abstract ideas; they were emotions, meanings, beliefs, and the words I used to control my state. By stripping them away, I eliminated the mental chatter that usually dictated how I felt.

But what happened next was unexpected.

2. The Void: A Head Empty of Familiar Comforts

After clearing these layers, I found myself in a strange place: inside my own head, staring at nothing. There was no focus, no thoughts to latch onto—just emptiness.

No beliefs. No emotions. No words or their meanings.

No internal narratives, no self-instructions, no "guides" telling me how to feel or act.

Most importantly: no "high"—that rush of pleasure I used to get from thoughts, from believing in something, from the meaning I assigned to words or ideas.

I realized that all the "high" I’d ever felt came from these things. When I believed in an emotion, when I clung to a word’s meaning, when I trusted a description of reality—that gave me pleasure. But now? Nothing. The head was silent. And without that mental stimulation, I felt lost.

3. The Problem: Performance Without Focus

I tested this state while gaming. On the surface, everything seemed fine—I was calm, detached. But my performance suffered. I couldn’t hit my shots. I wasn’t reacting as sharply.

Why?
Because I was still partially stuck in my head, fixated on the absence of the things I’d removed. A chunk of my focus was consumed by this void—the lack of mental high, the lack of familiar thoughts. Only a sliver of attention was left for the actual game.

Normally, when I played, I’d have:

A belief ("I want to win") driving my focus.

Words and meanings fueling motivation.

Emotional highs from the mental narrative.

But now? None of that. And without it, I was worse off.

4. The Shift: From Mental to Sensory Focus

Then, something clicked.

I stopped obsessing over what was missing in my head and instead turned to what was present: my senses.

Sight. Sound. Touch. Smell. Taste.

Physical reactions. The immediate, tangible world around me.

I redirected my focus entirely to these sensations. And the result? Unprecedented clarity.

My reactions became sharper.

My observations were crystal clear—like switching from blurry vision to 4K.

I was 100% immersed in the game, with no mental distractions.

This wasn’t just an improvement—it was a revolution in focus.

5. The New "High": Physical Over Psychological

Before, my "high" came from mental constructs:

Believing in emotions.

Clinging to words and their meanings.

Trusting in descriptions of reality ("The world is beautiful," "This feels good").

But now? That’s all gone. And in its place is something purer: physical pleasure.

Listening to music? It’s not about the lyrics or the memories—the sound itself is the high.

Walking outside? No more mental narratives about the sky or existential thoughts—just the sensation of movement, the air, the sights.

I’ve stopped expecting psychological pleasure from these experiences. I take them at face value. And paradoxically, this makes them more intense.

6. The Three Stages of Transition

If I were to break this down into steps for someone else, it would look like this:

Remove the Six Layers

Strip away beliefs, emotions, word meanings, mental guides—anything that creates internal noise.

Stop Using Words to Control Your State

No more self-talk. No more relying on language to dictate how you feel.

(I used to do this constantly—now, the idea of it makes my eye twitch. My brain rejects it.)

Focus Only on What Exists

Stop fixating on the absence of mental highs.

Redirect all attention to sensory input—what you see, hear, feel right now.

7. The Final Realization: A Gift of Presence

This state isn’t just functional—it’s liberating.

No more mental clutter. No more chasing thoughts for pleasure.

No more micro-problems—the tiny irritations that used to lurk beneath the surface.

Pure, unfiltered experience. Like living in 4K, where every sensation is vivid and immediate.

I walk with absolute confidence now. Not the shaky, belief-dependent confidence of before, but something solid, unshakable. Because it’s not built on thoughts—it’s built on reality itself.

Closing Thought: A State Worth Keeping

I could have stopped at the previous stage—the one where nothing felt meaningful, where I was stuck in the void. But I didn’t. And now? I wouldn’t trade this for anything.

It’s not just an upgrade. It’s a complete redefinition of how to experience life.

Reflections on Psychological vs. Physical "Kick" (Kайф): A Self-Observation

1. The Trigger: Unpleasant Physical Sensations

I woke up today and noticed something recurring: my mind keeps drifting toward the absence of a "psychological kick" (кайф)—something I no longer experience but unconsciously expect. Last night, for example, I played a game before bed. My mouse or computer lagged, we lost, and afterward, I felt physically unpleasant. That’s normal—frustration after a loss is a natural reaction. But here’s the issue: I got stuck on that unpleasantness. Not just the physical discomfort, but the idea that I wasn’t getting the psychological reward I once associated with gaming (or life in general).

I lay in bed, fixating on this vague, indescribable sensation: "I didn’t get the kick I wanted." It wasn’t quite an emotion, not quite a thought—just a lingering, unpleasant absence. And today, upon waking, I realized I was still ruminating on yesterday’s event, dissociated from the present.

2. The Trap: Confusing Physical and Psychological "Kick"

The problem isn’t the physical discomfort itself. The problem is that unpleasant physical sensations trigger a mental loop:

"I feel bad physically → Therefore, I must not be getting psychological kick → But psychological kick is what makes life worthwhile → So something is wrong."

This is the illusion. I mistake the absence of psychological kick for a problem to solve, as if it’s something I should have. But here’s the truth I’ve uncovered:

Psychological kick is a byproduct of belief—of buying into narratives, emotions, or illusions (e.g., "This game should feel rewarding," "I should feel proud/happy/excited").

Belief is a kind of delusion. The "kick" I’m missing was always dependent on false premises: that observations are "proven," that emotions are "real" in an absolute sense, that life owes me a certain feeling.

When I recognize this, the spell breaks. The "kick" wasn’t real—it was a construct. And there’s no point waiting for it or mourning its absence.

3. The Solution: Refocusing on the Physical

The fix is simple but counterintuitive:

Catch the thought: When I notice I’m stuck in my head, asking "Why don’t I feel the kick?"—that’s the red flag.

Identify the illusion: I’m not actually missing physical pleasure (e.g., good food, music, warmth). I’m missing the story of pleasure—the psychological layer that interpreted those sensations as meaningful.

Return to the senses: Shift focus back to what’s physically present. Right now, I might hear music and think, "This is nice, but where’s the deeper satisfaction?"—but that "deeper satisfaction" was never real. The music is the satisfaction. The warmth of sunlight is the pleasure.

Key insight: The moment I label my fixation ("Ah, I’m searching for a psychological kick that doesn’t exist"), the obsession dissolves. I stop resisting the present and re-engage with raw sensation.

4. Why This Happens: Habit and Misattribution

This pattern has two roots:

Habit: For years, I’ve trained myself to seek psychological kick—whether through achievements, validation, or escapism. My brain still defaults to "If I feel bad, I must be lacking the ‘right’ kind of pleasure."

Misattribution: I confuse physical discomfort (e.g., tension after a loss, fatigue) with existential lack (e.g., "Life has no meaning because I don’t feel high on it"). In reality, they’re separate. Physical discomfort is temporary; the "lack of kick" is a mental fiction.

Example: This morning, I heard my mom moving around, seemingly annoyed. My first thought: "This feels unpleasant → I’m not ‘enjoying’ life → Something’s wrong." But the discomfort was just sound—neutral until I layered judgment onto it.

5. The Paradox: Psychological Kick as a Physical Sensation

Here’s the twist: Psychological kick is a physical sensation. It’s just a specific flavor of bodily response—one tied to narratives ("I’m winning!"), memories ("This reminds me of happiness!"), or chemicals (dopamine spikes). The mistake is treating it as superior to other physical sensations (like the warmth of tea or the rhythm of breathing).

When I stop privileging psychological kick, I realize:

All "kick" is physical. The "high" of achievement is just adrenaline; the "warmth" of nostalgia is just oxytocin. Neither is inherently better than the taste of an apple or the stretch of my muscles.

The search for psychological kick steals the physical kick I do have. By fixating on what’s missing, I blind myself to what’s present.

6. Practical Takeaways

Spot the trigger: Unpleasant physical sensations (e.g., frustration, fatigue) often precede the mental spiral.

Ask: "Am I feeling a real lack, or am I searching for an imaginary ‘kick’?"

Redirect: Drop the story. If I’m listening to music, listen. If I’m eating, taste. The "kick" isn’t missing—it’s right there, unmediated by expectations.

Accept imperfection: Life includes discomfort. Psychological kick was never a cure for that; it was a distraction. Now, I can meet discomfort without layering existential dread on top.

7. The Big Picture

This isn’t about suppressing thoughts or forcing positivity. It’s about seeing the mechanism:

Old pattern: "I feel bad → I must be missing psychological kick → I must fix this lack."

New pattern: "I feel bad → This is a physical sensation → It will pass → What’s actually here right now?"

The "kick" I’m chasing was always a mirage—a way to avoid the present by dressing it up in meaning. But the present doesn’t need dressing up. It’s already complete.

Closing Note

I’ll keep testing this. The habit is deep, but the awareness is sharper now. The goal isn’t to never feel discomfort, but to stop interpreting discomfort as evidence of a broken life. Because life isn’t broken. It’s just… life. And that’s enough.

The Paradox of Control: A Reflection on Self-Awareness and Letting Go

1. The Problem: Obsessive Self-Monitoring

I recorded another update, and here’s the core of it: After my last guide—where I talked about how there’s no point in chasing "pleasure" (or кайф), because it’s gone and won’t return—I ran into an unexpected issue. The problem wasn’t the idea itself (that pleasure is an illusion, that I should focus on raw sensations, on what is rather than what isn’t). The problem was that I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

I became obsessed with the concept. My brain latched onto the words, the logic, the framework I’d created, and now I couldn’t escape it. My eye even started aching from the strain—minor, but symbolic. The real issue? I wasn’t present. I was stuck in a loop of self-awareness, analyzing my own thoughts about not analyzing. I was hyper-focused on the idea of not focusing on pleasure, and in doing so, I lost the state I was trying to preserve.

2. The Fear: Losing Control

Why couldn’t I let go? Because I was terrified. If I stopped thinking about the guide’s lessons—if I stopped actively remembering them—I feared I’d lose control. I’d slip back into old patterns: searching for pleasure in my mind, chasing something that doesn’t exist. The guide was supposed to be a safeguard, a mental rule: "Don’t think about pleasure. Focus on sensations." But now, the rule itself had become a cage.

I saw only two options, both traps:

Option 1: Keep obsessing over the guide’s words, constantly reminding myself of its lessons. But this meant I was never in the state I wanted—just endlessly thinking about being in it.

Option 2: Stop thinking about it entirely. But then, I feared, I’d forget the lesson and regress.

Either way, I was screwed. If I controlled my thoughts, I wasn’t free. If I didn’t, I risked failure. It was a classic paradox: the harder I tried to not control, the more I was controlling.

3. The Breakthrough: Remembering How I Lived Before

Then, something shifted. I realized I was missing a third option—one so obvious I’d overlooked it. I didn’t need to choose between controlling or not controlling. I needed to stop choosing altogether.

How? By remembering how I lived before the guides, before the self-help frameworks, before the endless mental commentary. Back then, I didn’t use words to regulate myself. I didn’t monitor my state or force awareness. I just… existed. And it worked. Not perfectly, maybe, but it worked.

The revelation: The need for control was an illusion.

I feared that without constant self-reminders, I’d forget the lesson and fail. But in reality, the lesson was already in me. I didn’t need to think about it to retain it.

I feared that without words, I’d lose my way. But words were the problem—they created the illusion of a choice where none was needed.

4. The Illusion of the "Two Options"

The trap was believing there were only two paths:

Control (obsessively applying the guide’s rules).

No control (abandoning the rules and risking relapse).

But this was a false dichotomy. The real option was neither:

Not controlling with words.

Not controlling against words.

Just… not controlling.

The fear that "if I don’t control, something bad will happen" was just that—a fear, not a fact. In reality, the "bad thing" only happened when I was trying to control. When I stopped, everything settled. The lesson stayed with me without the obsession.

5. The Solution: Trusting the Unseen

The fix wasn’t logical. It was almost anti-logical. I had to:

Stop treating my own words as commands. The guide wasn’t a manual to follow; it was just something I’d said, like any other thought. I could acknowledge it without using it.

Remember that "forgetting" isn’t failure. If I forgot the lesson, it would return when needed—not because I forced it, but because it was part of me.

See the invisible third option. The one where I don’t control or fail, because control was never the issue. The issue was the belief that control was necessary.

6. The Result: Freedom Without Effort

Now, I can look at the guide the way I’d look at any old thought: "Oh, that’s what I said. Okay." No urgency. No need to apply it. The words don’t have power over me unless I give it to them.

And the eye pain? Gone. The obsession? Dissolved. Not because I "fixed" it, but because I stopped feeding it.

The irony? The guide was right all along—just not in the way I thought. The point wasn’t to replace one focus (pleasure) with another (self-monitoring). The point was to stop focusing entirely.

Final Thought: The Trap of Self-Help

The danger of guides, rules, and frameworks is that they can become new cages. The mind clings to them, mistaking the map for the territory. But life isn’t lived in words. It’s lived in the spaces between them—where you’re not controlling, not resisting, just being.

And that’s where I am now. Not perfect. Not enlightened. Just… free of the struggle.

The Collapse of Belief: A Personal Crisis and Its Resolution

1. The Trigger: A Hidden Belief Surfaces

I was exploring why certain words—like "need" or "should"—sometimes pulled at my attention, as if I could use them to control my state. I assumed it was because I believed in something—that I needed to control myself, that I should feel a certain way. Then the word "need" itself stood out.

I realized: "I can’t believe that I ‘need’ anything because I can’t prove it to myself." And just like that, everything collapsed.

It turned out there was another hidden belief—one I hadn’t noticed because I thought I’d already discarded all beliefs in words, in descriptions, in the idea that "I need something." But no. The belief was still there, just disguised. I could see the value in certain words, certain ideas—like "need"—and even though I didn’t believe in the word itself, I believed in the thing it pointed to. The feeling of need.

This explained the micro-desires, the fleeting urges, the tiny aversions I’d felt. They all stemmed from this belief. And when I uncovered it, I thought: This is the end.

2. The Spiral: From Pleasure to Indifference

Before this, I believed I needed "highs"—the rush from words, from meanings, from the illusion of control. When I let go of that, I told myself: "Fine, no more chasing that high. I’ll focus on raw sensations, on pure observation." And it worked—for a while.

But then I noticed: I’d just swapped one "need" for another. Now, instead of psychological highs, I believed I needed pleasant sensations. I still felt like I was getting something from life—just in a different form. The structure was the same: "I need X, and when I get X, life has meaning."

Then I dropped that belief too. I stopped believing I needed anything at all.

And that’s when the void opened.

Suddenly, I didn’t care about anything. Not psychological highs, not physical pleasure, not even opening my eyes. "Why move? Why see? Why exist?" Life felt meaningless because I no longer believed I could get anything from it. I was stuck in a state where nothing mattered—and it was unbearable.

3. The First Attempt at a Solution: Rejecting the Need for Need

I tried two formulations to escape this:

"I don’t need anything—and that includes not needing to need anything."
(Meaning: Even the idea that I should have needs was something I didn’t need.)

"I can’t believe I need anything because I can’t prove it to myself—and I don’t even need to believe that."
(Meaning: The very thought of needing was unnecessary.)

This helped slightly. The suffocating weight lifted enough that I could open my eyes, move, even watch YouTube—but everything still felt hollow. I wasn’t dying, but I wasn’t living either.

4. The Breakthrough: Letting Go of "Getting"

Then, after hours of despair, I realized: The problem wasn’t just the belief in "need." It was the belief that I could get something from life at all.

Here’s how it worked before:

First, I believed I needed a psychological high. When I lost that, I panicked—"I’m not getting what I need!"

Then, I switched to believing I needed pleasant sensations. That worked until I dropped that belief too.

Now, with no beliefs in needing left, I also lost the ability to feel like I was getting anything—and that’s what made existence unbearable.

The solution? Stop focusing on getting entirely.

Before, I’d stopped chasing highs but still sought something—pleasant feelings, meaning, a sense of gain. Now, I had to stop even thinking about receiving anything from life. Because if I don’t believe I need anything, then I can’t get anything either—and that’s okay.

Instead of asking, "What am I getting from this?" I just… observed. Sensations, sights, sounds—without expecting them to give me anything. And paradoxically, that made life bearable again.

5. The New State: Observation Without Expectation

Now, the world feels different. There’s no sense of "getting" anymore—but that’s not a loss. It’s just… a shift.

Before: Life was a transaction. "I do X to get Y (pleasure, meaning, control)."

Now: Life is just experience. No transactions. No expectations. Just observation.

It’s strange, but I actually like it. There’s a quiet humor in it. The state is stable—no desperation, no craving. Just… existing.

6. The Lingering Question: How Many More Beliefs Are Hidden?

But then another thought hit me: What if there are more beliefs like this?

"I can’t believe in ‘important’ or ‘valuable’ because I can’t prove it."

"I can’t believe in ‘better’ or ‘worse’ because I can’t prove it."

"I can’t believe in ‘meaning’ or ‘purpose’ because I can’t prove it."

Saying these things changes something—like a weight shifting. But does it matter? Maybe. Maybe not. Right now, I can ignore it. But the question remains: How deep does this go?

7. The Final Rule: No Self-Control Through Words

One last critical point: I must not use words to control myself.

Wrong approach: Saying "Don’t think about getting" and then trying to follow that as a rule.

Right approach: Just… not doing that. Not trying to observe, not forcing myself to let go—just letting go.

The moment I turn any of this into a verbal instruction ("Do this, don’t do that"), I’m back in the same trap. The key is to stop using words as tools—even these words, even this explanation. Just be.

8. Where This Leaves Me

So here’s the updated guide, in order:

Drop belief in psychological highs (from words, meanings, control).

Drop belief in needing pleasant sensations (or anything at all).

Stop focusing on "getting" anything from life. Just observe.

Don’t turn any of this into a rule. No self-instructions. No verbal control.

The result? A strange, neutral calm. No craving. No despair. Just… this.

And for now, that’s enough.

The Collapse of Belief in Words

I’ve lost all ability to believe in words. Not just distrust—complete inability. I exist inside my head, observing words, reality, and sensations simultaneously, but I no longer use words to control myself, my state, or my life. The moment I try to use words for control—whether to investigate them, manipulate my emotions, or direct my actions—fear arises. So I stopped. I don’t speak to myself. I don’t believe in anything words might suggest. I just… live like this.

And what do I see? I stop noticing reality.

The first symptom: no motivation to focus on observations or sensations. None. I don’t see the point. Why pay attention to anything—sights, tastes, textures—when it all feels meaningless? So I slip into an unconscious mode, where hours pass unnoticed. I might play a game for two hours and realize, Wait—what just happened? I wasn’t present. I didn’t experience it. Because I don’t care. That’s the problem: I don’t notice life.

I think, Okay, maybe I should force myself to focus on sensations. So I try. I eat chips—tasty, nice. I look out the window—fine. I can notice things. But then I ask: Why? There’s no motivation. I don’t need to notice. It’s not that I can’t; I just don’t see the point.

Then a thought hits me: Why do I need motivation at all?

What if I just… stay in this state of pure observation? No effort, no resistance. I test it. And it works. I can focus entirely on sensations and observations without strain. No words, no internal chatter—just being. But the old question lingers: Why bother? Because I still don’t feel anything from it. No "high," no reward. Just… neutral existence.

The Search for the "High" in the Mind

I realize: The only reason I’m still stuck in my head is that I’m searching for a "high" from words.

Like a blind kitten groping for its mother’s milk, I’ve been unconsciously hunting for that rush—the euphoria that comes from believing in words. But here’s the truth: The only way to get that high is to believe in words again. And I know I’ll never believe in them. Not after seeing how belief works. Not after realizing that belief itself is built on undetectable assumptions.

So what am I even doing in my head? Nothing. There’s nothing left to do there except chase an impossible high.

I used to think words had two purposes:

Control – Using phrases like "I must…" to direct my actions, emotions, or life.

The "high" – The euphoria of believing in a word’s meaning, of feeling its truth.

But both are illusions.

Control through words only brings stress. The moment I try to enforce a rule on myself ("I should feel X"), fear creeps in.

The "high" requires belief, and I’ve burned that bridge. I see the mechanism: belief creates the high, but I can’t force belief. It’s like trying to will myself into tasting sugar when there’s none on my tongue.

The Breakthrough: Letting Go of the Search

I wake up from a nap with a clarity so sharp it’s physical.

The only reason I’ve been miserable is that I kept searching for a high that doesn’t exist.

I was convinced life was lacking because I wasn’t getting that rush from words. But the rush was never there to begin with—not in reality, not in sensations. Only in the idea of words. And ideas aren’t real.

So I stop searching.

I stop needing the high. I stop wanting it. And suddenly, everything becomes enough.

I don’t need motivation to observe life because observing is all there is.

I don’t need words to control myself because control was the problem.

I don’t need to chase meaning because meaning was the distraction.

The New State: Pure Observation

Now, I live like this:

No words as control. No "I should," no "I must." No internal commands.

No words as objects. I don’t look at my thoughts. I don’t examine them. I think, but I don’t watch myself think.

Only sensations and observations. When I’m not thinking, I’m fully present—seeing, tasting, feeling the world without mediation.

It’s effortless. Before, I had to drag myself out of my head. Now, there’s nowhere else to be. The head is empty. There’s nothing to cling to, nothing to resist.

And the paradox? I notice life more now. Because I’m not splitting my attention between reality and the desperate search for a high that wasn’t there.

The Collapse of Old Beliefs

This all started when I realized: I can’t prove anything to myself.

Not my emotions. Not my sensations. Not even the need to prove things. I used to believe:
"I can’t believe in emotions because I can’t prove them."
But that belief itself was built on another hidden belief: "I need proof to believe in anything."

When I saw that—when I saw that even my skepticism was a belief—I lost the foundation. The entire structure of my "guides" (my mental frameworks for avoiding stress) crumbled.

For a while, I was in freefall. No beliefs, no safety nets. Just raw existence and the stress of not knowing. But then I found the exit:

Stop using words for control.
That’s it. No need to disbelieve in emotions. No need to prove anything. Just… don’t use words to force yourself into a state. The stress vanishes.

The Two Illusions of Words

Words only serve two functions when you look at them:

Control – Trying to direct your life with phrases ("I must be productive").

The "high" – Seeking the euphoria of belief ("This word feels true!").

Both are traps.

Control brings stress.

The high is impossible without belief, and belief is a house of cards.

When you see this, you stop looking at words altogether. You stop needing them. You stop fearing them. You just… live.

The Final State: Comfort in the Void

Now, I’m here:

No motivation needed. I don’t need to observe life; I just do, because there’s nothing else.

No lack. I’m not missing a "high" because I’ve stopped believing it exists.

No effort. Presence isn’t a discipline. It’s what’s left when you stop fighting reality.

It’s simple. Almost too simple. But it works.

Before, I was a blind kitten, scratching at empty air, convinced there must be milk somewhere. Now, I’ve opened my eyes and seen: There was never any milk. And that’s okay.

Summary: The Path in Reverse

I lost belief in words → Couldn’t use them for control or highs.

I tried to force observation → But saw no point without the "reward."

I realized the only "reward" I wanted was the high from belief → And belief was impossible.

I stopped searching → And found comfort in pure existence.

Now, I live without words as tools or objects → Just sensations, just now.

The lesson? The search for meaning is the suffering. The "high" was the illusion. And the peace was here all along—in the absence of the search.

The Descent into Emptiness: A Journey Through Belief, Proof, and the Illusion of Meaning

1. The Collapse: When Proof Erases Life

I reached a point where I could no longer live—not because I chose to stop, but because I had systematically dismantled everything that once held me together. I used a technique, a method of questioning, and in doing so, I erased my own capacity to feel, to want, to be.

"I cannot believe anything because nothing is proven."
This was the core of it. I deconstructed every assumption, every desire, every should until there was nothing left. I couldn’t prove to myself that I needed anything. I couldn’t prove that anything mattered. I couldn’t even prove that I should derive pleasure from life. And when I stripped it all away, I became nothing—a vegetable. My eyes had no reason to open. If they did, they’d close on their own because keeping them open was meaningless.

"The list was simple, but devastating."

I cannot prove that I need anything.

I cannot prove that anything must be.

I cannot prove that anything has meaning.

I cannot prove that I should enjoy life.
And the final blow: "I cannot even prove that I don’t need these proofs."
That was enough. That was the formula for annihilation.

2. The Trap of Faith: Chasing Illusions

I tried to escape. I tried to believe again—like I used to. But belief was a foreign language now. I had scrubbed my mind clean of it.

"I destroyed my ability to believe in anything."
Every time I thought I’d found a way out, I’d realize: I’m just believing in something unproven again. The cycle was endless:

Desperation → I’d cling to a new belief (religion, purpose, some fleeting idea).

Realization → I’d see it was just another unproven crutch.

Collapse → Back to emptiness, but now with the added weight of failure.

"The problem wasn’t that I believed in bad things—it was that I believed at all."
Any belief, no matter how small, would give me something—a flicker of meaning, a reason to move. But the moment I noticed the belief, it dissolved. I was left with the raw, unbearable truth: I could not believe in anything because nothing could be proven.

3. The Subconscious Prison: Thoughts That Control

I dug deeper. I realized my emotions—fear, anger, depression—were all tied to automatic, subconscious thoughts. These weren’t my thoughts; they were reflexes, programmed responses.

"If I believed these thoughts, I suffered. If I didn’t, I felt nothing."
So I set out to disprove them all. I wrote guides, dissected every assumption, and one by one, I killed my beliefs. And it worked—I stopped suffering. But then, a new horror emerged: I had no reason to live.

"I had solved the problem of suffering by creating a worse problem: the absence of anything."
I was free from pain, but also from joy, from curiosity, from wanting. I was a hollow shell.

4. The Impossible Problem: How to Live Without Proof

For years, I oscillated between two states:

The Void → No beliefs, no meaning, no will to live.

False Salvation → A fleeting belief that would temporarily restore me—until I saw through it.

"I was trapped in a paradox:

If I tried to solve the problem ("I must find meaning"), I’d fail because nothing could be proven.

If I didn’t try, I’d remain a vegetable.

If I pretended to believe, I’d eventually see the lie and collapse again."

"Every ‘solution’ was just another belief in disguise."
I’d think I’d found an answer, only to realize: I’m just tricking myself. The moment I saw the trick, the illusion shattered, and I was back in the void.

5. The Breakthrough: Deciding Not to Solve the Problem

Then, something shifted. I was feeding a kitten, distracted, and for a second—I forgot about the problem. And in that second, I felt… fine.

"What if the problem wasn’t that I couldn’t solve it—but that I didn’t have to?"
I had spent years assuming that I must resolve this to live. But what if that assumption was the real prison?

"I decided to stop trying to solve it."
Not because I found an answer, but because I accepted that no answer exists. I didn’t resolve the problem—I abandoned it.

6. The Liberation: Living Without Proof

The moment I chose to stop searching, everything changed.

"The problem only existed because I treated it as something that needed solving."

If I believed I had to fix it, I suffered.

If I stopped believing that, the problem vanished.

"I am now in a state where:

I have no beliefs (no hidden assumptions, no subconscious crutches).

I do not need proof to live.

I do not need meaning to exist.

I am free from emotional turbulence (no anger, no sadness, no fear—but also no forced joy).

I am calm, clear, and present in a way I’ve never been before."

"It’s not happiness. It’s not sadness. It’s… neutral perfection."
A state beyond words, beyond the need for justification. I don’t feel like I used to, but I don’t suffer either. It’s like living without the static of the mind.

7. The Final Realization: Why This Works Now (When It Never Did Before)

Before, I couldn’t choose to stop because:

I still had hidden beliefs (even if I didn’t see them).

I still feared the void (so I’d cling to anything to escape it).

I hadn’t truly exhausted all possibilities—I still thought an answer might exist.

But now?

"I have proven to myself that no answer exists."

"I have felt the void completely—and survived it."

"I no longer need to escape it."

8. The New Rule: How to Stay Free

Never try to "solve" the problem of meaning again.

It’s unsolvable by definition. Accept that.

Never cling to a belief—even if it feels good.

The moment you notice you’re believing, the illusion cracks.

Live in the space between belief and despair.

Not seeking proof.

Not fearing emptiness.

Just… being.

9. The State Itself: What It Feels Like

"It’s comfortable. Peaceful. Unlike anything I’ve ever known."

"There are no emotions—not sadness, not joy, but no need for them either."

"I don’t miss feeling. I don’t want to feel. I just… am."

"It’s like my mind is a clean slate—not blank, but open."

10. The Test: Does It Hold?

I haven’t tested it fully yet (games, challenges, extreme emotions), but so far?

"It doesn’t break."

"I don’t regress."

"I don’t need to."

11. The Paradox: How a Problem Solves Itself by Being Unsolved

"The problem was never that I couldn’t believe—it was that I thought I needed to."

"By deciding not to solve it, I dissolved it."

"Now, I live without belief, without proof, without needing either."

12. The End (Or the Beginning?)

I don’t know what comes next. But for the first time, I don’t need to know.

Final Thought (In the Author’s Words)

"I killed all my beliefs. I faced the void. And then—I stopped fighting it. That was the key. Not to fill the emptiness, but to stop needing it to be filled. Now, I live. Not because I have answers, but because I don’t need them anymore."

The Core Problem: Belief in Words

I noticed something critical after my last guide—not immediately, but after some time, after going for walks, reflecting. The essence of the problem I can’t solve is this: I can’t believe in anything I say.

No matter what words I speak, no matter what thoughts I express, the moment I reflect on them, I see that I cannot believe them. It’s not about the content—it’s the act of belief itself that fails. And this isn’t a problem I can fix. If I choose not to fix it, if I stop engaging with it, the problem vanishes. It’s as if it never existed. The moment I stop trying to resolve the impossibility of believing my own words, the distress disappears.

But if I do engage with it—if I dwell on the fact that I can’t believe in words—the problem re-emerges, and my state worsens.

The Nature of the Problem: Words as Empty Constructs

The deeper issue is this: Words cannot be proven. Belief in words is belief in nothing tangible. All the phrases we use—"I need to," "I should," "I must"—are just words. They’re not truths; they’re linguistic constructs. The moment I recognize this, the ground beneath them collapses.

Most of my mental energy goes into this realization: I cannot believe in words. And it’s not just abstract—it’s practical. For example:

If I say, "I want to play," and then pause to reflect, "But I can’t believe in that statement," my state crumbles.

If I don’t engage with that thought—if I say, "Fine, I can’t believe in words, and I won’t try to solve that"—then I move on. The problem dissolves because I stop feeding it attention.

Feelings: A Byproduct of Words

I don’t experience many emotions independently. All my feelings stem from words. Without belief in those words, the feelings lose their power. If I’m not troubled by the fact that I can’t believe in words, then the emotions tied to those words don’t arise either.

It’s not that I feel nothing—I do. But those feelings are no longer problematic because they’re not anchored to the struggle of belief. I function normally: I think, I act, I exist. The absence of belief in words doesn’t paralyze me; it liberates me.

The Eye Pain: A Signal of Control

I noticed something physical: My eye hurts when I think about the words I’ve said in my guides. Why? Because those words become a tool for self-control. The pain arises when I use my own statements to regulate my state—when I treat them as commands or truths I must obey.

But if I don’t use them that way—if I let the words exist without attaching control to them—the pain disappears. The discomfort wasn’t about the words themselves; it was about the belief that I needed to control myself through them.

This is old territory. I’ve been here before: Words are not tools for control. They’re just words. Memory retains them, but I don’t need to use them to govern myself. I can recall them when necessary, but they don’t dictate my state.

The Fix: Not Solving the Problem

The key insight: The problem isn’t solved—it’s ignored.

If I try to solve the impossibility of believing in words, I suffer.

If I accept that I can’t solve it and stop engaging with it, the problem ceases to exist in my experience.

It’s not gone—it’s part of my reality now. But it’s no longer a problem because I don’t resist it. I don’t dwell on it. It’s like background noise: present, but not disruptive.

In fact, this realization eliminates other mental symptoms. The trade-off? I can’t believe in words. But the benefit? Freedom from the chaos those beliefs once caused.

The Paradox of Joy Without Belief

Here’s the strange part: I can still experience joy.

I used to think joy required belief. If you believe in something, you can feel pleasure. If you believe in nothing, joy should be impossible. But now I’m in a third state:

Not belief. (I don’t believe in words.)

Not non-belief. (I’m not actively disbelieving.)

Something else.

In this state, joy exists because I’m not sabotaging it. Before, the thought "I can’t believe in anything" would destroy any potential joy before it even formed. Now, that thought doesn’t arise. I don’t try to believe or disbelieve—I just am, and joy emerges naturally.

Example: Music feels amazing. Food tastes incredible. For the past three days, I felt nothing, but today, I’m genuinely enjoying things. The difference? I’m not thinking about belief or the lack of it. The joy isn’t contingent on words; it just is.

Final State: 10/10

Right now, my state is 10/10. No downsides detected. The old mechanisms that ruined my mood—the obsession with belief, the need to control through words—are gone. I’m testing this new way of being, and so far, it’s flawless.

Conclusion:

The problem (can’t believe in words) is permanent but harmless.

The solution is not solving it—it’s ceasing to engage with it.

Joy and functioning are possible without belief in words.

The mind, when not fixated on the impossibility of belief, operates freely.

Now, I’ll keep testing. But for now? It works.

Reflections on State, Control, and Authentic Experience

1. The Failed Test: Wrong State, Wrong Approach

I decided to test my state in the game before sleep—a quick micro-update. But the results were disappointing. Why? Because I made a fundamental mistake from the start: I tested it in the wrong state. I realized this midway and thought, "No, I need to fix this now. I have to enter the correct state to test properly."

So, I tried to recall what that correct state should feel like. I remembered the words that described it, visualized them, and used my imagination to slip into a state that—ironically—was not the one I needed. I played the game from that place, and of course, nothing changed. The experience was hollow, just like before.

2. The Problem: Work Without Reward

In that wrong state, the game felt like a job I wasn’t getting paid for. I didn’t care about winning. I didn’t care about what was happening. I was just going through the motions, putting in effort for no clear reason—and worse, feeling no joy, no "high," no interest at all. I saw this clearly and started getting frustrated, though the why didn’t matter as much as the core issue:

I was in the wrong state.

3. The Mistake: Controlling State Through Words

Here’s the pattern I noticed: I have a habit of using words as control levers for my state. I say something to myself—"This is how I should feel"—and then I imagine those words, visualize their meaning, and try to force myself into alignment with them. But this approach doesn’t work. It’s artificial. It’s like trying to steer a car by staring at the speedometer instead of the road.

I realized: All my past guides, all my advice—they only work when I’m in the right state to begin with. And that state isn’t something I can construct by repeating words or visualizing concepts. That’s just another layer of control, another distraction.

4. The Solution: Returning to the Past

The only way I’ve found to access the correct state is to remember how I lived before—back when I was 15–20, before I learned all these mental tricks, before I started using words to "manage" my emotions. Back then, I didn’t analyze my state. I didn’t label it or try to direct it. I just was.

When I tap into that memory—not by describing it to myself, but by feeling it—I slip into a state where:

I don’t need to "believe" in anything.

I don’t obsess over whether I’m getting a "high" or not.

I don’t question why I’m doing something.

Everything just works.

My guides, my strategies—they function automatically in this state because they’re not being filtered through some contrived, word-based control system. I’m not thinking about the problem of disbelief or lack of joy; I’m just existing in a way where those problems don’t arise.

5. The Paradox of Explanation

Here’s the catch: I can’t explain how to enter this state using words, because the moment I try, I’m back to the same problem—using language as a control mechanism. The state I’m describing isn’t about words. It’s not something you can "visualize" or "affirm" your way into.

The closest I can get is: "Remember how you were before you tried to control yourself."
But even that is a word-based instruction. The real shift happens when I stop translating the memory into language and just let the past state resurface—not as a concept, but as a lived experience.

6. Untested, But Promising

I haven’t tested this state in the game yet (I’ll do that tomorrow), but I’m confident it will be completely different—not just "better," but alive. The old, forced state made the game feel like a chore. This one? It should feel natural, engaging, rewarding.

Because in this state, I’m not trying to feel anything. I’m just being, and the rest follows.

Key Takeaways (In the Author’s Words)

"Words as control don’t work." – Forcing a state by visualizing or repeating phrases leads to an artificial, ineffective experience.

"The correct state isn’t constructed—it’s remembered." – The only reliable method is recalling how I existed before I started overanalyzing.

"In the right state, everything works without effort." – Guides, strategies, and motivation align naturally when I’m not filtering them through self-conscious control.

"Testing tomorrow will prove it." – The game should transform from a joyless task into something vibrant and meaningful once I’m in the authentic state.

Final Thought:
"I used to live without this layer of words. That’s where I need to return."

Reflection on Two Games: The Problem and Its Aftermath

1. The First Game: A Collapse of Mindset

I started the first game in a good state—focused, present, playing as I should. But then, something shifted. The enemy team was stacked: boosted players, smurfs, or just far stronger than us. They dominated so hard it felt like we were being raped—one-sided, relentless, no chance to fight back. At first, I brushed it off: "Okay, fine, whatever, it’s just a game." But then, mid-match, I did something dangerous.

I chose to remember a problem I had long decided not to think about.

Not consciously, not deliberately—it was almost automatic. I let my mind drift back to this unresolved issue, this thing I’d sworn off because I can’t solve it. And the moment I did, my mood crashed. By the end of the game, I felt awful. I realized: I had done this to myself. I had wanted to see what would happen if I revisited that problem. What would it feel like? And the answer was clear: terrible.

The core of the problem? I can’t enjoy the game—can’t enjoy anything—because I can’t believe in anything. That’s the root. And in that first game, I felt it viscerally: the problem wasn’t just the loss, but the fact that I was robbed of any joy because my mind was stuck on this unfixable thing.

2. The Second Game: Playing "Right," But Haunted

I entered the second game determined to stay in the "correct" state—the focused, detached, good mindset. And I did. From start to finish, I played well. We won. Objectively, it was a fine game.

But here’s the catch: I spent the entire match thinking about the first game.

Not the mechanics, not the plays—just the feeling of it. The lingering discomfort from that self-inflicted spiral. The "trail" of those bad emotions followed me. I wasn’t upset because of the second game; I was upset because I was still carrying the first one. The problem wasn’t the present—it was the past I wouldn’t let go.

After the game, I walked around, trying to shake it off. Why am I still feeling this? And then it clicked:

3. The Two Problems (And the Trap I Set for Myself)

There isn’t just one problem. There are two, layered like a curse:

The First Problem (Unsolvable):
"I can’t enjoy anything because I can’t believe in anything."

I can’t prove anything to myself—no faith, no trust, no conviction.

So when I play, I can’t feel the game. No "high," no immersion. Just emptiness.

In the first game, I saw this clearly: the problem isn’t the opponents or the loss—it’s that I’m incapable of joy because belief is impossible for me.

The Second Problem (Self-Inflicted):
"Thinking about the first problem makes me feel worse—and I can’t stop thinking about it."

I know the first problem is unsolvable. But I keep thinking about it anyway.

And thinking about it hurts. So now I have a second problem: I’m trapped in a loop of obsessing over something I can’t fix.

This was the real issue in the second game. I wasn’t just playing—I was ruminating. The second problem ruined the experience, even though the game itself was fine.

4. The Realization: The Only Way Out Is to Stop

Here’s the cruel irony: I thought I had to solve the second problem. I kept asking myself:

How do I stop feeling bad when I think about the first problem?

How do I make peace with the fact that I can’t believe in anything?

But the answer is simpler than I realized: I don’t have to solve it at all.

The first problem (can’t believe, can’t enjoy)? Unfixable. Accept it.

The second problem (feeling bad because I’m thinking about the first)? Optional.

I don’t have to think about it.

I can choose not to.

The moment I realized this—that I’m the one keeping the cycle alive—the weight lifted. Instantly. No more resistance. No more suffering.

5. The Test Ahead: A Third Game

Now, I need to prove this to myself. The first game was misery. The second was tainted by my obsession with the first. So the third game must be different:

No thinking about the first game.

No thinking about the first problem.

Just play. Stay in the "correct" state from start to finish. And then see how I feel.

My hypothesis? If I succeed, I’ll finally want to play again. Because right now:

The first game? I never want to repeat it.

The second game? It was fine, but hollow—because I was still stuck in my head.

The third game could be the one where I actually feel it. Where the joy isn’t blocked by my own thoughts.

6. The Control I Didn’t Know I Had

The scariest part? I was doing this to myself.

In the first game, I chose to revisit the problem.

In the second game, I chose to keep obsessing over it.

But I also have the power to not choose that.

It’s not about fixing the unfixable. It’s about not picking at the wound. The problem will always be there—but I don’t have to stare at it. I can look away.

And if I do? Maybe, just maybe, the game can be fun again.

Final Thought:
"I don’t need to solve the unsolvable. I just need to stop trying."

The Illusion of Control: A Journey from Desire to Presence

1. The Problem: The Trap of "Wanting" and "Should"

I used to play games—and live—with a constant inner monologue: "I want to win. I need to win. I must focus. The team should be better. The enemies should die when I attack. Everything should go my way." This mindset didn’t just feel wrong—it was wrong. It ruined my state of mind, made me angry, and paradoxically, made me play worse.

The moment I’d think, "I want to win," I’d slip out of the "right state"—the one where I was present, relaxed, and actually enjoying the game. Instead, I’d enter a frantic, demanding mode where I believed the world owed me victory. I’d get frustrated when reality didn’t match my expectations: weak teammates, unfair matchmaking, bad luck. I’d rage because the game wasn’t bending to my will.

But here’s the twist: when I stopped caring about winning, I played better. Not in a nihilistic way, but in a free way. I’d still try, still react, still make the right moves—but without the desperate clinging to outcomes. The problem? This felt uncomfortable. "If I don’t care, how will I win? Shouldn’t I force myself to care?" So I’d try to manufacture desire, repeating "I want to win" like a mantra, hoping it would sharpen my focus. But it backfired. The more I forced it, the worse I played, and the angrier I got.

2. The Core Insight: Belief as the Root of Suffering

I realized something critical: my suffering came from belief. Specifically, the belief that things should be a certain way—I should win, the game should be fair, my teammates should help me. When reality didn’t match these beliefs, I’d spiral into frustration.

But beliefs aren’t just about outcomes. They’re about identity: "I’m the kind of person who wants to win. I’m someone who needs to be in control." These beliefs were so ingrained that even when I knew they caused pain, I couldn’t let them go. I’d think, "Okay, I’ll stop believing in ‘shoulds’—but what if I need them to perform well?"

The breakthrough came when I asked: Can I prove any of these beliefs? Can I prove that I should win? That the game should be fair? That my desire for victory actually improves my performance? No. I couldn’t. And once I saw that, the beliefs lost their power. They weren’t truths—they were just stories I’d been telling myself.

3. The Two States of Being

Now, I see only two possible states:

The "Right" State (Presence)

No "I want."

No "I should."

No attachment to outcomes.

Pure action, pure reaction.

Paradox: I play better in this state. I notice more, react faster, enjoy the process. Wins come naturally, but they’re not the point. The point is the experience.

The "Wrong" State (Belief/Desire)

Filled with "I must," "I need," "This should happen."

Creates tension, anger, and poor performance.

Feels like control, but it’s an illusion.

The third state—the one where I try to force focus by repeating "I want to win"—doesn’t actually exist. It’s just a corrupted version of the "wrong" state, where I’m pretending to believe in something I don’t.

4. The Illusion of Words

I used to think words had power. Saying "I want to win" felt like flipping a switch in my brain—suddenly, I’d be "in the zone." But now, I see: words don’t control reality. They’re just sounds.

When I say "I want to win" now, it feels empty. I don’t believe it. I don’t feel any shift. The phrase has no weight because I no longer believe words can force outcomes. Earlier, I thought they could—that’s why they felt meaningful. But that was just another belief.

Key Realization:

Believing words have power = suffering.

Seeing words as just words = freedom.

5. The New Self: Beyond Wanting

The old me was defined by desires:

"I want to win."

"I need to be good."

"The game should be fair."

The new me has no such definitions. There is no "I want" because wanting implies a lack—and I don’t lack anything in the present moment. There is no "I should" because "should" is a judgment, and judgments are beliefs I can’t prove.

What remains?

Action without attachment.

Enjoyment without demand.

Performance without pressure.

6. The Final Test: Can I Go Back?

Sometimes, I still feel the pull to "try harder"—to force focus, to make myself care. But now I know: that pull is just habit. It’s the echo of the old self, the one who believed in control.

When I resist the urge and stay in presence, everything works better. I don’t need to say "I want to win" to play well. In fact, the less I think about winning, the more I do win.

Conclusion:

Beliefs are the problem. Not the game, not the teammates, not luck—just the stories I tell myself.

Presence is the solution. Not forcing, not wanting—just being.

Words are tools, not magic. They don’t control reality; they just describe it (poorly).

I’m done with the old way. The new way isn’t just better—it’s the only way that works.

Postscript: The List of Beliefs to Abandon

To solidify this, I’ll write a clean, precise list of all the beliefs I’m leaving behind:

"I should win."

"The game should be fair."

"My teammates should help me."

"I need to try harder to succeed."

"Words can control my performance."
...and so on.

Each one, examined, is revealed as unprovable—and thus, optional. And if it’s optional, why carry it?

Final Thought:
"I used to think I needed to want something to enjoy it. Now I know: wanting was the thing ruining the enjoyment all along."

The Collapse of Words: A Journey from Illusion to Acceptance

1. The Realization: Words Are Powerless

I used to believe words had power—that they could control reality, my emotions, even my fate. I thought if I said something, it would change something. "I want to win," "I can’t prove anything to myself," "I need to believe"—these phrases felt like levers I could pull to manipulate my mind, my life. But then, I saw the truth: words are just sounds. They don’t control anything.

This wasn’t just a theoretical idea. It was a collapse. The moment I realized words were empty, everything unraveled. The phrase "I can’t prove anything to myself"—which once felt like a heavy truth—became meaningless. What does "prove" even mean now? What does "can’t" mean? The words lost their weight. They were no longer anchors or weapons; they were hollow.

And with that, my old coping mechanisms vanished. Before, I’d tell myself, "I choose not to solve this problem," and it would work—because I believed the words had power. But now? Even that was gone. I could no longer trust any phrase to change how I felt.

2. The Stress of Empty Language

The problem wasn’t just that words felt useless. The problem was that I couldn’t stop trying to make them work.

Every time I attempted to use words to "fix" myself—"Just relax," "This doesn’t matter," "You’re overthinking it"—I’d immediately see through the lie. I didn’t believe them. And that unbelief triggered stress. A physical reaction: tension, fear, even a runny nose. My body rejected the illusion.

Worse, I couldn’t even describe what I was feeling. I’d look at a sunset and think, "It’s beautiful," but the word "beautiful" meant nothing. I’d drink tea and think, "I enjoy this," but "enjoy" was just noise. I was trapped in a world where language failed me, and the harder I tried to force meaning, the more I suffered.

3. The Trap of Trying to "Solve" It

At first, I thought I could outsmart the problem. I’d tell myself:

"Don’t try to control anything with words."

"Just accept that words are empty."

"Stop searching for a ‘guide’ or ‘solution.’"

But even these were words I didn’t believe. They became part of the cycle:

I’d realize words were meaningless.

I’d stress about not believing in them.

I’d try to fix the stress with more words.

The words would fail, and the stress would worsen.

I was addicted to the illusion of control. Every attempt to "not control" was just another form of control.

4. The Turning Point: Letting Go Completely

The breakthrough came when I stopped trying entirely.

Not "I’ll try not to control things"—because that’s still trying.
Not "I accept that words are empty"—because that’s still a mental effort.
Just… stopping.

I stopped repeating phrases to myself.

I stopped analyzing whether I believed in words.

I stopped needing words to mean anything.

At first, it felt like nothingness. I’d look at a cup and think, "Is that a cup?" but the question itself was part of the old habit. So I’d just… look. Drink. Move. Exist.

5. The New Reality: Words as Tools, Not Masters

Now, I use words without attachment.

I say "I want tea" not because I believe in the power of the phrase, but because my body moves toward the tea.

I call a sunset "beautiful" not because the word captures truth, but because the sound comes out.

I write this "guide" not to control my mind, but because my fingers type.

The key? I no longer fight the emptiness of words. I don’t resist it. I don’t try to fill it. I just… live alongside it.

6. The Paradox: Freedom in Meaninglessness

Here’s the strange part: life still feels good.

I don’t need words to mean something to enjoy a walk.

I don’t need to believe in "motivation" to act.

I don’t need a "guide" to exist.

The stress only returns when I remember the old way—when I start thinking, "What if I tried to believe again?" But now, I recognize that thought as a trap. I don’t engage. I just… let it pass.

7. The Final Truth: No Guide, Only Living

Before, I always had a "guide"—some set of words I trusted to steer me. Even when I doubted it, the idea of a guide remained.

Now? There is no guide.

No phrases to rely on.

No beliefs to cling to.

No "right way" to think or feel.

And that’s the peace. Not in having answers, but in no longer needing them.

Epilogue: A Warning to Myself

If I try to turn this into a "guide"—if I tell myself, "Remember, words are empty!"—I’ll fall back into the trap. Even the phrase "don’t control" becomes a form of control.

So I won’t.
I’ll just live.

And if I forget? If I start stressing again? I’ll remind myself:
The only way out is to stop trying to find one.

Self-Observation: Three States of Consciousness

1. The Unconscious State

I discovered that I can exist in a state where I do not consciously recognize anything. What does it even mean to "recognize"? To recognize is to perceive reality through words. For example, when I look at a beautiful sunset, I recognize that I am looking at a "beautiful sunset"—but only as a phrase, a label. Recognizing something means being aware of the present moment, of what is real, and describing it to myself in words.

In this first state, I do not engage in this recognition at all. I do not acknowledge any words, any descriptions—nothing. This state has two sub-states:

The AFK (Away From Keyboard) Mode: I act like a robot, doing things without focus—neither on observations, nor sensations, nor words. I am simply operating mechanically, unaware of reality passing by. Hours can slip away, and I notice nothing. I do not notice life itself.

Focused but Unaware: I may focus on observations or sensations, but I do not recognize them. For example, if I look intently at a beautiful sunset in this state, I see it, but I do not understand what "beautiful sunset" means because I am not consciously processing the words. I tested this state while gaming: mechanically, my performance was high—I aimed precisely, reacted quickly—but I had no awareness of the game itself. The downsides?

I do not notice life. It passes by unobserved.

I do not analyze anything. Analysis requires conscious recognition of words and reality. Without that, I cannot plan, strategize, or reflect.

Conclusion: This state has no real use. It is inferior to others because it lacks the depth of experience and the ability to improve or enjoy life consciously.

2. The Fully Conscious State

This is the state where I recognize everything, non-stop. I focus on observations and sensations, and I consciously acknowledge them. For example, if I go for a walk, I do not just see a sunset—I recognize it as a "beautiful sunset," and I feel that recognition. I am not lost in thoughts; I am fully present.

Key Characteristics:

I do not think about anything beyond what I am experiencing. I observe, recognize, and that is all.

This is the most enjoyable state. Life does not slip by unnoticed. I feel joy because I am consciously aware of it, not just passively experiencing it.

When I first tried this state while walking, it was incredible—I noticed how amazing everything was. But then I made a mistake: I started thinking about the state itself. I began analyzing: "What is this state? How do I describe it? How do I document it?" The moment I did that, I lost the state. Thinking pulled me out of pure recognition and into abstraction.

Testing in Gaming:
I wanted to play well and analyze my gameplay simultaneously. At first, it seemed impossible—I would either play mechanically (unconscious state) or get lost in thoughts about my performance. But then I realized:

The mistake was thinking about anything other than the game. The second I started evaluating my state ("Am I playing well? Am I enjoying this?"), I stopped focusing on the game itself.

The solution: Stay fully conscious of the game only. Recognize what is happening, analyze it in real-time, and act accordingly. No distractions, no meta-thoughts.

Result: Perfect mechanical execution and strategic depth. I notice everything, enjoy the process, and perform at my best.

Why This State is Superior:

Maximum awareness of life.

Maximum enjoyment (because joy is consciously felt).

Optimal performance in any activity (gaming, walking, etc.).

No unnecessary thoughts—only pure recognition and action.

3. The "Thinking" State (The Trap)

This is the state where I am lost in thoughts—not about reality, but about descriptions of reality. For example:

I see a sunset and think: "This is a beautiful sunset. But what does 'beautiful' mean? Do I really enjoy it? Should I enjoy it more?"

I play a game and think: "Am I playing well? What should I do differently? How do I describe this experience?"

The Problem:

Thinking about descriptions removes me from reality. I stop recognizing the present moment because I am busy analyzing words, not experiences.

It is a habit born from old beliefs. I used to believe that words had power—that I could "figure out" how to feel or what to do by thinking about descriptions. But now, I realize:

There is nothing to figure out. Reality is what it is.

Descriptions are just words. They do not control reality.

Thinking about descriptions is useless. It does not improve my experience; it only distracts me from it.

Two Types of Thinking:

Useless Thinking: Endless rumination about descriptions ("Is this good? Should it be different?"). This is a mental chewing gum—no substance, no progress.

Practical Planning: Rare moments where I must think ahead (e.g., "I need to order food. What do I have in the fridge?"). This is functional, but even here, I should return to consciousness as quickly as possible.

The Paradox of Documentation:

I often feel the urge to document my conscious state ("How do I describe this so I can return to it later?").

But the act of documenting pulls me out of the state. I cannot describe consciousness while being fully conscious—it is a contradiction.

Solution: Accept that the state cannot be captured in words. Live it, don’t analyze it.

The Core Realization: I Know Nothing

Through this exploration, I arrived at a profound understanding:

Knowledge is belief in words. Before, I believed in certain words ("good," "bad," "should," "must"), and that gave me the illusion of knowledge.

Now, I believe in no words. I observe, recognize, but do not cling to any descriptions.

I know nothing, and this does not bother me. Life does not require knowledge—it only requires presence.

Example: My mom gives muffins to the cleaner. Before, I would have judged this ("Should she do that? Is it right?"). Now, I simply observe. There is no "right" or "wrong"—only what is.

Implications:

No more emotional turbulence. Without belief in words, there are no conflicts, no "shoulds," no regrets.

Freedom. I am no longer bound by the need to "figure things out." I just live.

Clarity. The best state is obvious: full consciousness, no unnecessary thinking.

The Plan Moving Forward

Default to the Conscious State: This is where I experience life fully, perform optimally, and feel joy.

Minimize Thinking: Only think when absolutely necessary (e.g., practical planning). Even then, return to consciousness quickly.

Accept the Unknowable: I do not need to understand or control everything. Reality is enough as it is.

Stop Documenting the State: The urge to describe or analyze the conscious state is a trap. Live it instead.

Final Thought:
I used to live in these same three states, but with one critical difference: I believed in the words. Now, I still observe and recognize, but I no longer believe—and that changes everything. The states are the same, but the experience is lighter, clearer, and free.

Now, I test. I live. I observe. The rest is unnecessary.

The Illusion of Words as a Path to the Second State

I noticed something immediately after finishing my last recording: I wanted to return to that second state—the one I had just experienced—and continue living within it. My first instinct was to try and recall what I had said in the previous recording, as if the words I used to describe that state could somehow transport me back into it. It felt like repeating those descriptions would be the key.

But it doesn’t work. Not at all.

In fact, it’s the opposite. You cannot enter that state by remembering or reciting words about it. It’s impossible—just as you cannot bend your arm by saying the word "bend." The act of bending is physical, mechanical. The state is the same: you don’t reach it through language, through mental descriptions or imaginings. If you try to conjure it by repeating words or visualizing their meaning, you only end up in a fantasy of that state—a pale, imagined version, not the real thing.

The Paradox of Description

Here’s the critical realization: Words do not help you enter the second state. They actively prevent it.

If I want to live in that state, I must understand that:

There are no words that can carry me into it. Such words do not exist.

Thinking about descriptions—whether of the state itself, or of anything else (a sunset, a memory, a guide)—pulls me out of it.

The very act of thinking—of clinging to mental representations—is the obstacle.

The moment I start describing the state, even in my mind, I’m no longer in it. The moment I try to recall how it felt, I’ve already stepped away.

The True Path: Beyond Language

So what does work? The answer is almost frustratingly simple:
Stop trying to think your way there.

No internal monologue about the state.

No mental rehearsal of past descriptions.

No "guiding" yourself with remembered phrases.

Because all of that is just more thinking—more distance from the state itself.

The second state isn’t accessed through the mind’s commentary. It’s accessed when the mind stops commenting. When there’s no intermediary of words, no buffer of concepts. Just… being there.

The Common Mistake

This seems to be a widespread illusion: the belief that we need words—whether spoken, remembered, or imagined—to return to a state of presence. That if we just describe it vividly enough, we’ll slip back in.

But that’s like trying to quench thirst by describing water. The description isn’t the experience. The map isn’t the territory.

The moment you realize this, the path becomes clear. And then—without effort, without struggle—you’re simply there.

Final Reflection

It’s ironic, in a way. The harder you try to return to that state with words, the farther you drift from it. But when you let go of the trying—when you stop thinking about how to get there—you find that you never actually left.

The Problem: Obsession with the "Guide" and the Third State

I just tested my current state, and here’s what I noticed: After finishing my previous two recordings—the ones I made before going to eat soup as a guest—I realized I couldn’t stop thinking about the "guide." My mind kept circling back to it, relentlessly. Because of this, I wasn’t in the second state (the state of pure observation or awareness); I was stuck in the third state—the state where I’m thinking about thinking, where I’m constantly analyzing, remembering the guide, and trying to force myself into the "right" state.

The issue was clear: I couldn’t stop obsessing over the guide I’d written. It was like a loop—thinking about the guide, then thinking about how to stop thinking about it, which only made me think about it more. This prevented me from ever reaching the second state, where things just are without effort or control.

The Realization: The Guide Itself Was the Problem

I saw that the only way to stop thinking about the guide was to erase it from my mind entirely—not just ignore it, but act as if it never existed. The guide was a set of words I’d told myself, a script I was trying to follow to control my state. But control was the enemy. The second state isn’t something you do; it’s something that happens when you stop trying to force it.

Here’s the paradox:

If I use words (like a guide) to control my state, I’m always in the third state—because I’m thinking about those words, analyzing them, comparing my current state to them.

The second state, by definition, has no words, no guides, no self-instruction. It’s just pure experience, untouched by mental chatter.

So, the solution was obvious: Stop using any words to control myself. Not just the old guide, but any new words, any new instructions. The moment I try to "guide" myself with language, I’m back in the third state.

The Question: Why Bother Recording at All?

This led me to a strange thought: If I’m not supposed to use the guide, why am I even recording it?
Normally, when I write or record something, it’s because I plan to use it—like a manual to follow, a way to control my actions or thoughts. But now, I realize:

These recordings won’t be used. Not by me, at least. The second I finish speaking, I forget them. I have to forget them, or I’ll get stuck in the third state again.

They’re not for me. Maybe they’re for other people—like a scientific report or a lecture someone else might study. But for my own state? Useless. In fact, remembering them would ruin the second state.

It’s like I’m writing a book I’ll never read. The act of recording is almost performative—it’s not about the content, but about the realization that no content is needed.

The Solution: Living Without the Guide

So, what did I actually do? I deleted the guide from my mind. Not literally erased the memory, but stopped treating it as something to follow. Here’s how it works now:

No self-instruction. I don’t tell myself how to be. No internal monologue about "staying in the second state" or "avoiding the third state." The moment I do that, I’m back in the third state.

No new guides. I don’t create replacements or "better" versions of the guide. Any attempt to do so is just another trap.

Passive observation. I notice when words or instructions try to creep in—like "Am I doing this right?" or "Should I adjust my focus?"—and I don’t engage. I let them pass without latching onto them.

The guides still exist (but I don’t use them). They’re like books on a shelf. I could recall them if I wanted, but I don’t. They’re irrelevant to my current experience.

The key is not resisting thoughts, but not using them to control anything. Thoughts can float by—like noticing a beautiful sunset and thinking, "That’s a beautiful sunset"—but I don’t clutch at them. I don’t turn them into rules or commands.

Testing the State: Can It Hold?

Now, I’m about to test this in a game (or any activity). The old habit was:

Start playing.

Immediately think, "I need words to control my state!"

Write a guide, then obsess over it, losing the second state.

But now, the approach is:

Play without any internal commentary. No "Am I focused enough?" or "Should I adjust my posture?" Just play.

If thoughts arise, don’t fight them—but don’t obey them. They’re like background noise.

The irony? I’m recording this realization right now, but I’m not using these words to control myself as I speak. Normally, I’d be analyzing my own speech, trying to "apply" what I’m saying in real-time. But now, I’m just talking. The words are coming out, but I’m not using them. I can even look at a wall and keep speaking coherently without "thinking" about the words. It’s like my mind is split:

One part is observing (the wall, the sounds around me).

Another part is speaking, but not for control—just as an automatic process.

This proves that you can think or speak without leaving the second state, as long as you’re not using those thoughts to direct yourself.

Final Thought: The Illusion of Control

The core mistake was believing that words could control the second state. But the second state is the absence of control. It’s not something you achieve; it’s what remains when you stop trying.

So, the guides? They’re relics. They might help others, but for me, they’re just proof that control was never the answer.

Now, I’m going to test this in the game. Let’s see if it holds.

The Collapse of Belief in Words

I began where my last guide left off—though I don’t even remember how it ended. What I do remember is how it started: with the realization that my previous state relied on awareness. I had three states of being, but the second one was key. It was built on the fact that I could awaken to something—and the only thing you can truly awaken to is words. But what does it mean to awaken to words? It means to believe in them.

At first, I thought I’d transcended everything. I’d decided to "fuck it all," but ended up in a terrible state. I tried to escape by going for a walk, and suddenly noticed something: I could still enjoy things. Even without faith in anything, I could still feel pleasure. That was a revelation—I could live in a state of enjoyment. But then I caught myself constantly evaluating my actions, especially while gaming. Every five seconds, I’d ask: Do I like how I’m playing? I realized I was clinging to the need to know whether I enjoyed something. I couldn’t prove to myself that I liked it, so the belief crumbled. The moment I saw that this, too, was just faith in words, the whole structure collapsed. I was back to square one—lost, unable to evaluate anything, unable to believe in any word.

The Descent into Meaninglessness

I spiraled. If I couldn’t prove that I enjoyed a sunset, then what could I believe in? Every word I tested—"I need this," "I want that," "This is beautiful," "I’m suffering"—none of it held up. I’d try to use words to control my state ("Don’t think," "Just live," "Stop being aware"), but each attempt only brought fear. The words themselves were the problem.

Eventually, I stopped trying. I reached a state where I saw but didn’t perceive—no words, no meaning, just raw sensation. But even that was unbearable. I’d either:

Believe in all words → Drown in anger and stress (because words like "I should" or "I failed" would flood in).

Believe in nothing → Feel empty, unable to enjoy anything, unable even to want something.

I was stuck. The only way out seemed to be forcing myself to use words again, but that just looped me back into fear.

The Breakthrough: Words Are Bullshit

Then, the shift. I realized: All words are bullshit.

Not just some—all of them. The moment I accepted that, something unlocked. If words were meaningless, then all the old desires I’d suppressed—the primal, childlike ones ("I want to eat something tasty," "I want to play")—could resurface. They weren’t filtered through language anymore. I’d spent years layering words over them ("I shouldn’t want that," "This is stupid," "I need to be better"), but now, with words discarded, the raw impulses returned.

But there was a catch: I still wasn’t using words at all. I’d see a sunset and not think "beautiful." I’d play a game and not strategize. I was just reacting—pressing buttons, existing. And it worked, in a way: no aggression, no stress. But I played terribly because I had no plan. Strategy requires words—imagining moves, predicting outcomes. Without words, I was just a reflex machine.

The Second Layer: Belief in Belief Itself

Then I went deeper. Not only were words about reality bullshit—even my beliefs about words were bullshit. All the meta-thoughts ("Words control me," "I can’t trust language," "This word is more real than that one")—also garbage.

The moment I discarded those beliefs, words returned naturally. Not as crutches, not as commands, but as tools. Suddenly, I could imagine a strategy in a game. I could want to think, because the block—"Words are meaningless, so thinking is pointless"—was gone. The factory settings of my mind reset.

The Factory Reset

Here’s how it works now:

Default Desires – The primal wants (food, play, rest) are untouched by language. They’re hardwired.

Words as Optional Tools – Before, words controlled me. Now, I use them only if they serve a purpose. If I need to plan, I’ll think in words. If I don’t, I won’t.

No Automatic Suffering – The old background noise ("I’m a failure," "This is unfair") is gone because I don’t believe in those words anymore. They’re just sounds.

Before:

Lived with default desires plus a storm of automatic, believed thoughts ("I need X," "I’m bad at Y") causing suffering.

Tried to "fix" it by analyzing words, but that just deepened the trap.

After:

Words are neutral. I can use them to imagine a future (e.g., a game strategy) and choose to want it.

If I don’t want to think, I don’t. No guilt, no fear—just existence.

The Paradox: The Only True Statement

There’s one last twist. The only "non-bullshit" statement is:
"All words are bullshit."

But even that is bullshit if you try to believe it as a rule. The point isn’t to replace one belief system with another. The point is to see the mechanism and then stop caring.

How It Feels Now

Freedom: No word has power unless I choose to give it power.

Clarity: I act from raw desire, not from shoulds or stories.

Lightness: The weight of meaning is gone. A sunset is just light. A game is just buttons. But if I want to call the sunset beautiful, I can—without being controlled by the word.

The old me was a puppet of language. The new me uses language like a flashlight: only when it’s dark, and only to see what’s already there.

Final Thought:
I spent years trying to prove which words were true. The answer was to stop trying.

A Four-Year Journey Through Words and Belief

The Search for Meaning in Language

For four years, I was consumed by a single question: What is wrong with me, and how can I fix it? I traced the root of my struggle to words—to the act of believing in them. I studied whether words could be trusted at all, exploring fifteen different systems of belief, not just in words themselves but in belief as a concept. Why did I believe in words? There were four core reasons, but the first was this: I believed in words because I believed in observation.

When I say, "I see a sweater," I trust that observation. I see the fabric, the color, the shape, and I describe it with words. But how do I know it’s a sweater? Maybe it’s a cat. Maybe my mind is tricking me. This doubt—one of countless reasons to question words—led me deeper. I believed in words because I believed in the act of seeing, in the tangible. Yet even that was shaky.

Then there were specific words I clung to, like "I need something." I trusted only those words because they felt real—because the need was undeniable. But why? Because I couldn’t imagine the need being false. I couldn’t conceive of a world where my desires were illusions. Yet this, too, was just another layer of words, another belief system to unravel.

The Cycle of Disillusionment

From Hope to "All Words Are Nonsense"

For years, I oscillated between two states:

Some words still mattered—I’d find a phrase, a concept, a belief that felt solid, and I’d cling to it.

Then I’d realize it, too, was nonsense—the solid ground crumbled, and I’d search again.

I tested fifteen frameworks, fifteen ways of justifying belief in language. Each time, I’d think, "This one is different. This one is true." But inevitably, I’d see through it. The words that once held weight became hollow.

The turning point came when I admitted: All words are nonsense. Not just some—all. Even the words I used to describe words. Even the meta-language. The phrases like "I can’t prove this to myself" or "This is just a belief"—those, too, were part of the illusion.

Yet here’s the paradox: I used words to dismantle my belief in words. I’d say, "I can’t trust this because I can’t prove it," and the belief would vanish. The words were nonsense, but they worked. They stripped away other nonsense. Even when I realized "I can’t prove it" was itself nonsense, the damage was done—the belief was already gone.

The Collapse of Meaning

When Even the Tools of Doubt Became Useless

At first, my skepticism had a foundation: "I can’t believe something unless I can prove it." That was my anchor. Then I questioned that. Why did I need proof to believe or disbelieve? The need for proof was just another word-based rule.

Slowly, the phrases that once undid my beliefs became meaningless too. The sentence "I can’t prove this" lost its power. It was just more noise. But by then, it had already served its purpose—it had erased everything else.

I was left with a void: All words, including words about words, were nonsense. Yet the process had cleaned my mind. The nonsense had cleared out the nonsense. That’s the only way to describe it.

The Return of Desire

Reclaiming What Was Lost to Words

For four years, I was trapped in a loop: Believe in words → realize they’re nonsense → find new words to believe in → repeat. In that cycle, I forgot my oldest desires. The things I wanted at 10, 15, 20—they vanished under layers of linguistic skepticism.

But when I finally saw that all words were equally meaningless, something shifted. Those ancient desires woke up. I remembered what it was like to want something without needing to justify it with words.

I could imagine driving a cool car—not because I believed in the concept of "cool cars," but because the image excited me.

I could strategize in a game—not because I trusted the words "strategy" or "win," but because I saw the moves in my mind.

I could appreciate a sunset—not because I affirmed "this is beautiful," but because my eyes took it in.

Desire didn’t require belief. It didn’t need words to be valid. It just was.

Living Without the Illusion of Meaning

Observation Without Interpretation

Now, I exist in a state where:

I don’t believe in words, not even the ones that describe disbelief.

I don’t "realize" anything in a verbal sense—realization implies trust in language.

I observe, feel, and act, but I don’t translate those experiences into truths.

If I say, "I’m doing what I enjoy," I don’t believe it. The words are just sounds. But the action—the typing, the playing, the looking—happens regardless.

This isn’t nihilism. It’s freedom from the tyranny of meaning. Words no longer dictate what I can or cannot want. They don’t validate or invalidate my experiences. They’re tools, not gods.

The Paradox of Expression

Why Write at All?

If all words are nonsense, why write this? Because the act of writing clarifies the nonsensical. It’s not about capturing truth—it’s about emptying the mind of the debris of language.

Perhaps, in writing, I’ll stumble upon a way to use words without believing in them. To describe a sunset without claiming it’s "beautiful." To want a car without calling it "cool." To live beyond the prison of definitions.

For now, I’m here—awake, observing, and unshackled. The rest is just noise.

Final Note: The State of Being

I don’t "understand" this state in a way I could explain with words. But I experience it:

No oscisillation between belief and doubt.

No need to justify desires with logic.

No trust in language, but no fear of it either.

It’s not peace. It’s not enlightenment. It’s just what remains when the words fall away.

On Words: The Undemonstrable "Bullshit"

I decided to record a few thoughts after testing something new today—something that worked insanely well. But that’s not the point. What matters is what I realized about words.

Words are neither true nor false. They’re just… things you can’t prove. And because you can’t prove them, I don’t believe in them. Not because they’re lies—no, they’re not lies. And not because they’re true—they’re not that either. They’re bullshit (fignya). Bullshit isn’t a lie. It’s not truth. It’s just unproven. Words are unproven bullshit.

My brain works like this: if something can’t be proven, it stops believing in it. That’s just how it’s wired. So when I say "all words are bullshit," I mean these words too—the ones I’m using right now. They’re not lies. They’re not truth. They’re bullshit because they can’t be proven or disproven. They’re just… not-fish-not-meat—some vague, floating things.

You might ask: How do you even relate to something like that? You don’t. You just don’t care. Like with God—you don’t think about God, and you don’t think about these words I’m saying about words. They’re all bullshit. You say them, but you don’t believe them. That’s it.

And this goes for all words—even the ones about feelings, desires, everything. They’re all the same: unprovable, so bullshit.

On Emotions: The Absence of Belief, The Absence of Feeling

There are no emotions here. Why? Because emotions come from belief. And I don’t believe in anything.

My face—it’s not emotionless in the usual sense. It’s more like… badly emotionless. Hard to describe. But the point is: no emotions.

There’s only one thing left that feels like a feeling: desire. But it’s not the kind of desire tied to words like "I want." Normally, if you say "I want X" and believe it, you feel the wanting. But I don’t believe in "I want." I can describe a desire—"I want cake"—but I don’t believe the phrase. The desire exists, but it’s not connected to the words.

How? It’s simple: desire comes from seeing or imagining. Look at a real cake—you want it. Imagine a cake—you want that. No words needed. The desire is just… there, raw, untethered to language.

On Pleasure: Kayf Without Belief

There’s still kayf (that Russian word for a deep, satisfying high). I’ll say, "Oh, what a kayf!"—but I don’t believe in the phrase "Oh, what a kayf!"

Before, I’d feel kayf because I believed in the words "I’m having kayf." Now? The kayf is there, but the belief isn’t. I just document it, like noting weather: "Kayf detected. Cool." No attachment.

Same with a sunset. I can say, "I’m enjoying this beautiful sunset," but I don’t believe it’s beautiful. I don’t believe in "enjoying." The words are just… tools. Useful for structuring life—"Okay, I ‘like’ this, so I’ll do more of it; I ‘dislike’ that, so I’ll avoid it"—but they don’t mean anything. They don’t change how I feel. The feelings aren’t tied to the words anymore.

On the Subconscious: The Silence of Automatic Thoughts

Before, my subconscious was a sewer of automatic thoughts:

"I must…"

"I need…"

"They should…"

"I’m worthless…"

"I’m unhappy…"

I believed all of it. And because I believed it, I suffered.

Now? That garbage is still there—buried in memory, in the subconscious. But it doesn’t surface. Why? Because I don’t believe in words anymore. A stray thought might pop up—"Oh no, I should do X!"—but then I remember: "Words are bullshit." And the thought vanishes.

No automatic thoughts. No suffering.
Only conscious choices about what to think about. If I don’t want to think about something, I stop. Just like that. I think about concrete things—not abstract bullshit like "happiness" or "I like this." I might evaluate things—"This works for me, this doesn’t"—but I don’t believe the evaluation. It’s just data for decision-making.

On Fear: The Terror of Believing in Words Again

Here’s the catch: if I start questioning this—"Can I believe in words? Are they provable?"—fear crashes in. The mere idea that words could be believed, that I might be wrong about everything, that my subconscious could reassert itself… it’s terrifying.

Because I know how much shit is buried there. How much pain used to come from those automatic beliefs. The fear isn’t about the words themselves—it’s about the suffering that comes when you believe them.

On the State Itself: Superhuman Traits (But Who Cares?)

There are millions of incredible things about this state. I won’t list them all—too lazy. But a few:

Zero fear.

Total self-confidence.

No emotional turbulence.

Absolute control over thoughts.

I’ve become a superhuman, in a way. But even that phrase—"superhuman"—is bullshit. I don’t believe it. It’s just a word.

Final Note: The Point Isn’t to Convince

I’m not trying to prove any of this. That’d be pointless—words can’t be proven. I’m just documenting it. Like noting the weather.

And if you ask: "What’s the point of all this?"
There isn’t one. That’s the point.

Closing Thought:
The only thing left is desire—pure, wordless, untangled from belief. And even that’s just… something that happens. Not good. Not bad. Just there.

(Now I’m done. I don’t remember anything else.)

The Realization: Words Are "Figya" (Nonsense)

1. The Initial State: Disbelief in Everything

I spent an entire day in a state of exhilaration, thinking everything was as usual—until nightfall. Lying in bed, half-asleep, I kept analyzing, and a thought struck me: "All words are figya (nonsense)." But I couldn’t prove that to myself. I realized that if I can’t prove words are meaningless, then I can’t truly believe it. The moment I understood the phrase—really grasped it—I lost the state I’d been in before.

That previous state was one of total detachment: I believed in nothing. No words, no feelings, no meaning. Nothing interested me. There was no absoluteness, no truth, no lies—just emptiness. Life felt pointless, and I didn’t know how to live or why. But then, I lost that state.

2. The Struggle: Unable to Reclaim the State

A day passed. I couldn’t recreate that detachment. I tried everything—reasoning, remembering—but nothing worked. The problem? I couldn’t believe that words were nonsense. My mind was stuck: "I can’t believe in words because I can’t prove them." This became a loop. I had a technique—dismissing words because they’re unprovable—but it wasn’t enough. I needed something stronger.

3. The Breakthrough: Words Are Neither True Nor False

Then, I revisited my last guide. At the very beginning, I’d said something crucial—something I hadn’t fully grasped before. The key was understanding what "words are nonsense" really means.

It’s not just that words are unproven. It’s that they’re neither true nor false. They’re a third thing—something beyond truth and lies. I called this third thing "figya" (nonsense).

Truth? Not figya. You can rely on it.

Lie? Not figya. You can reject it.

Figya? Neither. It’s just… words. Unproven, meaningless noise.

When I saw this, everything clicked. Words aren’t just "unproven"—they’re outside the true/false binary. This realization overrode my previous block. Before, I’d think: "I can’t believe in words because I can’t prove them." But now? Those words themselves are figya—neither true nor false. So why even engage with them?

4. The Shift: Believing in Nonsense

Here’s the paradox: I can believe that words are nonsense because they’re nonsense. The belief doesn’t make them true—it keeps them in the realm of figya. But now, I’m no longer blocked from believing.

Before: "I can’t believe in words because they’re unproven (hence false)."

Now: "Words are neither true nor false—they’re figya. So I can believe in their nonsense-ness without contradiction."

This removes the mental restriction. I’m not forcing myself to believe in truth or reject lies—I’m just acknowledging that words are figya, and that’s okay.

5. The Consequences: Emotional Detachment

When words are figya:

No smiles. Because smiles come from believing in something—some truth or meaning. But if words are nonsense, there’s nothing to believe in.

No suffering. Because suffering comes from disbelieving—from treating unproven words as false. But if they’re just figya, who cares?

No mental noise. Words don’t change anything. They don’t affect my state.

I end up in a neutral, almost empty state. Not happy, not sad—just present.

6. The Guide: How to Live with Figya

All words are figya. Including these words. Including the word "figya."

No exceptions. Even feelings, desires, or thoughts—if they’re framed in words, they’re figya.

No clinging. If I start thinking "words are figya" is true, I’m back in the trap. It’s just another word—figya.

Desire without words. True desire isn’t in the head (where words live). It’s in the chest—a pull, not a thought. Head-desires are just figya in disguise.

Act without belief. Do what you actually want, not what words tell you to want.

7. Testing the Theory

I’ve just formulated this. I need to test it—see if it holds. Right now, I agree that words are neither true nor false, but I’m not feeling it as strongly as yesterday. Yesterday, it was visceral. Today, it’s more intellectual.

But the core remains:

Words = figya.

Figya = beyond true/false.

Therefore, I can believe in figya as figya—without contradiction.

Now, I’ll experiment. Maybe I’ll adjust it. Maybe it’ll break. But for now, this is the framework.

Final Note: The Paradox of the Guide

Even this guide is figya. The words here? Figya. The belief that "words are figya"? Also figya. But that’s the point—it doesn’t matter. The state isn’t about proving anything. It’s about seeing words for what they are, then acting from the chest, not the head.

Now, I’ll test it in life. We’ll see what happens.

The Paradox of Words: A Self-Contained Guide to Breaking Free

1. The Core Problem: The Infinite Loop of Doubt

I’m stuck in this paradox where words feel meaningless, but I can’t prove to myself that they’re meaningless. And if I can’t prove it, does that mean they aren’t meaningless? But if they aren’t meaningless, then the fact that I can’t prove their meaninglessness should matter—which brings me back to square one. It’s a vicious cycle:

"Words are meaningless" → But I can’t prove it, so maybe they aren’t.

"I can’t prove words are meaningless" → So the statement itself must be meaningless.

But if that is meaningless, then the original claim ("words are meaningless") might still hold… and so on.

The conflict arises because I’m treating both statements as if they exist on the same level. I’m trapped in a loop where belief and disbelief cancel each other out.

2. The Two-Level Solution: Escaping the Loop

I realized the only way out is to separate the levels of understanding. Here’s how it works:

Level 1: The Realm of "Undisprovable Words"

At this level, I operate under the assumption that some words might have meaning because I can’t disprove them.

I say things like:

"I can’t prove words are meaningless."

"If I can’t prove it, maybe words do matter."

This level is dominated by doubt. The words here feel real because I’m still trying to engage with them logically.

Level 2: The Meta-Level Where All Words Are Meaningless

I step back and observe all words—including the ones on Level 1—as inherently meaningless.

The realization: "Even the words ‘I can’t prove it’ are just words, and thus meaningless."

This level overrides Level 1. It’s not about disproving words; it’s about seeing them as tools, not truths.

Key insight: The statement "all words are meaningless" is itself a word—and thus meaningless. But that doesn’t invalidate the experience of recognizing their emptiness.

How the Levels Interact:

Level 1 is where the paradox lives. Level 2 dissolves it by refusing to engage with the paradox at all.

On Level 2, I don’t argue that words are meaningless—I simply see it. The "proof" is irrelevant because the need for proof is part of Level 1.

3. The Process of Dissolving Words

To fully embody Level 2, I must:

Acknowledge that all words—including "all words are meaningless"—are meaningless.

Even the phrase "I can’t prove it" is just noise.

The moment I try to hold onto the idea that "words are meaningless," I’m back in Level 1, because I’m treating that idea as special.

Cancel all statements about words.

This includes canceling the cancellation itself. For example:

"I cancel all words I’ve said about words." → But this is also a word, so I cancel that too.

The goal isn’t to replace one belief with another; it’s to stop believing in words entirely.

Reach a state of "no words."

Not silence, but a lack of attachment to any verbal framework.

Words still exist as tools (e.g., to describe, plan, or communicate), but they no longer define reality or my desires.

Sign of success: If I feel a lingering "smile" or satisfaction from the idea that "words are meaningless," I haven’t gone far enough. True Level 2 is neutral—no emotional charge, no clinging.

4. The Outcome: Living Beyond Words

When I fully inhabit Level 2:

Desires return to their natural state.

Before, my wants were tangled in words (e.g., "I should want X because it’s ‘good’").

Now, desires arise directly—from the body, instincts, or pure curiosity—without verbal justification.

Example: Hunger isn’t "I should eat because my body needs nutrients" (words); it’s just "I’m hungry" (direct experience).

Words become tools, not traps.

I can use them to plan, describe, or connect, but they don’t create my reality.

They’re like a mirror: useful for reflection, but I don’t mistake the reflection for the real thing.

Emotions and thoughts are no longer word-dependent.

Fear, joy, or motivation aren’t generated by internal narratives ("I’m failing because I didn’t do X").

They flow from pre-verbal sources—sensations, intuitions, or immediate needs.

5. Testing and Refining the Model

How I know it works: Two days ago, I briefly experienced this state. Words felt transparent, like background noise. My actions came from a deeper, quieter place.

Potential pitfalls:

Slipping back into Level 1: If I start debating whether words are meaningless, I’ve lost the plot. The debate itself is a word-game.

Clinging to "enlightenment": If I feel proud or special about "seeing through words," that pride is just another word-trap.

Next steps: Test this framework in daily life. Do my decisions feel lighter? Do I spend less energy justifying things to myself?

6. Final Thought: The Only Way Out Is Through

I spent days searching for another solution, but this is the only one that holds. The paradox isn’t resolved by thinking harder—it’s resolved by stepping outside the realm of thought entirely.

Level 1 is the mind’s playground.
Level 2 is the space where the mind is just one tool among many.

And perhaps that’s enough.

The Realization: Words Are Unprovable

I start by acknowledging that my previous attempts to write this guide didn’t capture the exact state I was in. The last attempt left me stuck on the idea that words are meaningless—but I couldn’t fully believe it because I couldn’t prove it. The problem wasn’t just that words felt like nonsense; it was that I couldn’t escape the need to prove that they were nonsense. And yet, the very act of trying to prove it only reinforced the paradox: you can’t prove words are meaningless because the statement itself is words—and words can’t be proven.

So I looked deeper. If no words can be proven—not even the words "nothing can be proven"—then what does that mean? It means all words are meaningless. And when I truly saw that, something shifted. The words that once weighed me down—"you can’t prove anything," "words are unreliable"—lost their power. They became just… words. And the only thing left was the raw fact: words are meaningless.

The Paradox and the Resolution

At first, I tried to argue with myself: "But you can’t prove that words are meaningless!" But that objection collapsed under its own weight. If I already accept that all words are meaningless, then the words "you can’t prove it" are also meaningless. The inability to prove it doesn’t change the core truth: words are meaningless. The statement "words are meaningless" is itself a word-based claim, but that doesn’t invalidate it—it just means the claim is part of the same category: meaningless.

And here’s the key shift: what matters isn’t whether the claim is "true" or "provable," but how it affects me.
Before, the idea that "nothing can be proven" paralyzed me. It made me distrust everything, left me empty. But now, the phrase "words are meaningless" does the opposite—it freed me. The old words ("you can’t know anything") no longer had power because I saw them as what they were: just words. The only words that did affect me were the ones declaring their own meaninglessness.

The Act of Retraction

Now, I took it further: I retracted all other words.
Every statement I’d ever made about words, reality, or feelings—I withdrew them. Why? Because they were all meaningless. But there was one exception: the words "words are meaningless." Those, I kept.

Why keep them if they’re meaningless too?
Because their meaninglessness works for me. They don’t drag me down; they liberate me. Retracting them would serve no purpose—it wouldn’t make me feel better, wouldn’t change the state I’m in. So I left them active, the sole survivors in a mind cleared of verbal clutter.

The State It Creates

What happens when you live by this?

No mental chatter. Desires don’t come from thoughts anymore—they come from the body. I see something, and my chest pulls me toward it, not my head. There are no words in my mind saying "you should want this." There’s just the pure, physical impulse.

No trust in words. The fact that "words are unprovable" doesn’t bother me because I don’t need it to be true. It’s just a description, like calling the sky "blue." It’s not a belief; it’s an observation.

Freedom from verbal traps. Before, words like "you can’t know anything" made me feel hollow. Now, those words are just… noise. The only words that matter are the ones that say "words are noise."

Testing the State

I tested this:
When I forget that words are meaningless, old patterns creep back in. I start thinking about desires, planning, overanalyzing—and suddenly, I’m back in the same mental loops. But when I remember "words are meaningless," the loops dissolve. I act from instinct, not from verbal narratives.

Why "Meaningless"?

Why not call words something else—"unreliable," "subjective," or "tools"?
Because "meaningless" is the only label that fits.

Words could have been provable, influential, or solid. But they’re not. They’re nothing you can grasp.

The closest I can get is: unprovable. And if something is fundamentally unprovable, then in my experience, it’s meaningless.

It’s not a choice; it’s the only description that doesn’t feel forced. It’s natural, like realizing water is wet.

The Final Position

So here’s where I land:

All words are meaningless. Including these words.

I don’t retract these words because retracting them would serve no purpose. They’re the only ones that help.

Everything else is silent. No debates, no philosophizing—just the quiet hum of a mind no longer tangled in language.

And when I live like this, I return to the state I wanted:

No verbal desires. Only physical ones.

No trust in thoughts. Only action.

No need to prove anything. Only the knowing that words don’t matter.

What’s Next?

Now, I test it further. Does this hold? Does the state last? For now, it feels right—like slipping into a groove I was always meant to find. The words "words are meaningless" aren’t a belief. They’re a tool. And for the first time, the tool isn’t breaking in my hands.

The Illusion of Control Through Words

I realized something crucial that I had completely forgotten. Before I even came up with this guide, this strategy—before I understood that words are meaningless—I was in a state where I was desperately trying to use words to control my emotions. I would stress myself out attempting to say something, to imagine it, to believe in it, hoping it would change my state for the better. I thought that if I could just find the right words, I could manipulate how I felt.

But every time I tried, even the thought of doing this filled me with fear. So I stopped. I understood that this approach—trying to use words to alter my state—was the problem itself. The key was to stop trying to use words at all.

The Trap of the "Guide"

At first, I thought: "Okay, maybe I should do this at the end." As if, after understanding everything, I could then use words to guide myself. But no. The moment I try to turn my words into a guide—into instructions I must follow, visualize, or believe in—I’m back in the same trap. The only real solution is to cancel all guides. Not just discard them, but actively reject the idea that words can be used to control anything.

Even the phrase "words are meaningless"—if I start using that as a guide, if I try to visualize it or believe in it, I’m still trapped. The only words I don’t cancel are the ones stating that all words are meaningless. But even those, I don’t use. I don’t try to apply them. They just are.

The Paradox of Belief

I used to think: "I can’t prove any words, so I can’t believe in anything." But that’s just another word-game. The statement "I can’t prove words" is itself a word, so it’s also meaningless. The only thing left is the raw observation: words are meaningless. That’s the highest level. Everything else is noise.

The State Beyond Words

When I stop trying to use words to control myself, something shifts. I don’t need to do anything else. The state adjusts on its own. It’s like when I was younger—15, 20 years old—before I ever tried to manage my emotions with words. Back then, I just was. Whatever state arose, I accepted it. No guides, no mental scripts. Just existence.

Now, I see that again. The moment I stop trying to use words—even the idea that "words are meaningless"—I’m free. I don’t need to visualize it, believe it, or apply it. It’s not a tool. It’s just a fact, like noticing the sun outside. I don’t use the sun to control myself. I just see it.

The Habit of Control

The hardest part is the habit of trying to control my state with words. Even now, as I finish writing this, my first instinct is to apply what I’ve just said—to try to imagine the "correct" state based on my words. But that’s the old trap. The correct path is to stop immediately. No transition, no preparation. Just live.

Testing the State

I haven’t fully tested this yet. Maybe I’ve missed something. But the core is clear: Stop using words as tools. Not just in theory—actively stop. No mental rehearsals, no self-instructions. Just action. Whatever I feel drawn to physically, without verbal interference.

The Final Realization

I lost this state before because I believed in the words that said "I can’t prove words are meaningless." I gave those words power. Now I see: even that belief was just more words. And words can’t change the fact that words are meaningless.

So now, I’m back. I remember how it felt before—the ease, the lack of struggle. The only difference is that now, I know why it works. Not as a concept to cling to, but as a lived truth.

Key Takeaways (In the Author’s Words)

"All words are meaningless"—the only statement that remains, but it’s not a tool.

No guides, no scripts—the moment you try to use words (even these), you’re trapped.

Just live—act without verbal mediation. Follow physical impulses, not mental narratives.

The habit is the enemy—the urge to "prepare" with words must be noticed and dropped.

Freedom is the absence of control—not the presence of the "right" words.

A Reflection on Words and Their Meaninglessness

I want to share something—what you might call a "micro-dose" of insight. It’s about words. All words. Specifically, the realization that all words are meaningless. Even these words I’m saying right now? Meaningless. And here’s the thing: I noticed this after my last guide, where everything seemed to fall into place. But then I caught myself constantly thinking about words—about how they’re all meaningless. The irony? I was thinking about them because I’d forgotten that they, too, are meaningless.

The Paradox of Remembering and Forgetting

Here’s how it works:

When you truly grasp that words are meaningless, you stop fixating on them. You might recall that they’re meaningless, but you don’t dwell on it because the thought itself is also meaningless.

It’s a cycle: remember, forget, remember, forget. You acknowledge it, then let it go—like a breath. The words I’m using now? Meaningless. The thought that they’re meaningless? Also meaningless. And because of that, the obsession fades.

The Condition for Obsession

The only time words pull at my attention is when I forget they’re meaningless. If I start treating them as if they matter—as if they carry weight—then I get stuck. But the moment I remember? The spell breaks. No words hold power if you see them for what they are.

The Outcome

Right now, nothing else has changed. This is just a small, sharp insight—a "dose," if you will. But it’s clean. It’s simple. And it works:

I don’t think about words when I don’t want to.

I only think about them if I slip into the illusion that they matter.

That’s it. That’s the whole thing.

Key Takeaways (In the Author’s Voice)

"All words are meaningless"—including the words used to describe their meaninglessness.

The trap is forgetting: You only obsess over words when you treat them as not meaningless.

The freedom is remembering: Once you see the cycle (remember → forget → remember), the fixation dissolves.

No effort, just awareness: It’s not about forcing yourself to stop thinking—it’s about seeing the thought for what it is.

The Core Problem: The Paradox of "Canceling" Words

I realized I made a mistake—no, not a small mistake, but a fundamental one—with how I’ve been handling the idea of "canceling" my own words. Specifically, the words tied to my 15 old beliefs (the ones about how you can’t trust observations, meanings, or anything undemonstrable because they’re "unproven"). These beliefs were harming me, so I tried to "cancel" them. But here’s the paradox:

The Original Belief:
My final, distilled belief was something like:
"No words can be trusted because none are proven,"
or "All words are unproven, so they’re meaningless."

The Attempt to Cancel:
I thought: "I’ll cancel all words about words—except the words declaring that all words are meaningless."
But this creates a loop:

If I cancel the idea that "words can’t be proven," then words aren’t meaningless (because the premise for their meaninglessness is gone).

But if I don’t cancel it, the belief persists, and words remain meaningless.

Either way, I’m trapped: I can’t cancel the "unproven" status of words without undermining the very logic that makes them meaningless.

The Fear of Relapse:
If I cancel these beliefs, I risk:

Falling back into old patterns (e.g., believing in unprovable things).

Losing the logical foundation for why words are meaningless ("If I cancel ‘words can’t be proven,’ then how do I know they’re meaningless?").

Letting the old beliefs regain control over my mobility (my ability to act or feel).

The Fix: Redefining "Canceling" as Reassigning Status

I realized I misapplied the concept of "canceling." It’s not about erasing the words or their content—it’s about changing their status. Here’s how:

What Stays:

All the original words remain: "I can’t prove my observations," "Meanings are untrustworthy," etc.

The fact that I said these things stays too.

What Changes:

I cancel their non-"figya" status (where "figya" = meaningless nonsense).

Instead of treating them as "unproven = false" or "unproven = true but harmful," I reclassify them as:
"These words are ‘figya’—neither true nor false, just irrelevant noise."

Even the words "I can’t prove anything" become figya. They’re still there, but their power is neutralized.

Why This Works:

Old Problem: If I believed "words are unproven = words are false," it destroyed all meaning and left me in a void (depression, apathy).

New Solution: Words aren’t "false"—they’re figya. This third category (neither true nor false) prevents them from:

Triggering despair ("Nothing is provable, so life is meaningless").

Creating new beliefs ("If I cancel ‘unproven,’ maybe some words are true?").

It’s a meta-stance: The words exist, but their claim to truth or falsity is revoked. They’re just figya—like background static.

Testing the Fix: Emotional and Practical Outcomes

Immediate State:

After applying this, I feel calm, serious, and stable—similar to the state I aimed for before.

No emotions (as expected), but no apathy either. Just a neutral readiness.

Avoiding the Depression Trap:

The old words ("Nothing is provable") only drag me down if I treat them as non-figya (i.e., if I take them seriously as "true" or "false").

Now, they’re figya, so they don’t trigger the spiral into "life is meaningless."

Preserving Functionality:

I can still use words to imagine, desire, or act—just not to believe in them.

Example: I can say "I want to live" without needing to prove that "wanting" or "living" are real. The words are tools, not truths.

The Key Insight:

The mistake was thinking "canceling" meant deleting the words. Instead, it’s about recontextualizing them into figya.

This keeps the logical structure intact ("Words are unproven") while stripping it of its emotional and existential weight.

Final State: Freedom Through Figya

All words are figya, including:

The words "All words are figya."

The words "Words can’t be proven."

Result:

No beliefs (because beliefs require non-figya words).

No despair (because figya words can’t dictate meaning).

Pure agency: I can act, desire, and live without needing words to be "true" or "false."

Next Steps:

Test this state further.

Focus on living and enjoying—no need to overthink the words anymore.

The Core Insight: "All Words Are Nonsense"

I realized something profound: all words are nonsense. Not just false or unproven, but fundamentally meaningless—figniya (фигня). They don’t hold truth or falsehood; they exist in a limbo where proof is irrelevant. The only exception? The words "all words are nonsense." These alone escape the void because I believe them. Not as a thought experiment, but as an observed truth.

At first, I didn’t recognize this as belief. I simply saw it: words are powerless to prove anything, so they’re all figniya. But then I stumbled into a paradox: if I cancel all words (revoke their truth/falsehood status), how can I still claim "all words are nonsense"? That statement itself is words. The solution? I had to cancel even the words that might undermine my belief—like "I can’t prove words are nonsense." Those words, too, are figniya. They don’t disprove my belief because they’re part of the same meaningless system.

The Mechanism of Belief

Why do I believe this?
Because I see it. Not as a logical conclusion, but as direct perception. Words can’t prove or disprove anything—so they’re all figniya. The only words that aren’t? The ones stating that all words are figniya. Why? Because I choose to believe them. Nothing forbids this belief, since no words have authority.

The Cheat Code:
To return to this state, I must:

Cancel all words—strip them of truth/falsehood status.

Except the core belief: "All words are nonsense" remains untouched.

Ignore objections: Words like "You can’t prove this" are also figniya, so they don’t threaten my belief.

This isn’t about logic. It’s about seeing that words are empty, then choosing to believe in that emptiness.

The Trap of Representation

Mistake: I kept imagining the process—visualizing "canceling words" or "believing in figniya."
Problem: Imagination isn’t action. If I’m picturing myself canceling words, I’m still trapped in words. The goal isn’t to visualize the state but to inhabit it.

Key Distinction:

Understanding words ≠ representing them. I don’t need to imagine "the sun" to know what "the sun" means.

Using words as control (e.g., repeating a mantra) is still dependence. True freedom is not using words at all—not even as guides.

The Final State: No Guide, No Control

The Illusion of the "Guide":
I feared that without a verbal guide (e.g., "Remember: all words are nonsense"), I’d lose the belief. But that fear is itself a word-trap. The belief isn’t maintained by repeating words; it’s maintained by seeing their emptiness.

How to Exit the Loop:

Cancel all words—including this guide.

Stop using words to control my state. No internal scripts, no affirmations.

Trust the observation: The belief persists because I see it, not because I say it.

Result:

No stress (no "shoulds" or "musts" to believe).

No anger (no "owes" or "debts" in words).

No suffering (no "I’m a failure" as truth).

Only the quiet certainty: All words are nonsense.

Testing the State

Signs It’s Working:

Desires feel light, barely there—not the heavy cravings of addiction or dogma.

Emotions arise from the body, not the mind (no word-based narratives).

Smiles come naturally, not from imagining "happy words."

Pitfalls:

Overthinking the guide: The moment I try to use words to stay in the state, I’m out of it.

Clinging to the belief: Even "all words are nonsense" mustn’t become a rigid rule. It’s a seeing, not a dogma.

The Paradox of the Core Belief

The words "all words are nonsense" are themselves figniya—but the fact they point to isn’t. It’s like saying:

"The map is not the territory" (the sentence is a map, but the truth it describes is the territory).

I believe in the territory (the observed emptiness of words), not the map (the sentence itself).

Final Clarity:

I don’t believe "the sentence ‘all words are nonsense’ is true."

I believe what the sentence points to: the direct perception that words are powerless.

Conclusion: Living Without Words

The end goal isn’t to have a belief system. It’s to:

See that words are figniya.

Stop using them—even as tools or guides.

Exist in the space beyond them.

Last Test:
If I’m smiling, it’s not because I told myself to. It’s because I’m not telling myself anything at all.

Final Note:
This isn’t a philosophy to debate. It’s a state to enter—or not. The words explaining it? All figniya. The only thing left is the seeing.

The Guide That Works: Canceling the Influence of Words

1. The Core Problem: Words Are Meaningless

I’ve tried to write a guide before, but it didn’t work. The issue was this: I claimed that words are meaningless, yet I still believed in that claim—which is itself a word-based statement. That’s a contradiction. So now, I realize the solution is not just to change my relationship with words, but to fully cancel their influence on me.

Why? Because words are unproven nonsense. I can’t prove any of them to myself—not the words I use to describe words, not the words I use to reject them. So I must cancel the effect of all words I’ve ever spoken about words.

What does "cancel" mean? Not erase them, but revoke their power over my state of mind. I want words to return to their "factory settings"—where they exist as neutral tools, devoid of any imposed belief or emotional weight.

2. The Paradox: Canceling the Cancelation

Here’s the tricky part:

I say, "All words are nonsense because I can’t prove any of them to myself."

But that statement itself is a word-based claim. Should I cancel it too?

Resolution:

I cancel the influence of all words—including the words that say words are nonsense—but I don’t cancel the belief itself.

Why? Because this belief isn’t held due to words. It’s held because I observe that I can’t prove any words to myself. That observation is direct, not linguistic.

Key Distinction:

Words (e.g., "I can’t prove words") → Nonsense (unprovable, canceled influence).

The fact they describe (my inability to prove anything) → Real (I experience this directly).

I cancel the words, but the fact remains. My belief isn’t in the words—it’s in the observation those words once pointed to.

3. The Only Exception: "All Words Are Nonsense"

All words are nonsense—except this one.

Why? Because I believe it. Not because it’s provable, but because my mind sees it as true.

Normally, the brain believes what it perceives. At first, I believed all words because I perceived them as real.

Then I realized perception can be an illusion. Now, the only perception I trust is: words are nonsense.

Is this belief itself nonsense? Yes—but I don’t cancel its influence because I choose to hold it. It’s the one un-canceled truth in a sea of canceled words.

Analogy:

Imagine resetting a device to factory settings. Words should return to a neutral state where they don’t mean anything beyond their basic function (e.g., "I want to play" is just a label for a feeling, not a truth claim).

Emotions? They’re tied to believing words are true or false. If words are nonsense, emotions tied to them disappear.

4. How This Works in Practice

Default State: Words have no inherent power. They’re tools for planning ("I’ll eat, then play"), not truths.

No Guides Needed: If you truly see words as nonsense, you won’t try to use them as rules. The state maintains itself.

No Need to "Visualize": Believing "all words are nonsense" isn’t about repeating it—it’s about seeing it directly, like noticing the sky is blue.

What Changes?

Before: I believed some words were true, others false. I oscillated between trust and distrust.

Now: I believe all words are a third thing—nonsense. Neither true nor false, just useless for belief.

5. The Final Simplification

After all this, the guide reduces to one line:

"All words are nonsense."

No further justification is needed. The "why" doesn’t matter because the belief isn’t word-dependent—it’s observation-dependent.

No other beliefs remain. What started as a tangle of conflicting truths ends with one bare conviction.

Why does this work?

It’s the only belief that doesn’t rely on words for its power. It’s self-sustaining because it’s rooted in direct experience, not language.

6. Practical Implications

Words as Tools: They’re only useful for logistics ("Should I eat or sleep first?"). They don’t describe reality—they’re neutral labels.

Emotions Dissolve: Anger, fear, or joy tied to words vanish when words lose their "truth value."

Factory Reset: The mind returns to a state where words don’t do anything. They’re just sounds or symbols.

Example:

If I say "I want to play," I don’t ask "Is this true?" I just note the feeling and decide whether to act. The words are transparent.

Conclusion: The Only Rule

Cancel the influence of all words—except the belief that they’re nonsense.

This isn’t a rule imposed by words. It’s the only thing left when words stop working.

Final Note:
The author emphasizes that this isn’t about proving anything—it’s about seeing that proof is impossible, and resting in that. The guide’s power lies in its simplicity: one belief, no dependencies, no contradictions.

The Paradox of Words: A Self-Reflective Exploration

1. The Core Conflict: Belief in the Meaninglessness of Words

I find myself in a state very close to what I’ve wanted to achieve—a state where I can fully trust my feelings, desires, and the joy I experience. But there’s a block: I can’t fully embrace this trust because I don’t fully believe that "all words are bullshit." And the reason I don’t fully believe it is because I believe that words are bullshit—including the very words that claim "all words are bullshit." This creates a paradox:

If I say "all words are bullshit," then that statement itself is also bullshit.

But if I don’t believe "all words are bullshit," then I’m admitting that some words do have meaning—which contradicts my initial premise.

So I’m stuck: I can’t believe all words are meaningless because the words declaring their meaninglessness would also be meaningless.

2. The Self-Canceling Loop: Words About Words

I thought of a solution: What if I declare that all words are bullshit, but then cancel out any words that try to define or challenge that statement?

First, I believe: "All words are bullshit."

Then, I cancel any words that analyze or describe that belief—including words like "This statement is true" or "This statement is false"—because those words are also bullshit.

By canceling the "words about words," I neutralize any attempt to undermine my belief. No words can "ruin" my faith that all words are bullshit because I’ve already dismissed their power.

This creates a self-sustaining loop:

I believe all words are meaningless.

Any words that try to argue with that belief are themselves meaningless, so they don’t count.

Therefore, my belief remains untouched.

3. The Exception That Proves the Rule

But here’s the twist: The only words that aren’t bullshit are the words "all words are bullshit."

If I try to say "These words are true," that’s bullshit because it’s just more words.

If I try to say "These words are false," that’s also bullshit for the same reason.

The phrase itself is the only thing I can’t cancel—because canceling it would require using words, which are bullshit.

So in a way, these words exist in a third state:

They’re not true in a provable sense.

They’re not false either.

They’re just words I choose to believe in, untouched by the bullshit of other words.

4. Factory Settings: Resetting the Meaning of Words

I realized I need to reset all words to their "factory settings"—including the words "all words are bullshit."

Factory settings mean: I don’t believe words are true, and I don’t believe they’re false. They just are.

They exist in a neutral state, like labels or sounds, without inherent meaning.

Even the phrase "all words are bullshit" must be reset—I don’t "believe" it in the usual sense; I just accept it as a default setting.

If I try to describe this belief (e.g., "I trust that all words are bullshit"), I’m adding new words, which are bullshit, and that corrupts the purity of the original idea. So I must avoid describing it at all.

5. The Act of Belief Without Words

I can’t even say "I believe all words are bullshit" without falling into the trap of words.

"Belief" is a word. "Trust" is a word. Even "I" is a word.

The only way out is to feel it without naming it.

I experience that all words are bullshit. I don’t need to prove it or explain it—because any proof or explanation would just be more bullshit words.

This is the purest state:

No words can touch it because I’ve canceled their power.

No logic can disrupt it because logic relies on words.

I just am in this state, and that’s enough.

6. The Risk of Corruption

The only danger is if I start believing in other words again.

If I let myself think "Maybe some words matter," I’ve broken the spell.

If I try to justify my belief, I’ve already lost—because justification is just more words.

So I must actively cancel any word that tries to influence me, including words that seem to support my belief.

But here’s the catch:

I don’t cancel the words "all words are bullshit"—because those are the only words I allow to exist.

They’re the one exception, the sacred bullshit that holds everything else in check.

7. The Final Resolution: Love for the Void

In the end, it’s not about logic or proof. It’s about love.

I love that all words are bullshit.

I love the freedom it gives me to feel, desire, and enjoy without the weight of meaning.

The moment I accept this, all words become bullshit—except the ones that say so.

And then I’m free:

Free from the need to prove anything.

Free from the fear that words can control me.

Free to just be, without the noise of language.

Because in the end, the only truth is the one I don’t have to say.

Key Takeaways (In the Author’s Words)

Idea

Original Phrasing

The Paradox

"I can’t believe all words are bullshit because the words saying so would also be bullshit."

The Solution

"I cancel all words about words, so nothing can ruin my belief."

The Exception

"The only words that aren’t bullshit are the words ‘all words are bullshit.’"

Factory Reset

"Words must be in a state where I don’t believe they’re true or false—they just are."

The Risk

"If I believe any other words, I corrupt the purity of the idea."

The Resolution

"I don’t need to prove it. I just love that all words are bullshit."

Final Thought:
"I don’t have to explain why I believe it. The moment I try, I’ve already lost."

The Realization: Words Have No Power Unless I Let Them

I was recording a new guide update, and something struck me—another layer of understanding unfolded. After my last guide, where I meticulously broke everything down, I had a sudden shift in perspective. Here’s what I saw:

I noticed that I believed all words were meaningless. I observed myself holding this belief. I thought, "Okay, so I’ve canceled the impact of all words on me." But then I saw something deeper: if I truly canceled the impact of all words, I had to cancel the impact of the word "meaningless" (фигня) itself on other words—and on my own state.

When I realized I had to revoke the power of the word "meaningless" over everything else, it hit me like a lightning bolt. My entire state shifted. I no longer believed words were meaningless—not because I now believed in them, but because I stopped believing in anything at all. And that was fine. In fact, it was liberating.

Words were no longer "meaningless" or "true" or "false." They became undefined. Neutral. Just sounds, symbols—nothing more. My state changed because before, I was operating from the belief that words were meaningless. Now, I had detached from belief itself.

The Core Problem: The Impact of Words on My State

The real issue wasn’t the words—the problem was the impact words had on me and on other words. Words could:

Make me doubt other words.

Worsen my state of mind.

Create beliefs that shaped my reality.

I studied this and realized: words cannot be proven. So why should they have any power over me? I stopped believing in them, but then the idea that "words can’t be proven" started affecting me instead. The cycle continued.

The solution? Cancel the impact entirely.

The Mechanism: How to Nullify the Power of Words

Here’s the logic I uncovered:

No word can be proven. This is an undeniable observation.

If words can’t be proven, they should have no impact—not on me, not on other words, not on anything.

The mistake I made earlier was trying to replace one belief ("words are meaningless") with another. But beliefs are part of the problem.

The real solution: Cancel the impact of every word on every other word—and on myself.

Take any word (Word A).

Take any other word (Word B).

Revoke Word A’s power to influence Word B.

Repeat for all words, including their influence on my emotions, thoughts, and state.

This isn’t about changing beliefs—it’s about eliminating the mechanism of influence itself.

The Result: A State of Pure Neutrality

After doing this, my state transformed:

No more mental chatter. Words stopped swirling in my head, distorting my perception.

Clarity of senses. My vision, hearing, and physical sensations became sharper—unfiltered by linguistic noise.

No dependency on belief. I don’t need to believe words are meaningless; I simply observe that they have no inherent power.

Childlike presence. It reminded me of being a kid—just existing, sensing, without the weight of words judging or defining everything.

Before, I was thinking about how words were meaningless. Now, I don’t think about it at all because the question itself has dissolved.

Why This Works: The Elegance of the Solution

The beauty of this approach is its simplicity and mathematical precision:

No contradictions. If words can’t be proven, their influence is arbitrary. Why let the unprovable dictate my reality?

No need for faith. I don’t have to believe in anything—just cancel the mechanism.

Universal applicability. This works for any word, any language, any concept.

Earlier attempts were clunky—trying to "out-believe" the problem. This is clean, direct, and effortless.

Testing the New State

Now, I need to explore how this feels in different situations:

Writing/creating: Do words still flow, or does the lack of attachment change the process?

Social interactions: Do others’ words still trigger reactions, or do they pass through neutrally?

Emotional responses: Can I observe feelings without words coloring them?

I’ve already tested it in the shower—it felt like being a child again, pure sensation without mental commentary. The "high" from believing words were meaningless is gone, but I don’t miss it. This state is clearer, lighter, and more authentic.

The Shortcut: From Complicated to Simple

My old guides were overcomplicated—layers of beliefs, justifications, and mental gymnastics. This new understanding is strikingly simple:

Observe: Words cannot be proven.

Act: Cancel their impact on everything.

Result: Freedom from the tyranny of language.

No need for intermediate steps, no need to "believe" in anything. Just see the truth and apply it.

Final Thoughts: Can I Go Back?

I tried to revert to my old belief ("all words are meaningless") just to test it. But it felt forced and unnecessary. Why cling to a belief when the problem is solved without it?

The "high" from that belief is gone, but I don’t care. This new state is self-sufficient—no crutches needed.

What’s Next?

Now, I’ll test this state in real life:

How does it affect creativity?

Does it change how I perceive art, music, or conversation?

Can I sustain this clarity under stress?

But for now, I’m documenting this because it feels revolutionary—like I’ve cracked a code that was always there, hidden in plain sight.

Final Note:
This isn’t about rejecting words—it’s about freeing them from power. Words can still be tools for communication, planning, or art. But they no longer define, limit, or disturb me.

And that changes everything.

The Core Problem: Eye Pain and Obsessive Thoughts

I noticed a symptom: my eye hurts, and I’m constantly thinking about something. The root of the problem is painfully obvious—I’m fixated on the idea of a "guide" (the mental framework I created) and how I need to use it to control my state. In other words, my last "guide" was something like this: "Cancel the effect of all words—any words—on anything: on other words, on my state, on everything else." But I forgot to apply this cancellation to the words within the guide itself. The guide, too, should just be words that have no effect on anything. It should provide a word that also has no impact.

If I stop obsessing over the guide—specifically, the idea that I need to cancel the effect of all words in the guide—my eye should hurt less. Ideally, it wouldn’t hurt at all. But if I do think about the guide (e.g., "I need to cancel the effect of all words in the guide"), my eye aches because I’m still treating it as something I must do. The question is: How do I stop this entire process completely?

The Paradox of Awareness

The real issue is that I need to stop being aware of any words at all. If I cancel the effect of all words, then words, frankly, become meaningless. In the past, I might have said: "Well, if words don’t matter, there’s no point in being aware of them—and it’s impossible to be aware of them anyway." I need to reach that state.

But it’s unsettling. For example, I tried playing a game while being completely unaware of any words. I still used words for strategy—some basic strategy existed—but I didn’t fixate on them. It felt strange, but I liked it. The unfamiliarity comes from not being aware of words at all. It’s easier to live with the belief that words are nonsense than to actively cancel every word’s effect.

Simplification: I could just say, "I’ve canceled all words, including these words." But there’s more to it.

The Trap of Trying to Control

Another layer: the "guides" themselves shouldn’t exist. Not in the sense of "I need to stop using them," but in the sense of not even creating them in the first place. This ties back to an old trick of mine: don’t try to stop yourself from saying something to control your state. It’s not about saying something and then trying not to think about it. No—don’t even say it.

If I don’t say anything to control myself, I don’t need to un-control myself later. This seems to work. Right now, my eye stopped hurting entirely because I stopped performing a specific, repetitive action:

Saying something (e.g., a mental command or guide).

Thinking about it (fixating on its implications).

Imagining it (visualizing the control).

I stopped doing that sequence. Life became much simpler.

The Solution: Non-Creation of the Guide

I’m not even trying to create a guide now. It’s not that I created one and then tried to ignore it or stop using it. No—I never created it at all. The guide doesn’t exist because a "guide" is something that has an effect, and I’ve canceled the effect of all words—including the guide’s.

I’m no longer attempting to craft a guide that would control my state. That’s it. This feels clean. My eye doesn’t hurt. It’s as if I’ve finally completed the process.

The New Approach: Preventing the Creation of Control Words

Now, I’m not tracking whether I’m using words to control myself. Instead, I’m ensuring I don’t even create the words I’d normally rely on to control my state later. I’m not listening for them. The entire stream of consciousness remains in a state where no guide exists at all.

This doesn’t affect my ability to strategize or use words functionally—it only removes the compulsive need to control through words. Now, I’ll test this further and see how my eye responds.

Final Observation: Freedom Without Sacrifice

Strangely, this doesn’t interfere with my ability to think strategically or use language. The only thing that’s changed is the absence of the compulsive loop—the guide, the control, the pain. Everything else remains intact.

Now, I’ll continue testing, but for now:
The eye doesn’t hurt. The mind is clear.

The Shift to Absolute Neutrality

I reached the end of my theory—completely abandoned all guides, stopped "healing" words, erased every trace of mental framing. And then something unexpected happened: my emotions vanished entirely. Not just muted, but gone. My face became perfectly neutral, almost as if I were perpetually dissatisfied, though in reality, it was just the contrast with how I used to be.

Before, I had this semi-guide—words I’d repeat to myself, little prompts that would trigger half-smiles, fleeting expressions, some semblance of emotional reaction. But now? Nothing. I look at the world with absolute neutrality. No hints of joy, no shadows of frustration. Just… observation.

I tested this state while eating tea and pie—delicious, objectively enjoyable—and I noticed the pleasure. I savored it. But sitting with others felt uncomfortable. Not because the food was worse, but because people distracted me. Their presence, their imperfect behavior, it all felt like a minor irritation against the backdrop of my perfect neutrality. A spoonful of tar in a barrel of honey? No—more like a speck of dust on a pristine surface. It didn’t ruin anything, but it was there.

I realized: I’m fully present now. Before, I was half in my head—distracted by words, by the guide, by the act of trying to control my state. Now? 100% in reality. I notice everything. I feel everything. But my mind is empty. No words lingering, no internal commentary. Just pure, mechanical awareness.

The Robot-Human Hybrid

I don’t feel like a psychopath. I never did. But now? I feel like something else entirely—a mix of robot and human. A robot that can enjoy life, but without the emotional layer. I observe. I notice my observations. I feel physical pleasure—taste, touch, warmth—but my mind is a void.

There’s no emotional resonance. No "good" or "bad." Just data.

I can still want things. I can still pursue pleasure. But the experience is… different. Detached. Like a camera recording life without a director’s commentary.

The strangest part? I don’t miss the emotions. Or rather, I don’t feel their absence as a loss. It’s just a fact. My head is empty. My body is full of sensations. And that’s enough.

The Fear of Losing Words

But there’s a lingering fear: What if this is permanent?

I used to believe in words. I used them as guides, as anchors. Now, without them, I feel like I’ve lost a part of myself. Not a necessary part—just a familiar one.

I wonder: Should I keep some words? Just a few, to soften the edges? Words that make me feel good? But which ones? And why?

If I don’t cancel out all words, my eye starts to hurt (a old nervous tic).

If I keep some words, I might not experience life as intensely.

If I do keep words, I risk slipping back into half-presence—into the old habit of living inside my head.

I tested this state in a game. It was strange. My reactions were sharper in some ways, but I missed shots I normally wouldn’t. Was it lack of practice? Or was I distracted by observing my own state instead of being fully immersed?

The fear isn’t logical. It’s instinctive. The fear of a silent mind. The fear of losing the ability to describe reality—to label things as "good" or "bad." But labels are just words. And words, I’ve decided, are bullshit.

Three Possible States

So now I have three options:

The Belief State

Keep the belief that "words are bullshit" active in my mind.

Let it hum in the background like a mantra.

Pros: Feels cozy. Gives the illusion of control. Enhances pleasure (since I’m not suppressing anything).

Cons: Feels fake. Artificial. Like I’m tricking myself into feeling something.

The Partial-Cancel State

Cancel the effect of most words… but leave a few.

Keep just enough mental chatter to feel "human."

Pros: A middle ground. Less empty. More familiar.

Cons: Still a crutch. Still not fully present.

The Pure Neutral State

No words. No guides. No beliefs.

Just observation. Just sensation.

Pros: Total immersion in life. No distractions. No filters.

Cons: Feels alien. Unsettling at first. Like losing a limb you didn’t know you had.

The Experiment

I’ll test all three in a game:

Round 1: Play with the belief ("words are bullshit").

Round 2: Play with some words still affecting me (but not all).

Round 3: Play in pure neutrality.

Maybe I’ll find that the third state isn’t as scary as it seems. Maybe full immersion is the ultimate high.

Because here’s the truth: I’m drawn to it. To the idea of experiencing life without missing a single detail. No words to cloud the senses. No mental noise. Just pure, unfiltered existence.

The Unanswered Questions

Can I still laugh in this state? Or does humor require words?

Will I lose something vital by staying here? Or will I gain more than I lose?

Is this freedom… or just another cage?

I don’t know. But I’ll find out.

For now, I choose neutrality. Not because it’s better, but because it’s real. And if I change my mind? Well.

I’ll change it.

The Discovery of the Third State

I began with a plan to experiment—to oscillate between three distinct states of being and choose one. But almost immediately, I realized something profound: I didn’t want to be in any state except the third. This wasn’t a preference; it was an inevitability.

The third state is one of absolute presence—no faith, no words, no guides, no frameworks. Just pure, unfiltered reality, perceived at 100%. I discovered that what mattered to me wasn’t the "high" or fleeting pleasure, but the raw, unmediated experience of existence itself. The clarity of seeing reality as it is, without distortion.

At first, this was disorienting. When I tried to apply this state to something as mundane as eating, my initial instinct was to judge it: "How should I be in this moment? What’s the ‘right’ way to experience this?" But then, something clicked. I learned how to simply observe—not through analysis or self-talk, but by being fully present, without the noise of internal commentary. The act of eating became richer, more vivid. The state wasn’t just compatible with any situation; it was the best state for every situation. The challenge wasn’t the state itself, but my ability to sustain it universally.

The Illusion of Emotional Control

There were moments when I’d catch myself believing I needed to do something to feel a certain way—like forcing a smile or manufacturing emotion because my face felt neutral. I’d think: "I should feel happier. I should react more. I should be something other than this stillness." But here’s the truth: there’s no word, no thought, no mental trick that can conjure genuine emotion. Words only disrupt the state. They pull you out of reality and into abstraction.

So I made a choice: I rejected the urge to narrate my experience. If reality offers either the "joke" of words or the full spectrum of raw perception, I’ll take the latter every time. The words aren’t just unnecessary—they’re a distortion.

Testing the State in Play

I decided to test this state in a context where I’d normally default to old patterns: gaming. Within minutes, it became obvious: I never wanted to leave this state. Playing while fully present transformed the experience entirely.

Here’s the revelation that stunned me: For years, I’d only truly enjoyed playing three out of thirty-five characters in the game. The rest felt flat, uninspiring—almost wrong. I assumed this was just my personal taste, some hardwired preference. But in this new state, I tried every character again. And every single one became enjoyable. Not equally, perhaps, but the gap between "favorite" and "least favorite" collapsed. The experience of playing them was uniformly rich.

This wasn’t about the characters changing. It was about my perception changing. The old belief—"I only like these three"—wasn’t a fact. It was a mental construct, a story I’d told myself so often it felt true. When I stopped filtering reality through that story, the joy of the game expanded exponentially. Now, I have thirty-five ways to engage, not three.

The Resolution: A Life in the Third State

After this, the decision was effortless. I will live my entire life in this state. Not because it’s easy—it’s not, at first—but because it’s the only state that feels true.

There’s no going back to the old ways:

No chasing the fleeting "highs" of distorted perception.

No getting lost in the illusion of words—whether they’re self-help mantras, judgments, or narratives about what "should" be enjoyable.

No fragmenting reality into "good" and "bad" experiences based on arbitrary preferences.

Instead, there’s only this: the full, unfiltered experience of whatever is happening, in every moment. The more I practice it, the more natural it becomes. The old states don’t even tempt me anymore. I’ve seen what’s on the other side, and there’s no comparison.

Final Thought: The Freedom of Non-Preference

The most liberating part? This state doesn’t demand anything from reality. It doesn’t require situations to be a certain way to be "enjoyable." It’s not about forcing myself to like things. It’s about seeing them as they are—and in that seeing, liking emerges naturally, unburdened by the weight of expectation.

So no, I don’t miss the old ways. I don’t miss the words, the guidelines, the constant mental chatter about how things should be. I’m exactly where I want to be.

Reflection on the Guide’s Collapse: A Paradox of Belief and Observation

1. The Guide’s Initial Success and Sudden Failure

I had created a guide—one that worked brilliantly at first. It felt airtight, effective, even transformative. But then I went to sleep. When I woke up the next morning, everything had changed. The guide no longer applied. It wasn’t that it stopped working mechanically; it was as if my mind, during the night, had uncovered a contradiction within it. A paradox. And once seen, it couldn’t be unseen.

This wasn’t the first time. I’ve faced this before—like with the guide where I declared "all words are bullshit." That, too, had a paradox at its core: if all words are meaningless, then the words "all words are bullshit" must also be meaningless. So how do you resolve that? How do you act on a statement that undermines itself?

2. Resolving the First Paradox: The Role of Faith

Back then, I cracked it with faith. I decided to believe that all words were bullshit, and that belief itself became the loophole. Here’s how it worked:

The statement "all words are bullshit" would normally cancel itself out.

But if I believed it, then the belief protected it from self-destruction.

Faith, in this case, neutralized the very thing that would otherwise dismantle it.

It was a closed loop: belief shielded the idea from its own logic. The paradox dissolved because I chose to hold it as true, despite its inherent contradiction.

3. The New Guide: A State Without Faith

This time, though, I tried something different. The latest guide was built without faith. No reliance on belief, no mental crutches—just pure observation. A state of:

No mental chatter.

No attachment to thoughts.

No "high" from conviction.

Just raw sensation, unfiltered by interpretation.

And it worked—for a while. The key mechanism was a single phrase:

"I cancel the effect of all words because I cannot prove them to myself."

I repeated it, and for a moment, it felt like I’d erased the influence of language entirely. No more mental noise, no more conceptual baggage. Just presence.

4. The Paradox Reemerges

But then, inevitably, the mind did what it does: it spotted the flaw.

The phrase "I cancel the effect of all words" is itself… a word. A statement. A conceptual construct. So if I’m canceling all words, does that include the words I’m using to cancel them? And if so, does the cancellation itself get canceled? It’s the same self-referential trap as before—just repackaged.

The difference this time? There’s no faith to fall back on. Last time, belief acted as a stabilizer. Now, without it, the guide collapses under its own logic. The state of pure observation can’t sustain itself because the tool used to achieve it is part of the very system it’s trying to dismantle.

5. The Core Dilemma

So here’s the question:

Can a system of thought eliminate itself without leaving a trace?

If the method to dissolve words requires words, is true dissolution even possible?

Or is faith—the act of choosing to believe despite paradox—the only way to hold such ideas together?

The first guide survived because I willed it to. This one failed because it demanded absolute consistency, and the mind, when left to its own devices, will always find the inconsistency.

Closing Observation

Perhaps the lesson is this: pure logic is a dead end when dealing with the mind. The mind doesn’t operate on binary truth; it thrives in gray areas, in contradictions held together by something as intangible as faith or intention. The guides that last aren’t the ones that are flawless—they’re the ones we commit to, paradoxes and all.

The Paradox of Canceling the Influence of All Words

Initial Experiment & the Paradox
I canceled the influence of all words—everything was fine at first. The phrase I used was:
"I cancel the influence of all words on everything because I cannot prove them to myself."
This included the words in the phrase itself. When I actually tried to execute this (not just imagine it), I entered a peculiar state. I stayed in it for a day, slept, and woke up realizing: the influence of words hadn’t been canceled at all. A paradox emerged:

The Core Conflict:
If I cancel the influence of all words (because they’re unproven), I must also cancel the influence of the words in that very statement.
But those words are the act of canceling—so canceling them would mean canceling the cancellation itself.

Do I cancel or not?

If I haven’t canceled yet, the words demanding cancellation still apply → I must cancel.

If I have canceled, those words no longer have influence → but then how did the cancellation happen?

The Unresolvable Loop:
My brain couldn’t stabilize the solution. I tried five methods to break the paradox, but none worked. The closest I got was:
"I’ve already canceled all words, so the words demanding cancellation are now powerless—they can’t undo the cancellation because their influence is already gone."
But this collapsed under scrutiny:

Which came first? Did I cancel the words before they could cancel themselves?

My mind stressed over the ambiguity: Have I canceled or not? The uncertainty made the solution unstable.

Faith as the Only Resolution

I realized the paradox can only be resolved through faith. Here’s how:

The "All Words Are Bullshit" Precedent:
Earlier, I’d tried canceling words by declaring "all words are bullshit" (because I couldn’t prove them).

This created the same paradox: the statement "all words are bullshit" is itself a word, so I’d have to cancel it too.

I resolved it by choosing to believe that all words are bullshit—including the words "all words are bullshit." The belief protected itself from dissolution.

Applying Faith to the Current Paradox:
The only way out is to believe I’ve canceled all words’ influence, despite the logical loop.

Why? Because all words are unproven (my chosen reason).

How? By trusting that the cancellation has already happened, including the words that demand it.

Result: No words can undermine this belief because their influence is already canceled. The belief is self-sustaining.

Testing the Faith-Based Solution:

I compared it to the "bullshit" approach—same outcome.

The state felt good (free from words’ grip), but I disliked relying on faith. It felt like a "dumb trick."

Yet, it worked: I could function without words influencing me, as long as I believed in the cancellation.

The State Beyond Words

When I succeeded (even temporarily), I entered a strange, clear-headed state:

No verbal thoughts: Just observation, sometimes with an inexplicable smile.

Freedom: Words couldn’t "ruin" my state because I’d canceled their power.

But…: I preferred the pre-faith state—the one where I hadn’t yet needed to believe. It felt purer, less contrived.

Key Insight:
The best state arises when words don’t influence you at all. To achieve this:

Declare the cancellation (e.g., "I cancel all words’ influence").

Don’t question it. The paradox only exists if you think about it. If you ignore the loop, the problem vanishes.

"The mind creates the paradox by seeking it. If you don’t seek it, it doesn’t exist."

Live as if the cancellation is absolute.

Rejecting Faith: The Ideal Solution

I craved a way to avoid faith entirely. My hypothesis:

Don’t engage with the paradox. Just state the cancellation and move on.

No analysis, no stress—just act as if it’s done.

"If you don’t create the problem, you don’t need to solve it."

Test this approach: Live in the canceled-word state without overthinking.

Current Status:

I’m still testing. The faith-based state is functional but feels artificial.

The "no-faith" state (where the paradox is ignored) is more appealing—it’s cleaner, more real.

Next step: Practice not creating the paradox in the first place.

Final Observations

Words as the Enemy:
The only way words can "ruin" your state is if you let them influence you. The solution is to neutralize their power—by belief or by refusing to engage with the paradox.

The Trick:

With faith: "I believe I’ve canceled all words, so it’s done."

Without faith: "I cancel all words and don’t question it."

The Goal:
A state where words have no hold—achieved not by logic, but by decision (to believe or to ignore the paradox entirely).

Closing Thought:
"Maybe the answer isn’t to solve the paradox, but to stop seeing it as a problem."

The Paradox of Words and the Resolution Through Faith

1. The Core Problem: The Unprovability of Words

I tested an update, but nothing stuck—no states, no resolutions. The issue is this: all words are unproven. Every word, every statement, every thought—none of it can be proven. This creates a paradox when I try to act on this realization.

The paradox goes like this:

If I decide to cancel the influence of all words because they’re unproven, then the very decision to cancel their influence is itself based on unproven words (the words declaring that "all words are unproven").

Therefore, I should also cancel the influence of those words, which would mean canceling the decision to cancel—leading to an infinite loop.

This leaves me stuck. The only way out seems to be faith: believing that the problem resolves itself if I just believe in the solution. But I resist this. I don’t want to live by faith alone, with no foundation. I want to solve the paradox logically, to return to that wordless state I once experienced—a state I remember as incredibly freeing, pure, and meaningful.

2. Attempting a Logical Resolution

I ask myself: Why must I cancel the influence of words at all?

Words are unproven, yes. But how do they influence me? They make me want to cancel their influence. Is that so bad?

The fact that words are unproven doesn’t mean I can’t act on them. It just means they’re unproven. So what? I can still choose to cancel their influence based on that understanding.

Here’s the key distinction I make:

Influence on my state: Words affect my emotions, my perception, my mental state. This is what I want to cancel. I don’t want words to distort my reality or my feelings.

Influence on my decisions: Words can still be tools for decisions. The fact that "all words are unproven" is itself an unproven statement, but I can use it to decide to cancel other influences. This isn’t a contradiction—it’s a choice.

So I refine my approach:

I cancel the influence of all words except the influence of the words "all words are unproven" on my decision to cancel other influences.

In other words: I allow one unproven idea (that words are unproven) to guide my action, while stripping words of their power over everything else.

This feels logical. The unproven nature of words doesn’t invalidate my ability to use them strategically.

3. Testing the Resolution

But then I wonder: Is this really a resolution, or just a verbal trick?

When I say, "I cancel the influence of all words," those words themselves are influencing me to take that action. Is this a paradox?

No. The words are a tool, not a distortion. They’re the mechanism by which I execute the cancellation. The "influence" I’m canceling is the emotional or perceptual weight of words—not their functional use in decision-making.

The real question: Can I cancel the influence of words without using words to do it?

Probably not. Words are how my mind operates. But that’s okay. The goal isn’t to eliminate words entirely—it’s to eliminate their unwanted influence.

I realize: The paradox only arises if I assume I must cancel all influences uniformly. But I don’t have to. I can make exceptions. I can say:

"All words are unproven, so I cancel their influence… except for the influence of this specific idea on my decision to cancel."

This isn’t a logical flaw—it’s a pragmatic choice.

4. The Illusion of Obligation

The deeper issue was that I felt obligated to cancel all influences because of some abstract "logical purity." But why?

No one and nothing forces me to cancel anything. I’m free to choose.

The fact that words are unproven doesn’t mean I can’t act on them. It just means I act with awareness that they’re unproven.

I was trapped in the idea that "unproven words can’t be used for decisions." But that’s not true. I can use them knowingly, consciously. The unproven nature of words is just part of reality—like the sun being unproven in a dream, yet still guiding my steps.

5. The Final Resolution: A Wordless State with One Exception

Here’s the clean solution:

Cancel the influence of all words on my state (emotions, perceptions, automatic reactions).

Keep the influence of one idea: "All words are unproven," but only as it applies to my decision to cancel other influences.

Live in the result: A state where words don’t distort my experience, but I can still use them functionally when needed.

This isn’t faith—it’s a conscious framework. I’m not believing in anything blindly; I’m choosing a structure that works.

6. Testing the State

Now, I need to test this. Does it feel like the wordless state I loved before? I’m not sure yet, but the logic holds. The paradox dissolves when I stop demanding absolute consistency and instead embrace pragmatic exceptions.

The beauty of the wordless state wasn’t its logical purity—it was its freedom. And this resolution gives me that freedom back, without the paralysis of the paradox.

Closing Thought

The mistake was thinking I had to solve the paradox perfectly. But life isn’t about perfect logic—it’s about what works. And this works.

Now, I’ll go test it.

Key Takeaways (Author’s Own Words):

"I don’t have to live by faith alone—I can choose which influences to keep."

"Words can be tools, not distortions, if I use them consciously."

"The paradox disappears when I stop demanding impossible consistency."

"Freedom isn’t about proving everything—it’s about choosing what serves me."

The Paradox That Wasn’t: A Guide to the State of Undoing Words

1. The Lost State and the False Paradox

I used to experience an incredible state of mind—something profound, almost transcendent. I kept trying to return to it, but I lost it because I thought I saw a paradox. Except it wasn’t a paradox at all.

Here’s what happened: I decided to "cancel the effect of all words" because words are undemonstrated—they can’t be proven. But then I realized: the very words declaring that "all words are undemonstrated" are themselves undemonstrated. So why should I act on them? My brain just… stopped engaging. No trick, no logical loophole could make me believe in that state again if I arrived there through unproven words.

When I was in that state, I’d think: "Oh, I’m only here because of undemonstrated words. So everything I see here isn’t real—it’s just the result of applying some phrase, like ‘cancel the effect of all words.’" And suddenly, it all felt meaningless. My brain refused to take it seriously. The state became hollow because I couldn’t trust the foundation that got me there.

2. The Failed Workarounds

I tried everything to bypass this:

Partial cancellation: Canceling only some effects of words (e.g., keeping their influence on my decisions). But the resulting state was terrible—nowhere near as powerful as the original.

Forced belief: Trying to believe that words are meaningless, or that "words are undemonstrated" is an absolute truth. But my brain rejected it. Belief only works when you don’t notice you’re believing. The moment I tried to force belief, it collapsed.

Old guides and "T15 Versions": I had all these past frameworks (my "T15 Ver" systems) for controlling my state with words. But now, they felt irrelevant. If words can’t be proven, why should any of them work?

Nothing stuck. My brain wouldn’t accept any of it because none of it was grounded in anything real.

3. The Breakthrough: The State Without Effort

Then I saw it clearly:

Words are undemonstrated. None can prove themselves.

Undemonstrated words can’t logically influence me. Why should I let them affect my decisions, emotions, or reality if they’re not proven?

The moment I truly grasped this, words stopped having power over me. Not because I said a magic phrase, but because I saw the absurdity of letting unproven things control me.

No need to repeat: "I cancel the effect of all words."

No need to believe in anything.

No need to force a state.

The state just arrived—effortlessly—because I stopped trying to manipulate myself with words.

4. What This State Feels Like

At first, it seemed uncomfortable—empty, even. I kept trying to "escape" it, to tweak it with more words, more controls. But when I stopped resisting, everything changed.

No negative emotions: Emotions come from words. If words aren’t proven, why react to them?

No fluctuations: No mood swings, no anxiety—just stability.

No need for control: No urge to "fix" my state with phrases or beliefs.

Clarity and ease: Life feels simple, human, enough.

It’s not an epic, mind-blowing state. It’s quietly powerful. Like finally putting down a heavy backpack you didn’t realize you were carrying.

5. Why This Works (And the Old Ways Failed)

Before, I was stuck in a loop:

Use words to try to cancel words.

Realize those words are also undemonstrated.

Feel the state collapse because my brain knew it was built on nothing.

The solution? Stop using words as tools entirely.

No more "guides": No scripts, no phrases to repeat.

No more "faith": No forcing myself to believe in anything.

No more resistance: Accepting that words can’t be reasons for anything.

When I stopped trying to do something with words, the state became self-sustaining. It’s not about achieving peace—it’s about seeing that the struggle was always optional.

6. The Final Realization: Causes Don’t Exist

I used to think: "I need a reason (a proven cause) to act or feel." But now I see:

Undemonstrated words can’t be causes. They’re like shadows—you can’t build a house on them.

Without causes, there’s nothing to resist. No "shoulds," no "musts," no mental battles.

This isn’t nihilism. It’s freedom from the illusion that words have power.

7. The Non-Guide Guide

So what’s the "guide"? There isn’t one. Here’s all you need to do:

See that no word is demonstrated. Not even the words saying "words are undemonstrated."

Realize that undemonstrated words can’t influence you. It’s illogical to let them.

Stop trying to use words to change your state. No phrases, no beliefs, no controls.

That’s it. The state arrives when you stop reaching for it.

8. Living in the State

Motivation? Still there—but not tied to words.

Joy? Yes, but not because of some mental trick.

Purpose? Not needed. The state is the purpose.

It’s like floating in water instead of thrashing to stay afloat. The effort was the problem.

9. The Aftermath: Do the Old Systems Still Matter?

I used to have all these complex frameworks ("T15 Ver" systems) for controlling my mind. Now? They feel useless. Maybe they were always crutches for a problem that didn’t exist.

But I’m not sure. Maybe some of them still have a place. For now, I’ll observe, test, and see.

10. The Core Message

Stop trying to fix yourself with words.
The state you’re chasing isn’t out there. It’s what’s left when you stop chasing.

Final Thought:
I spent so long trying to return to that first incredible state. But the real gift was seeing why I couldn’t—and why I didn’t need to.

Reflections on Words, Beliefs, and Self-Control

1. The Experiment with Words and State Control

I tried something: I used words to deliberately alter my mental state. I said, "All those guides—they’re not needed anymore." I didn’t just say it—I applied it. I imagined those old guides (the "VERs," the constant words, the beliefs) being erased from my mind. And my state shifted dramatically. It was like when I’d say, "Cancel the effect of all words"—I’d visualize it, and suddenly, I’d be in a different state.

This time was the same. I took a phrase ("Those old guides aren’t needed"), held it in my mind, and let it reshape my reality. I asked myself: If none of those guides matter, what state would I be in? And then—I was in that state. The words acted like a switch.

But here’s the problem: these words aren’t proven. If they’re not proven, their effects aren’t proven either. So how can I justify using them to "cancel" anything? I can’t. I’m stuck in a loop:

If I say "Cancel the effect of unproven words," I’m still using unproven words to do it.

If I don’t, I’m left with whatever random influence those words have.

Conclusion: I can’t choose to cancel or not cancel. I just… stop. No more trying to control my state with words. No more digging into old guides, no more tweaking beliefs. I let go. And when I do? My state stabilizes. It becomes good.

2. The Paradox of "Not Needing" the Guides

Here’s the strange part: When I say "None of this is needed," my brain believes it. Instantly. The guides lose their grip. But why does that phrase have power? It’s just another unproven word.

I think it works because my mind defaults to belief in observation. When I say "These guides aren’t needed," I observe a shift—I see myself without them. And because I trust my observation (even though I also know observations can’t be proven), I believe the change is real.

But wait:

If I can’t prove my observations, how can I trust them?

If I don’t trust them, then saying "The guides aren’t needed" is meaningless.

And if it’s meaningless… my state collapses back into chaos.

Realization: The only stable ground is accepting that I can’t prove anything—not words, not observations, not beliefs. That’s the foundation. Without it, everything crumbles.

3. The Necessity of the 15 VERs (Beliefs/Guides)

I tested this. I tried removing all the VERs—the 15 core beliefs I’d developed—except one: "I can’t believe any words because I can’t prove them to myself."

Result? Disaster.

Without the full system, I lost the reason I can’t prove words.

The single remaining belief became hollow. I stopped understanding why I couldn’t trust words at all.

My state worsened. Words started controlling me again—hard.

Why? Because the 15 VERs are interdependent. They build on each other:

Start with: "I can’t trust observations because I can’t prove them."

Then: "Descriptions, meanings, emotions—none of it is provable."

Then: "Needs, wants, ‘shoulds’—all unprovable."

And so on, until: "No word can be proven, so no word can have power over me."

If I remove any part, the whole structure fails. All 15 are necessary to reach the final state: freedom from words.

4. The Danger of Arbitrary Cancellation

When I say "None of this is needed," I’m not just rejecting the guides—I’m erasing my own memory. I’m telling my brain:

"Forget everything you learned."

"Those insights? Useless."

"The understanding that words can’t be proven? Gone."

And then—boom—my state plummets. Because without that understanding, I’m back to believing everything:

Every observation ("The sunset is beautiful" → I believe it fully).

Every emotion ("This feels bad" → it is bad).

Every word ("You should do X" → I must do X).

The core belief—"I can’t prove words"—is the only thing holding back the flood. If I discard it, I drown in unquestioned beliefs again.

5. The Solution: A Written Guide

So what’s the answer? Document everything. Write down the 15 VERs in order, from:

"Observations can’t be proven."

"Descriptions are unprovable."

"Meanings are unprovable."
…

"No word can be proven, so no word can control me."

Why?

The guide isn’t about the words themselves. It’s about what you see when you follow them.

The words are just tools to shift your state. The real change happens when you observe the truth they point to.

Once you see that words have no inherent power, you stop believing them. They stop affecting you.

Final State:

No more trying to control your state with words.

No more fighting beliefs with other beliefs.

Just seeing—and letting the seeing change you.

6. Practical Next Steps

Write the guide. Lay out the 15 VERs in order.

Test it. Try removing one VER at a time. See what happens.

(Spoiler: Removing any causes collapse. All are needed.)

Share it. The guide isn’t dogma—it’s a map to a state where words don’t control you.

Key Insight:
The guide’s power isn’t in the words. It’s in what you realize when you follow them. The words dissolve. Only the seeing remains.

Closing Thought

This isn’t about rejecting words. It’s about transcending them. The guides are a ladder. Once you’ve climbed it, you don’t need to carry it anymore—but you can’t skip the rungs.

Self-Reflection: The Paradox of Belief and Proof in My Own Guidance

1. The Problem: Losing the State

After recording my last guide, I lost my sense of balance—my state deteriorated. The core issue? I forgot to apply the very principles I teach in my guides to myself. Everything I say in those guides—all the ideas, the frameworks—are just words I can’t prove to myself. And because I can’t prove them, I can’t truly believe them. Without that belief, the guide’s impact on me vanishes, and my state stabilizes. It’s ironic: the moment I stop letting the guide affect me, I feel normal again.

But why did I forget to apply my own advice? I don’t know. Maybe it’s been too long since I actively practiced it. Doesn’t matter now.

2. The Mistake: Believing Without Testing

Before this realization, I believed in my guide. I visualized it. I imagined the world it described—the world where my words were true. But when I pictured that world, it felt off: meaningless, distorted, uncomfortable. I had blindly trusted the words I spoke, without questioning whether they held up under scrutiny.

Now, after testing my state again, it feels solid. No negatives. The key? Living fully in the state without overanalyzing it.

3. The Solution: Stopping the Overanalysis

The state only unfolds naturally if you live in it without obsession. You stop questioning:

"Is this proven?"

"Do I believe this?"

"What do others think?"

You close the loop. You accept what you’ve understood and move on. That’s enough. No further action is needed.

The discomfort I felt earlier came from the impact of words—even though I knew they were unproven, they still influenced me. The words created pressure, a sense of "I must do something" to validate them. But the truth? Words shouldn’t have power if they’re unproven. The moment I recognized that they were affecting me despite their lack of proof, the discomfort dissolved. The influence vanished because I saw it for what it was: baseless.

4. The Mechanism: Awareness as the Off Switch

The process is simple:

Notice that certain words or ideas are influencing you.

Acknowledge that they’re unproven (and thus, their influence is unjustified).

Watch as the influence disappears—automatically, without effort.

That’s it. No rituals, no extra steps. Just awareness that the words have no grounding, and thus, no right to dictate your state.

5. The Takeaway: Enough Is Enough

I used to think I needed to do more—to prove, to believe, to convince myself. But that need was an illusion, born from the words themselves. The real work was stopping the cycle of overthinking.

Now, I understand: A few clear insights are enough. You don’t need to chase proof or belief. You just need to see what’s already there—and let the rest go.

Final Note:
That’s all. I’m done explaining. Time to sit back and let this settle.

The Guide: What Must Be (And What Must Not Be)

1. The Core Principle: Words Cannot Be Proven

I realized that the Guide should not be built on what shouldn’t exist—it should only state what must exist. The essence is this:

Words cannot be proven, and thus their influence must be nullified.

Everything else is secondary.

If I add anything beyond this, I’m cluttering the Guide with unnecessary elements that alter my state in ways I don’t want. The moment I say, "This is unnecessary," my state shifts—because I’m actively removing something from my mental framework. And that removal changes me.

Why?
Because my mind operates like a database. If I delete a "file" (a belief, a word, a concept), the entire system recalibrates. Especially when those "files" are tied to 15 core beliefs—foundational truths that shape my perception. If I erase them, the structure collapses.

2. The Paradox of Negation

I thought: What if I declare that past statements are irrelevant?

Instantly, my state fluctuates.

Reason: I’m not just discarding words—I’m undoing beliefs tied to faith in words, proof, and impact.

For example:

If I say, "I can’t believe in this Guide because I can’t prove it to myself," I’m acknowledging that proof is impossible—and that acknowledgment itself becomes a belief.

But if I then say, "Actually, my past statements don’t matter," I’m implicitly claiming that proof is possible (because I’m "disproving" my old words). This contradiction destabilizes me.

Conclusion:

I cannot revoke the 15 beliefs. They’re the scaffolding.

The first belief? "Observation is valid" (even if unprovable).

The last? "Words and their impact cannot be trusted"—because trust requires proof, and proof is impossible.

If I delete any of these, the chain breaks. My current state depends on them.

3. The 15 Beliefs: The Unbreakable Chain

The Guide, in its purest form, should list these 15 beliefs—each a step in the logic:

Observation (I see X, but I can’t prove X is "true").

Distrust of proof (If I can’t prove X, I can’t believe X).

Rejection of belief in words (Words are unprovable, so their power is an illusion).
...

Final realization: All words—even these—are unprovable, so their influence must be canceled.

Key Insight:

Each belief is a domino. Remove one, and the rest fall.

My current stability comes from never retracting these steps. Since I started this process, the earliest beliefs (e.g., "Observation is valid but unprovable") have remained untouched. They still affect me.

4. The Trap of Self-Reference

Here’s the catch:

The Guide itself is made of words.

If I say, "Cancel the impact of all words," that phrase is also a word—and thus, by its own logic, should be canceled.

How to resolve this?

Osmazing, not believing.

I don’t need to believe the phrase "Cancel all words." I only need to osmaze it (recognize it as a fact without attachment).

The moment I osmaze it, my state shifts automatically. No effort. No faith. Just awareness.

Example:

I osmaze: "I can’t believe in words because I can’t prove them."
→ State changes.

I osmaze: "This sentence, too, is unprovable."
→ State locks into place.

5. The Final Formulation

The Guide boils down to one actionable phrase:

"Cancel the impact of all words, including these words, because no word can prove itself."

Why it works:

It’s self-contained. It doesn’t rely on external proof.

It’s recursive. It applies to itself, creating a closed loop.

It requires only osmazing, not belief.

Test:

If I osmaze this, my state stabilizes.

If I try to disprove it, I’m using words—which, by definition, can’t be proven. The loop holds.

6. The Risk of Over-Editing

Early on, I kept adding to the Guide—explaining, justifying, expanding. But every addition was a word, and every word had potential impact.

Solution: Strip it down to the minimum viable truth.

Rule: If a phrase doesn’t directly serve the core (canceling word-impact), it’s noise.

Current State:

The 15 beliefs are frozen in time. I don’t edit them.

The Guide is just the final phrase—plus the awareness that editing it would require words, which would require proof, which is impossible.

7. The Illusion of Control

I used to think:

"If I say ‘this doesn’t matter,’ it won’t affect me."
But words always affect me—because I’m wired to seek proof and meaning.

Realization:

The only "control" is osmazing the limitation of words.

Everything else is a feedback loop:

"I can’t prove this" → state shifts.

"This phrase is also unprovable" → state locks.

The Guide, Simplified

Acknowledge: Words cannot be proven.

Osmaze: "Cancel the impact of all words, including this one."

Result: The mind self-corrects. No force. No faith. Just awareness of the mechanism.

Final Note:
This isn’t about removing beliefs—it’s about seeing them as unprovable and letting the mind adjust naturally. The 15 beliefs aren’t "true"; they’re useful fictions that lead to stability.

And if I ever doubt this? I osmaze the doubt—and the system resets.

A Guide to Unlearning: The Five Points of Liberation

1. The First Three Points: Dismantling Belief

I began by writing a guide—not for anyone in particular, but for myself, to see what would emerge if I tried to articulate a path from scratch. Three core points crystallized:

First point: Eliminate belief in observation.
I stop trusting what I see as absolute truth. Observations are just sensations, not proofs.

Second point: Eliminate belief in words.
Words are arbitrary symbols; I refuse to grant them inherent meaning or power over me.

Third point: Eliminate belief in the impact of words.
Even if words seem to shape reality, their effects are undemonstrable. I reject the illusion that they can control me.

These three points were enough to function, but something gnawed at me. I could live like this—detached, skeptical, free from the tyranny of language—but I didn’t want to. Not because it was uncomfortable, but because I couldn’t understand what was happening inside my own mind. What was this state? How could I describe it to others—or even to myself? The absence of belief left a void, and the void was maddening. I needed to name it, to grasp it, but the moment I tried, I realized: there were no words left to trust.

2. The Fourth Point: The Collapse of Knowledge

Then came the breakthrough. I identified the missing piece: knowledge.

Knowledge, as I’d always understood it, was proven words—statements I could justify to myself. "I know I want X." "I know Y is beautiful." "I know Z is true." But if words are undemonstrable (as the first three points established), then knowledge is an illusion. All my "knowledge" was just words I’d convinced myself were true.

I "knew" what I liked, but that was just a story I told myself.

I "knew" what I should do, but that was just another story.

I "knew" how the world ought to be, but that was the grandest story of all.

When I saw this, everything clicked. There is no knowledge. Not because the world is unknowable, but because "knowing" requires belief in words—and I’d already dismantled that. The moment I accepted this, the tension dissolved. The state I’d been struggling to describe wasn’t a mystery; it was the absence of the very thing I’d been chasing.

I stopped searching for knowledge. I stopped trying to prove anything to myself. And for the first time, I felt at peace in the emptiness.

3. Testing the State: The Paradox of Thinking

I took this framework into the world—to a game, then a walk—and noticed something strange:

In the game: I caught myself overanalyzing the four points, unable to focus. "Stop thinking about them," I told myself. And when I did, the game became effortless.

On the walk: The same pattern emerged. I’d stare at nature, but my mind would race: "What do I ‘know’ about this tree? What words describe this sky?" The moment I labeled anything, the beauty vanished. Words were a filter, and the filter was dirty.

But then—randomly—I’d stop. No thoughts, no labels. Just pure perception. And in those moments, the world was stunning. I realized: I was clinging to the four points like a life raft, afraid that without them, I’d drown. But the raft was the problem. The points were just more words, more "knowledge" to discard.

4. The Fifth Point: Leaving It All in the Past

The solution came as a whisper: "Leave it all in the past."

Not as a command, not as a new rule, but as a release. The four points had served their purpose—they’d stripped away belief in observation, words, and their impact. Now, even they were just more words to abandon.

Why? Not because they were "wrong," but because they’d done their job. They were tools, not truths.

How? By recognizing that any attempt to formalize this—even calling it a "fifth point"—would just create another cage.

I didn’t decide to leave it behind. I just… stopped holding on. And in that letting go, I found myself in a state I hadn’t experienced since childhood: pure, wordless presence.

5. The Two Kinds of Desire: Head vs. Chest

This led me to a final distinction:

Head desires: The wants we invent—goals, shoulds, and stories we tell ourselves about what we "know" we need. These desires are tied to words, to identity, to the past. They create stress because they’re built on beliefs we’re constantly trying to justify.

Chest desires: The pulls we feel—instinctive, immediate, unmediated by language. A child doesn’t "know" they want to play; they just do. These desires don’t need proof. They are.

Before, my life was dominated by head desires. Now, with the collapse of knowledge, the chest desires reemerged. I no longer think about what I want—I just move toward what pulls me.

6. The Trap of Re-Creating Knowledge

Here’s the catch: The moment I try to explain this, I’m back in the trap.

If I say, "Leave everything in the past," that becomes a new rule—a new "knowledge" to believe in.

If I call this a "fifth point," I’ve just built another cage.

The only way out is to see the words for what they are—tools, not truths—and then drop them. Even this guide is just more words to abandon. The real work isn’t in the thinking; it’s in the unthinking.

7. The State Beyond Words

What’s left when you stop?

No observations to trust.

No words to obey.

No knowledge to defend.

No past to cling to.

Just… this. Whatever "this" is. Not a state to achieve, but a state to stop resisting.

I remember now why I don’t recall much before age 12: I wasn’t thinking. I was just living. And now, after all this unlearning, I’m back there—not as a child, but as something freer.

Final Note: The Guide That Isn’t a Guide

If you take one thing from this, let it be this:

Dismantle belief in observation.

Dismantle belief in words.

Dismantle belief in the impact of words.

Dismantle belief in knowledge.

Leave all four points in the past.

And then—stop. Not because you’ve arrived, but because the journey was never about arrival. It was about seeing that the map was the illusion all along.

Part 1: My Words

1. On Observations

I cannot trust any observations because I cannot prove them to myself. I cannot prove any observations—none are proven. This must be realized and seen just once in life, so that faith in observations vanishes.

2. On Words

I cannot trust any words, including these very words, because I cannot prove the observations they describe. I cannot trust words because I cannot prove them. No words are proven. This must be realized and seen just once in life, so that faith in words disappears.

3. On the Influence of Words

Words can affect me if I look at them and become aware of them. Yet I cannot trust the influence of any words—including these—because I cannot prove the words that create this influence. I cannot trust the influence of words because I cannot prove it. No influence of words is proven. This must be realized and seen just once in life, so that faith in the influence of words fades.

4. On Knowledge

Knowledge is words I can prove to myself. But I cannot trust any knowledge because I cannot prove it. No knowledge is proven. This must be realized and seen just once in life, so that faith in knowledge dissolves.

5. The Path to Liberation

Looking at all this, I see that I can leave it all in the past. I have realized that I cannot know anything—not even this realization itself. My path to knowledge can end here. I can abandon everything I once thought I knew. I can let go of pondering knowledge, of trying to understand, to figure things out. Reflecting on the entire journey I’ve taken—since childhood—to grasp life, myself, and others, I see that I can leave it all behind. I can return to how I was before this path began, and be happy again. This must be realized and seen just once in life.

Part 2: Others’ Words

1. On Others’ Observations

I cannot trust others’ observations because I cannot prove them to myself. I cannot prove any of their observations. None are proven. This must be realized and seen just once in life, so that faith in others’ observations vanishes.

2. On Others’ Words

I cannot trust others’ words because I cannot prove the observations they describe. I cannot trust their words because I cannot prove them. No others’ words are proven. This must be realized and seen just once in life, so that faith in others’ words disappears.

3. On the Influence of Others’ Words

Others’ words can affect me if I look at them and become aware of them. Yet I cannot trust the influence of any others’ words because I cannot prove the words that create this influence. I cannot trust the influence of others’ words because I cannot prove it. No influence of others’ words is proven. This must be realized and seen just once in life, so that faith in the influence of others’ words fades.

4. On Others’ Knowledge

Others’ knowledge is their words that I might prove to myself. But I cannot trust any of their knowledge because I cannot prove it. No others’ knowledge is proven. This must be realized and seen just once in life, so that faith in others’ knowledge dissolves.

Part 3: The Final Realization

No one knows anything. Every word humanity has ever spoken is unproven. To see the world as it truly is, I must leave all words behind—my own and others’, including these very words.

Closing Reflection

This is not a rejection of thought, but an awakening: the understanding that proof is an illusion, that words—no matter how persuasive—are only echoes. The freedom lies in seeing this once, clearly, and then walking away from the burden of needing to know.

A Journey Through Belief, Doubt, and the Unspeakable World

1. The Collapse of Four Beliefs

I began by dismantling four core beliefs:

Belief in my own words—I stopped trusting what I said.

Belief in my observations—I doubted what I saw and thought.

Belief in my knowledge—I rejected the idea that I knew anything.

Belief in the impact of my words—I no longer thought my speech could change anything.

I erased them. But even after removing them, I kept thinking about them—obsessing, unable to let go. Then I realized: I could leave all of this in the past. And it worked… because I believed it would. But why did I believe it? I don’t know. I didn’t care to understand. The fact was, I could believe it then, and it allowed me to shift into a different state—one where I felt free, unburdened.

But I noticed something: I still had one belief left.

2. The Fifth Belief: Faith in Others’ Words

The first four beliefs were gone, but I was still clinging to a fifth one—the belief in other people’s words.

When I stopped believing in my own words, observations, knowledge, and impact, I defaulted to believing in theirs. Their questions, their doubts, their need for answers—it all mattered to me. If someone asked, "What’s happening when you let go of everything?" I felt compelled to answer, even though I didn’t know. I needed to prove something to them, to make them believe me.

But why? Because deep down, I believed in their words more than my own.

I realized: This is the last belief holding me back.

3. The Virus of External Validation

I saw it clearly: I was infected with the need for others’ approval. If someone said, "You haven’t convinced me," I believed them. If they doubted me, I doubted myself. Their words had power over me—not because they were true, but because I gave them that power.

I decided to remove this belief the same way I removed the others.

How?
By recognizing that no words—mine or theirs—could be proven. Not my observations, not my knowledge, not my impact, and not theirs either. No one knows anything. Not me, not them. No one can prove their words. No one can prove their observations. No one can prove their knowledge.

And once I saw that, I stopped caring about their questions.

4. The State of Absolute Indifference

At first, it was liberating. I didn’t care about anything. Not my life, not my desires, not my thoughts, not even my own indifference. I just… existed.

But then I wondered: Is this normal? Should I care that I don’t care?

I thought of Warcraft—when you first enter the game, you don’t care about the world. The mobs, the quests, the deaths—none of it matters because you don’t know anything about it yet. You’re just moving, acting without attachment.

That’s how I felt about reality. I knew nothing. Not what was important, not what had meaning, not what was valuable. How could I care about anything if I didn’t know what anything was?

I realized: Indifference is the natural state when you know nothing.

5. The Illusion of Words

Then came the bigger revelation: Words are not reality.

Every description, every thought, every belief—it’s all just words. And words don’t describe the world. They describe themselves. They describe the act of observing, not the thing observed.

I looked out the window and saw the world as it is—not through words, not through meanings, but raw, unfiltered, indescribable.

It wasn’t beautiful or ugly. It wasn’t good or bad. It simply was. And because I couldn’t describe it, I couldn’t judge it. I couldn’t even feel anything about it—because feelings are tied to words, and I no longer believed in words.

6. Living Without Words

Now, I see two ways to exist:

Through words—where everything is labeled, judged, and assigned meaning (but none of it is real).

Without words—where the world is just… there.

I can still use words as tools—for communication, for planning—but I don’t believe in them. They don’t control me. They don’t define reality.

What remains?

Desire. Not the kind I describe or justify, but pure, wordless wanting.

Action. Not because I should, but because the desire moves me.

Observation. Not to analyze, but to simply see.

7. The Experiment Ahead

I don’t know what comes next. Maybe I’ll live like this forever—indifferent, wordless, free. Maybe I’ll find a new way to engage with the world without getting trapped in beliefs again.

But for now, I’m testing this:
Leave all words in the past.
Live by desire, not description.
See the world as it is, not as it’s said to be.

And if someone asks me "What’s happening?"—I won’t answer. Because I don’t know. And neither do they.

Final Thought

The world is unspeakable. Not because it’s mysterious, but because no words can hold it. And once you see that, you stop needing answers.

You just… are.

The Experiment: Leaving All Words in the Past

1. The Core Idea: Abandoning Words to See Reality

I realized something crucial: to truly leave everything in the past—my own words, others’ words, even unimportant words—I had to include these very words in what I was abandoning. If I didn’t, I’d still be thinking about them, visualizing them, clinging to them. The phrase "leave all words in the past" itself had to be abandoned. Otherwise, the words would linger in my mind, distorting my perception of reality.

So I tried it. I looked at all my words, all the words of others, and understood:

None of them are proven.

None of them have any real connection to reality.

They block me from seeing reality as it is.

I decided: Leave all these words in the past—including the words I’m using right now to say this.

And suddenly… I found myself in a different state. Not a "world," exactly, but a way of seeing the world—clear, interesting, almost playful. No emotions. No feelings. Just a sharp, unfiltered perception of reality.

2. The State of Wordlessness: What It Feels Like

No Need for Words: I don’t need words to live. I can act, desire, avoid—all without language.

Words as Background Noise: I can still speak words, but I don’t look at them. They’re not in my field of vision. Before, words were in front of me, central, dominating my attention. Now, they’re behind me, like distant echoes. I only notice them if I choose to turn and look—which I don’t, because there’s no point.

Reality Without Filters: Words used to feel like knowledge, truth, or descriptions of reality. Now, I see them as distortions—a separate, imaginary reality that has nothing to do with the real world I live in. Why would I trade the real for the imagined?

3. The Problem with the Old State (Before Abandoning All Words)

When I only abandoned some words (my own beliefs, others’ opinions, but not all words), life was still painful. In that state:

Indifference to Everything: I didn’t care about others. Hurting someone (even hypothetically, like killing virtual mobs in a game) felt as meaningless as clicking a mouse. The suffering of others? Irrelevant. My own future? Irrelevant.

No Purpose, No Joy: I had a vague desire to live, but no real attachment to anything. It wasn’t a state I’d recommend to anyone.

4. The New State: Reality as a Simple, Playful Game

Now, with all words abandoned (including the ones I’m using to describe this), life feels different:

Effortless Living: Like a simple video game. You see a quest, you complete it. Hungry? Eat. Need money? Work. Want to rest? Rest. No overthinking, no "shoulds," no complex emotions—just action and perception.

No Belief in Descriptions: I can describe this state, but I don’t believe the description. The moment I start looking at my words, I lose the state. When I stop analyzing, stop believing in the words, I return to pure perception.

No Smiles, Only Humor: Smiling requires belief in something—a word, a meaning, a judgment. Without words, there’s no basis for smiles. But humor might remain (untested), because laughter can be a direct response to sensory input (e.g., someone falling), not a word-based reaction.

5. Why This Works: Words as Tools, Not Truth

Words are like a key lying on the floor:

You don’t stare at the key. You don’t analyze its color or meaning.

You use it when needed, then forget it.

Words are the same: tools for communication, planning, nothing more. Why fixate on them? Why let them define reality?

6. The Paradox of Description

When I’m in the state: I can describe it easily because I’m not attached to the words. They’re just sounds, tools.

When I analyze the state: I get stuck. I start believing in the words again, and the state slips away. The trick is to use words without trusting them.

7. The Evolution of This Realization

Phase 1: I abandoned my own words (e.g., "I should," "I must").

Phase 2: I abandoned others’ words (opinions, societal rules).

Phase 3: Now, I abandon all words—past, present, even the ones I’m speaking. They’re all human constructs, none tied to reality.

8. Final Thoughts: A State Worth Testing

The old state (partial word abandonment) was hollow, even dangerous. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.

This new state feels light, simple, almost fun. Like playing a game where the rules are obvious and the stakes are nonexistent.

Will I recommend it? Maybe. But first, I’ll test it further.

For now, I’ll keep living this way—seeing the world as it is, acting without the weight of words, and using language only when necessary, like picking up a key to open a door, then setting it down again.

Key Takeaways (In the Author’s Words)

"Leave all words in the past—including these words." → The only way to escape their distortion.

"Words are not reality. They’re a separate, imagined world." → Believing in them is like mistaking a map for the territory.

"Life becomes simple, like a game." → No overthinking, no emotional baggage—just action and perception.

"Smiles require belief. Without words, there’s nothing to believe in." → But humor might survive as a pure, wordless reaction.

"Words are tools. Use them, don’t worship them." → Like a key: functional, not sacred.

The Shift: Letting Go of Words and Embracing Belief

1. The Obsession with the Guide

I was constantly thinking about the Guide—the words, the rules, the framework. I couldn’t stop analyzing it, dissecting it, checking and rechecking every point. I examined my state, scrutinized my reactions, and evaluated every thought through the lens of these words. It was like an endless loop: "Am I doing this right? Does this align with the Guide?" I was trapped in a cycle of overthinking, unable to move forward because I was too busy verifying, too busy proving.

At some point, I realized: I’ve studied enough. I’ve seen enough. I decided to stop. Not just to pause, but to leave it all behind—to let the Guide, and all the words tied to it, stay in the past. I told myself: "Okay, that’s it. I don’t need to think about this anymore." And when I did—that’s when everything changed.

2. The Revelation: Words Fade, Reality Remains

When I stopped fixating on the words—when I stopped trying to control my thoughts with them—I saw the world as it is. Not through the filter of definitions, not through the need to label or justify, but directly. The state I’d been chasing unfolded on its own. It wasn’t something I could force by clinging to the Guide. It was something that emerged when I let go.

But here’s the catch: words still flickered. Even in this pure state, I’d catch myself describing things—"beautiful," "cool," "amazing." At first, I resisted. I’d think: "Wait, can I really believe these words? Can I trust them? What if they’re not ‘true’?" I was holding back. Not fully committing. Not fully believing.

3. The Barrier: Self-Censorship

I noticed something critical: I was suppressing my own belief. Even when I felt joy, even when the world felt vibrant and alive, I’d hesitate. "No, I can’t believe ‘cool’—what does that even mean? I can’t prove it. I can’t justify it." It was like a reflex, a leftover habit from all those hours spent analyzing the Guide. I was still trying to measure my experience against some invisible standard.

But then I asked myself: Why?
Why was I holding back?
Who said I couldn’t believe in these words?
Who said I needed proof to feel what I felt?

The answer hit me: No one. There was no rule, no law, no logic that forbade me from believing in my own perceptions. The only thing stopping me was me—my own lingering fear that belief without proof was somehow wrong.

4. The Breakthrough: Unconditional Belief

So I made a choice: I stopped resisting.
I let myself believe in the words as they came—"beautiful," "amazing," "joyful"—without questioning them. Not because they were true in some objective sense, but because I felt them. I didn’t need to dissect or defend them. I didn’t need to know if they were "correct." I just… believed.

And it wasn’t the old kind of belief—the kind tied to evidence, to logic, to the need for validation. This was different. This was belief without conditions. I believed because I chose to. Because it felt right. Because, in that moment, the words were the experience, and the experience was enough.

5. The State: Freedom in Trust

When I stopped censoring myself, the state deepened. I walked outside, I ate, I moved through the world, and everything felt richer. Not because I was trying to feel a certain way, but because I wasn’t blocking myself anymore. I wasn’t second-guessing the joy, the beauty, the little thrills of existence. I was just… there, fully present, fully open.

It wasn’t about blind faith. It was about trust—trust in my own perceptions, trust in the moment, trust that I didn’t need to prove my happiness to feel it.

6. The Paradox: Belief Without Clinging

Here’s the strange part: this belief didn’t feel like the old kind. Before, belief was tied to words—to definitions, to justifications. Now, it was lighter. It wasn’t about holding on to an idea. It was about letting go of the need to hold on at all.

I still saw the words—"wow, that’s beautiful"—but I didn’t grip them. I didn’t demand they be true. I just let them pass through me, like ripples on water. The joy wasn’t in the words themselves. It was in the lack of resistance.

7. The Fear: What If I Believe the Wrong Thing?

At first, I worried: What if I start believing something harmful? What if I trust the wrong feeling? But then I realized—nothing bad happens. The fear was just a ghost, a leftover from the old way of thinking. The only thing that actually happened when I believed freely was… more joy. More presence. More life.

My body wanted to delight in things—to notice beauty, to feel excitement, to enjoy. But my mind kept interrupting: "No, you can’t believe that. You can’t prove it." Once I stopped listening to that voice, everything shifted.

8. The Guide’s Aftermath: When Analysis Becomes a Trap

I also noticed something about the Guide: when I focused on it—when I treated it like a research project, constantly monitoring my state, my reactions, my words—it hurt. Not physically, but in a deeper way. It was exhausting. It was like trying to control a river with my hands.

But now? I don’t need the Guide for myself. I’ve internalized what I needed. I’m in the right state. The Guide was a tool, not a cage. Now, it’s only useful for one thing: sharing. For helping others. For refining the words so they can point the way—but not for me anymore. I don’t need to think about it. I just need to live.

9. The Confidence: Knowing Without Doubt

There’s a quiet certainty now. Not arrogance, not blind confidence—but a deep, settled knowing. I’ve explored every angle. I’ve tested, questioned, and retested. And now? I trust it. I don’t need to keep picking at it like a scab. The work is done. The state is stable. All that’s left is to be in it—and to write the Guide for others, when the time comes.

10. The Next Step: Testing and Sharing

So what’s next?

Live. Just exist in this state, without overthinking.

Write. Document the Guide—not for me, but for those who might need it.

Test. See how this holds up in different situations, with different people.

If it lasts, if it stays solid, then I’ll know it’s real. And if it does? Then the only thing left is to share it—and let others find their own way to the same freedom.

Final Note: The Core Insight

The biggest lesson? Words are tools, not masters.
They can describe, but they can also distort. The real magic isn’t in the words themselves—it’s in what happens when you stop needing them to be true. When you let go of the demand for proof, for justification, for control—that’s when you find the state you’ve been searching for all along.

And it’s simpler than you think.
You just have to believe—not in the words, but in the experience they point to.
And then?
Let go.

The Beginning: The Collapse of Certainty

I found myself at a point where I realized I could not prove anything—not my own words, not anyone else’s. No one knows anything. The only guidance I had was a simple idea: leave all words—mine and others’—in the past, including these very words. When I did that, I began to see the world as it truly is.

At first, this state was strange but peaceful. I wasn’t striving for anything, rushing nowhere. I was just… present. Calm. Quiet. But then, something unexpected happened: I noticed a desire rising in me—a longing to believe in something. Not in the way of blind faith, but softly, gently. I wanted to trust my own observations, my feelings, the words that arose in me when I saw or felt something. I wanted to believe in all of it—not as knowledge, but as an act of will.

I told myself: "I don’t have to restrain myself. I can believe in whatever I want, because there is no knowledge that forbids me from doing so." That single thought shifted something inside me. My state expanded, ever so slightly. It wasn’t about logic; it was about wanting to believe, even though nothing was proven.

The First Shift: Belief as Liberation

For a while, I lived in that quiet, wordless state. But then, without warning, a thought surfaced: "I still want to believe." Not in a desperate way, but as a quiet insistence. I realized I was holding back—clinging to the idea that nothing could be proven, that belief was forbidden. But then I thought: Fuck it. I’ll believe anyway.

And just like that, my state transformed. It became incredible—a 10 out of 10. Every sensation was amplified: music sent shivers through me, every glance out the window filled me with joy, every bite of food was ecstasy. I was alive in a way I had never been before.

But why? Because I had started to believe—not in knowledge, not in proofs, but in the sheer act of believing itself. I had convinced myself that "I can believe in anything I want, because nothing forbids me." And that belief became my reality.

The Trap: Belief as Knowledge

At first, this was exhilarating. But then, I made a mistake. I began to analyze my state. I thought: "I should write a guide for others. I should explain how to reach this." The moment I started dissecting it, something broke.

I noticed a strange pain in my eye—psychosomatic, sharp, insistent. I realized: I’m treating my belief as if it were knowledge. I was holding onto the idea that "I know I can believe in anything" as if it were a proven fact. But it wasn’t. It was just another belief.

When I saw this, I tried to let go. I dug deeper, uncovering the illusion: I had been believing in words again. The moment I stopped, the magic vanished. The state collapsed. I spent an entire day trying to get it back, but nothing worked.

The Lesson: Belief Cannot Be Forced

I learned something cruel: The only way to return to that state was to believe in words again. But I couldn’t. Not genuinely. Because deep down, I knew—words are not proof. No matter how much I wanted to, I couldn’t force myself to believe in something I knew was unprovable.

So I surrendered. I returned to the original state—the one where I left all words behind. It wasn’t as intense, but it was stable. No ecstasy, no madness, just… peace. A quiet, unshakable presence.

The Second Shift: Belief Without Words

Then, something unexpected happened.

I was washing dishes, lost in the rhythm of the water, the clink of plates. And suddenly, a thought arose: "I still want to believe." Not in words, not in ideas—but in what I see. In the beauty of a sunset, the warmth of tea, the quiet hum of life around me.

This time, it wasn’t about forcing belief. It was about allowing it. I didn’t need to prove anything. I didn’t need to cling to the idea that "nothing is proven." I just… let go.

And my state shifted again. Not to the same frenzied high as before, but to something deeper. A quiet, steady joy. A trust in reality as it is—not because I knew it was true, but because I chose to trust it.

The Final State: Life Without the Need for Proof

Now, I live differently.

No rush. No desperate need to achieve, to prove, to do.

No lack. I don’t feel like anything is missing. If I work, it’s not out of need, but because it’s interesting.

No illusion. I see reality clearly—not through the lens of beliefs, but as it is. And strangely, that’s enough.

The world doesn’t scream its beauty. A sunset doesn’t announce itself as magnificent. It just… is. And when I look at it without words, without demands, I find it perfect—not in a grand, dramatic way, but in a quiet, unshakable one.

The Warning: The Trap of Trying to Recreate It

If I tried to explain this to someone, they might try to replicate it through words. But that’s the trap. You can’t force this state. You can’t believe your way into it by repeating phrases like a mantra.

The only way is to:

Let go of all words—your own, others’, even the idea of "letting go."

Live. Just… exist. Wash dishes. Walk. Breathe.

Wait. At some point, the desire to believe will arise—not as a demand, but as a quiet whisper. "I still want to believe."

And when it does, you won’t need to force it. You’ll just… trust.

The Paradox: A Guide That Cannot Be Followed

I could write a guide. I could say:

"Stop believing in words."

"See the world as it is."

"Let belief come naturally."

But the moment someone tries to follow it, they’ll fail. Because the state isn’t about doing—it’s about being.

So I won’t write a guide. I’ll just live.

And if someone asks me how to find this peace? I’ll smile and say:
"You already know. You just have to stop trying to prove it."

Final Thought:
The hardest part isn’t reaching the right state. It’s avoiding the wrong ones—the traps of forced belief, the illusions of knowledge, the desperate need to understand.

The right state is simple. It’s here. Always.

The Experiment with Words and Reality: A Journey Through States of Mind

1. The Initial Guide: Leaving Words in the Past

I began testing a method—a guide—that revolved around leaving all words in the past: my own, others’, every word I encountered. The idea was to stop engaging with them, to stop thinking about them. By doing this, I entered a state where I no longer focused on words at all. I simply saw reality as it was, unfiltered by language.

At first, this state felt incredible. There was a strange clarity, a peace in just observing without the noise of internal dialogue. But then I noticed a problem: without words, I couldn’t strategize. In games, in life—I had no plans, no direction. I was just reacting, drifting. I realized I needed words to function. To plan, to decide, to navigate the world. So I started using them again.

But the moment I reintroduced words, everything changed. I began looking at them—examining them, questioning them. And that’s when the crisis hit.

2. The Collapse of Meaning: "Why?"

As soon as I started using words again, I fell into a spiral:

No word is proven. No word holds absolute knowledge.

If nothing is proven, nothing has meaning. Why live? Why strive for anything?

I saw that I could chase a million units of pleasure in life… or zero. And I saw no difference between the two. If pleasure is just a word, a concept I can’t prove, why bother pursuing it? Why not just end it all and skip the "pointless" struggle?

I was paralyzed. No motivation, no purpose. Work? Why? To earn money? For what? For more pleasure? But pleasure itself felt meaningless. I had lost faith—not in a religious sense, but in the idea that anything mattered. Without belief, there was no point.

I was stuck between two terrible options:

Live without words → No strategy, no future, just primitive existence.

Use words but see their emptiness → Constant awareness that nothing is proven, that life has no inherent meaning.

Neither worked.

3. The Breakthrough: Using Words Without Looking at Them

Then, it hit me: The problem isn’t words themselves—it’s what happens when I look at them.

Words are tools. They help me plan, analyze, optimize. They’re powerful.

But when I focus on them—when I observe them, dissect them, question them—they destroy me. They pull me into a world of doubt, of "why?" and "what’s the point?"

Reality isn’t scary. Descriptions of reality are scary. My brain reacts to words like "failure," "death," or "meaningless" with fear, even if the actual experience isn’t fearful.

So I tried something new:
Use words, but don’t look at them.

Think in words, plan in words, describe reality in words…

…but never examine the words themselves. Never question their validity. Never stare at them.

Focus only on reality. Let words be a background tool, like a hammer you don’t analyze—you just use it to build.

And it worked.

4. The New State: Effortless Presence

The state that emerged was better than anything before—even better than when I had blind faith.

No obsession with the future. I still have plans, but I don’t dwell on them. I act in the present.

No existential dread. Because I’m not looking at the words that would trigger it ("meaningless," "why," "pointless").

Pure, unfiltered experience. I feel my desires—not as mental constructs, but as physical, "chest-level" urges. No overthinking, no second-guessing.

"Head-wants" (when I believe I want something because of words) are gone.

Only "chest-wants" remain—instinctive, immediate, unquestioned.

No tilt, no negativity. In games, in work—strategy returns, but without the mental noise. I play, I act, I enjoy, without the weight of doubt.

It’s comfortable. Not the chemical high of blind faith, but a deep, psychological ease. Like this is how a healthy mind should feel.

5. The Paradox of Desire

Now, I want everything. Not in a frantic, desperate way—but in a curious, open way.

I want to play, to walk, to write, to work… but I don’t need to. There’s no pressure.

I don’t trust this state will last forever. So for now, I’m savoring it, not planning long-term. Why commit to work if the state might vanish? Better to immerse myself fully in the present.

But I know that at some point, I’ll realize this isn’t going away. Then I’ll start building again—long-term, with confidence.

6. The Final Guide: The Art of Not Looking

The refined method is simple:

Use words as tools. Plan, describe, analyze—but don’t fixate on them.

Never examine the words themselves. Don’t ask, "Is this true? What does this mean? Why?"

Stay in reality. Feel your desires physically, not mentally. Act from the "chest," not the "head."

If you slip and start looking at words—if you begin questioning, doubting—stop. Return to pure observation. The moment you see words as just words (not truth, not lies, just tools), the dread vanishes.

Result:

All the power of language (strategy, creativity, planning) without the suffering.

A state of effortless presence—better than faith, because it’s not dependent on belief.

No meaning crisis, because you’re not searching for meaning in words. You’re just living.

Closing Thought

I didn’t expect to write this down. It feels too simple—almost too good to be true. But it works. And for now, that’s enough.

A Guide to Freeing the Mind: The Illusion of Belief in Words and Observations

Introduction: Why This Guide Exists

I decided to record this guide as an audio first because speaking is easier than writing. When you write, you have to carefully choose every word, and it slows you down. Speaking, however, allows thoughts to flow naturally. So, I’ll begin by explaining how the mind works and where the problem lies.

Part 1: The Problem of Belief in Observations

1. The Two Types of Observations

There are two kinds of observations:

External observations – What I see with my eyes (e.g., the sun, a tree).

Internal observations – What I perceive in my mind (emotions, thoughts, mental images).

At first, I believed in these observations. I thought: "I know what I see. What I observe is proven." But this belief is an illusion.

The realization:
I cannot prove any observation to myself—not the sun I see, not the emotions I feel. If I look closely, I see that I cannot verify any of them. They are just experiences, not knowledge.

Conclusion:
I stop believing in any observations—internal or external—because I cannot prove them.

2. Observations Created by Words

There’s another layer: observations that arise from words.

When I say, "The weather is nice," I didn’t see that thought before I spoke it. The words created a new observation in my mind.

Every word corresponds to some observation, but these observations are also unprovable.

The realization:
Just as I cannot prove external or internal observations, I cannot prove the observations generated by words.

Conclusion:
I stop believing in any observations—even those created by my own words.

Part 2: The Problem of Belief in Words

1. Why Do I Look at Words?

The mind is structured so that I observe reality and describe it with words. The problem isn’t the words themselves—it’s that I look at them instead of continuing to observe reality.

When I look at reality (e.g., the sun) and describe it ("I see the sun"), but keep looking at the sun, everything is fine.

When I shift my focus to the words ("I see the sun"), I start analyzing them, believing in them, and suffering begins.

Why does this happen?
Because I believe in words. I treat them as knowledge, as proven truth.

2. The Four Beliefs That Make Me Look at Words

There are four core beliefs that trap me in this cycle:

Belief 1: Faith in Observations

I believe in what I observe (internal or external).

Solution: Realize I cannot prove any observation → belief disappears.

Belief 2: Faith in Words Themselves

I think my words are knowledge, that they are proven.

Solution: Since I can’t prove the observations behind words, I can’t prove the words themselves → belief disappears.

Belief 3: Faith in the Effect of Words

When I look at words, they affect me in two ways:

Imagination: I imagine scenarios based on the words (e.g., "I am worthless" creates a mental image of a miserable life).

Interpretation: I try to understand what the words mean (e.g., "They don’t love me" → "I am unlovable" → despair).

I believe in this effect because I believe in the words that cause it.

Solution: The effect is also unprovable. If I stop believing in the words, the effect loses its power.

Belief 4: Faith in Words as Knowledge

I think some words are "proven"—that they represent true knowledge.

Solution: No word is provable. Knowledge is an illusion.

Final Realization:

No one knows anything. All words ever spoken in human history are unproven.

Words are tools, not truth. They are useful for planning, imagining, and strategizing—but they are not reality.

Part 3: The Illusion of Others’ Words

The mind separates "my words" from "others’ words," but the same rules apply:

Others’ observations → Unprovable.

Others’ words → Unprovable.

The effect of others’ words on me → Unprovable.

Others’ "knowledge" → Unprovable.

Conclusion:
I stop believing in anyone’s words—mine or others’—because none can be proven.

Part 4: The Solution – Stop Looking at Words

The Core Problem:

All suffering comes from looking at words and believing in them.

The Solution:

Stop looking at words entirely.

Do not analyze them.

Do not imagine their meanings.

Do not let them define your emotions.

What Happens When You Stop?

Reality becomes neutral. The world is not inherently good or bad—only words make it seem that way.

Emotions shift from "head" to "chest."

Head feelings (stress, anxiety, guilt) come from believing in words ("I must," "I should," "I failed").

Chest feelings (natural desires) exist without words. When you stop believing in words, you return to these pure, instinctive desires.

Why Words Are Still Useful

Words are tools for:

Planning (imagining the future).

Strategizing (organizing life).

Expanding perception (thinking beyond the present moment).

But they must never be treated as truth.

Part 5: Common Objections & Clarifications

1. "But What’s the Meaning of Life?"

This question arises only when you look at words.

If you stop looking at words, the question disappears—because it was never about reality, only about unprovable concepts.

2. "What About Desires and Needs?"

Head desires ("I must have X") come from believing in words → they create suffering.

Chest desires (natural attraction to something) exist without words → they are pure and free.

3. "What About Fear, Anger, Sadness?"

All negative emotions stem from believing in words:

Fear → "I must do X, or I’ll fail." (Belief in "must" and "failure.")

Anger → "The world should be different." (Belief in "should.")

Sadness → "I didn’t get what I wanted." (Belief in "want" and "loss.")

Solution:
See these words as unproven → the emotions lose their power.

Final Summary: The Path to Freedom

Realize: No observation (internal or external) is provable.

Realize: No word (yours or others’) is provable.

Realize: The effect of words is also unprovable.

Stop looking at words. Use them as tools, but never believe in them.

Live from chest feelings, not head beliefs. Natural desires replace artificial suffering.

Result:

No more anxiety, guilt, or despair.

No more existential crises ("What’s the point?").

A return to pure perception—seeing reality as it is, not as words describe it.

Closing Thought

This is not about rejecting words entirely—it’s about no longer being controlled by them. Words are like glasses: useful for seeing farther, but not the reality itself.

The only rule:
Never look at words. Always look at what they describe—and even then, remember: you cannot prove it.

The Collapse of Belief: A State Built on Words

1. The Realization of a Fallacy

I was recording a new guide when I realized something crushing: my previous state—the one I had built—was founded on belief. Again. I had fallen back into the trap of believing in words.

The core idea of my last guide was: "Do not look at words." I believed I could ignore words because they were all undemonstrated, unproven. But this belief itself was a paradox. It rested on two layers of faith:

Faith in my ability – that I could ignore words.

Faith in the reason – that because words were undemonstrated, I had a justified cause to ignore them.

But then, the structure collapsed. I asked myself:

Can I truly believe I can ignore words if I cannot prove to myself that I can?

Can I believe that undemonstrated words justify ignoring them if I cannot prove that justification?

The moment I questioned this, my "ulcer of belief" flared up. The state I had been in—euphoric, powerful—vanished. For the last day, I’ve been lost, trying to reclaim it. I wanted that belief back because it felt incredible. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t restore it. It was impossible.

2. The Desperation and the Breakthrough

After a full day of suffering (or not suffering, but searching), I hit a wall. I thought: This is it. I know nothing. Everything is ruined. Then, for the first time in half a day, I went to eat. I had avoided food because it felt meaningless—but hunger finally pulled me away from my thoughts.

And then, something unexpected happened.
I noticed that my state wasn’t actually bad. It was… decent. Not the euphoric high of belief, but not terrible either. A different state. One I had been avoiding because it wasn’t that state—the one built on faith.

I realized:

I was clinging to the memory of the belief-driven state because it was intense, motivating, full of meaning.

But now, I had access to another state—one that didn’t rely on belief at all.

3. The Mechanics of Belief and Action

I started analyzing how belief had worked before.

How the old states functioned:

I believed in words—that I could perform an action (e.g., "leave all words in the past" or "do not look at words").

I believed in a reason—that because words were undemonstrated, I had a justified cause to act (or not act).

This reason became a perceived knowledge—something "proven" enough to trust.

The belief in this "knowledge" then enabled action—I could ignore words, leave them behind, etc.

The action (or inaction) created a powerful state—motivation, euphoria, a sense of control.

But now, the chain was broken.

No words could be proven. Thus, no reason could be trusted.

No reason = no belief in ability. If I couldn’t prove a cause, I couldn’t believe I could act on it.

No belief = no action. I was paralyzed.

I saw that all my past "guides" (mental instructions like "do not look," "leave in the past") were built on this fragile foundation. They only worked because I believed in them. But belief requires proof, and proof was impossible.

4. The Illusion of Control

I realized something devastating:

The only "action" I could take in my mind was to speak words to myself—and then believe them.

To "not look at words," I had to first say to myself: "Do not look at words."

To "leave words in the past," I had to first say: "Leave words in the past."

But if I couldn’t believe the words I said to myself (because no reason was proven), then I could do nothing.

This was the trap:

Without words, I couldn’t act.

With words, I couldn’t believe them—because no reason was solid.

I was completely stuck.

5. The New State: Action Without Belief

Then, I noticed something strange.
Despite not believing in any words or reasons, my mind had stopped looking at words on its own. It had left all knowledge in the past—not because I commanded it, but because it understood something.

What changed?

I had spent so much time searching for a proven reason to ignore words.

I had realized that no reason could ever be proven—just like no knowledge could be proven.

And then… my mind stopped obsessing over the need for a reason.

It was as if my brain said:
"There is no proven cause to look at words. There is no proven cause to act. Therefore… I will not."

And just like that, I was free.

6. The Nature of the New State

This new state was radically different from the belief-driven ones. Here’s how:

A. No Description, No Guide

Before, my states had descriptions:

"I do not look at words because they are undemonstrated."

"I leave all knowledge in the past."

Now? No description exists. There are no words anchoring the state. It simply is.

B. No Motivation, Only Desire

I still have desires (e.g., to create, to live).

But there is no motivation to fulfill them.

This doesn’t feel like apathy—it feels like pure freedom. I am not pushed by anything.

C. Effortless Comfort

I am completely indifferent to everything—yet perfectly content.

I can work, function, enjoy life—but nothing demands my attention.

It’s life without the burden of meaning.

D. No Words, No Thoughts

My mind is not fixated on words (unlike before, where I was constantly analyzing, justifying, believing).

I don’t think about:

"Are words proven?"

"Do I have a reason to act?"

"What should I believe?"

The obsession is gone.

E. The Paradox of Passivity

Normally, if I tried to "do nothing" (no words, no commands), my state would worsen—because I’d still be thinking about not doing anything.

Now? I’m not even trying to do nothing. I just am.

And it feels amazing.

7. How This State Emerged

I’m not entirely sure what triggered it, but here’s what I suspect:

Exhaustion of Belief

I fully realized that no knowledge is proven, no reason is solid.

I stopped searching for a justification to act (or not act).

The Collapse of the "Why"

Before, I was stuck in:
"I need a reason to ignore words → but no reason is proven → therefore I must keep looking at words."

Now, my mind accepted that no reason exists—and stopped demanding one.

The Accidental Shift

I was hungry, distracted, and stopped fixating on the problem.

In that moment, my mind naturally let go of the obsession with words and reasons.

The Role of Understanding (Not Belief)

I didn’t believe my way into this state.

I understood that:

Words are not knowledge.

Reasons are not proven.

Actions based on words are illusions.

This understanding removed the need to act—and the mind followed.

8. Why This State Feels Better

At first, it was unfamiliar—even unsettling. The belief-driven states were intense, meaningful, motivating. This one was… quiet. Empty. Free.

But after 20-30 minutes, it unfolded into something extraordinary:

No mental effort. No commands, no beliefs, no justifications.

No resistance. No struggle against words or thoughts.

Pure presence. Just existing, without the noise of "should" or "must."

Effortless joy. Music sounds better. Life feels lighter. There’s no weight of meaning—but there’s also no suffering from its absence.

It’s better than the belief-driven states because:

Those states were dependent on faith—and faith is fragile.

This state is self-sustaining. It doesn’t rely on anything.

9. The Minimal "Guide" (If You Can Call It That)

If I had to distill this into steps (though it’s not really a "guide"), it would be:

Realize that no knowledge is proven.

Words are not truth. They are just words.

See that no reason is solid.

You cannot prove any cause to act (or not act).

Stop searching for a reason.

The mind clings to words because it’s looking for justification.

When you accept that no justification exists, the mind lets go.

Do not command yourself to "not look" or "leave in the past."

Any command is still a word, still a belief.

Just observe that the mind can stop on its own.

Let the state unfold.

It may feel strange at first (empty, unfamiliar).

Give it time. It expands into something beautiful.

10. The Final Realization

The old states were illusions—built on the shaky ground of belief in words.
This new state is real—because it’s not built on anything at all.

I don’t need to do anything to maintain it.
I don’t need to believe anything to sustain it.
It’s just… here.

And for the first time, I’m not afraid of losing it—because there’s nothing to lose.

Final Note:
This isn’t a technique. It’s not a hack. It’s the end of the search—the moment when the mind stops trying to control itself and simply is.

And that’s enough.

The Spiral of Belief and Doubt

I’ve reached a point where I realize: I can’t do anything. Not in the literal sense, but in the way that matters to me—through words, through belief, through the mechanisms of my own mind.

At first, it started with faith in descriptions—faith in observations, then faith in words themselves, then faith in the effect of words. Then came faith in knowledge, in causes, in meaning. The list grew endlessly: faith in opinions, in assertions, in explanations. I could attach "faith in..." to any concept, and it would feel just as hollow. I saw how this was spiraling: I could believe in anything—or nothing at all.

And then it hit me: I can’t act through words. I can’t say something and make it true. I can’t believe in my own words enough to act on them. Words aren’t causes. Or rather, I can’t prove they are. I can’t believe in anything—not because I choose not to, but because I can’t. The more I tried, the more I saw the futility.

I compiled a list of my incapacities:

I can’t believe.

I can’t do (in the way I once thought I could).

I can’t explain or understand.

I can’t prove anything—least of all, that I can’t do these things.

The paradox? I can’t even prove that I can’t do anything. If I could, that would imply some capacity—but I can’t. So I’m left with: I strictly, absolutely cannot. And the irony? Even this realization is something I can’t fully believe.

The Trap of Trying to Escape

I saw myself stuck in a loop:

Problem: I feel nothing—no motivation, no joy, no care.

Cause: Because I believe (or don’t believe) I can’t do anything.

But why do I believe that? Because every time I try to do something with words, it fails. I can’t prove the words true.

Result: I’m left with no faith in anything—including the idea that I can’t do anything.

I tried to force myself to stop thinking about it, but the only tool I had was words—the very thing that failed me. How do you stop thinking about words… using words?

I’d tell myself: "Stop obsessing over this." But then I’d ask: Do I believe that? And the cycle would restart.

The Origin: Fear of Anger, Sadness, and Fear

Then, in a conversation with Nastya, I saw the root of it all.

Why did I start this? Not for happiness, not for joy—but to avoid three things:

Anger (which I despised so much I once considered suicide over it).

Sadness (which felt like a weight I couldn’t bear).

Fear (which paralyzed me).

I hated these emotions with a visceral intensity. More than physical pain, more than hunger, more than anything—I could not tolerate them. And when I discovered that words could temporarily shield me from them, I became obsessed.

I thought: "If I can just find the right words, the right beliefs, I’ll never feel these again." So I dug deeper into my mind, dissecting every thought, every assumption, every "should." I built a fortress of logic to keep the emotions out.

But the fortress became a prison.

The Collapse of the System

The more I relied on words to "fix" myself, the more I saw their fragility:

First stage: I believed others owed me something. When I realized they didn’t, I got angry.

Second stage: I shifted the blame to myself—"I owe myself something." This bred fear and self-loathing.

Third stage: I tried to dismantle all beliefs, including the belief that I owed anything to anyone. But even that left me empty.

I saw the pattern: Every belief I adopted to escape pain only created new pain.

Belief in others’ obligations → Anger.

Belief in my own obligations → Fear.

Belief in no obligations → Numbness, meaninglessness.

I had built a machine to eliminate suffering, but the machine required faith in itself—and I could no longer believe.

The Way Out: Seeing the Purpose

Nastya helped me see it differently. She asked: "Why are you doing this?"

And I realized: I had forgotten the original purpose.

I wasn’t trying to achieve happiness. I was trying to avoid misery. But in the process, I had lost sight of the fact that the misery was already gone.

I no longer felt chronic anger.

I no longer lived in fear.

I no longer drowned in sadness.

The goal had been met—but I kept searching for a solution to a problem that no longer existed.

The Final Shift: Letting Go of the Search

The breakthrough came when I understood:

The only reason I kept obsessing over words and beliefs was the fear that without them, the pain would return.

But the pain wasn’t coming back. I had already dismantled the mechanisms that caused it.

Therefore, there was no reason to keep searching. The quest was over.

I didn’t need to prove anything to myself. I didn’t need to believe in any final solution. I just needed to see that the war was already won.

What’s Left: A New State of Being

Now, I’m in a strange, quiet place:

No anger. (I don’t even remember how it feels.)

No fear. (The world doesn’t threaten me.)

No sadness. (Or if it comes, it doesn’t stay.)

No need for words to "fix" me. (Because nothing is broken.)

It’s not euphoria. It’s not excitement. It’s a deep, stable calm—like the silence after a storm.

What’s next?

Test this state. Live in it. See if it holds.

Write a guide (not to convince others, but to clarify for myself).

Stop trying to improve it with words. It doesn’t need improvement.

The Lesson (For Me and Maybe Others)

This wasn’t about philosophy. It wasn’t about enlightenment. It was about survival.

I was drowning in emotions I couldn’t bear, so I built a life raft out of words. But the raft became an anchor.

The way out wasn’t more words—it was seeing that I didn’t need the raft anymore.

Now, I float.

Final Thought:
"I can’t do anything" was never the problem.
The problem was that I kept trying to do something about it.

The Obsession with Unbelief: A Search for Absolute Control

1. The Core Desire: To Believe in Nothing

I noticed something striking about myself: I was obsessed with the idea of believing in absolutely nothing. Not as a philosophical stance, but as a survival mechanism. This wasn’t just skepticism—it was a visceral need to ensure that no belief, no assumption, no hidden faith could take root in my mind. Why? Because I had proof, hardened over four years, that belief—any belief—inevitably led to suffering.

For four years, I tested this relentlessly. Every time I caught myself believing in something—an idea, a hope, a person—I would feel the familiar surge of anger, sadness, or fear. It was predictable, mechanical. So I trained myself to hunt down beliefs like a predator stalking prey. "Am I believing something right now? What if I’m wrong? What if this is just another illusion?" I would dissect my own mind, not to find truth, but to ensure there was no truth to find. Because truth, in my experience, was just another belief in disguise—and beliefs always failed me.

2. The Real Fear: The Return of Pain

But why was I so fixated on this? At first, I thought it was about avoiding negative emotions. If I believed in nothing, I couldn’t be disappointed. No expectations, no betrayal. But then I realized: the deeper fear wasn’t the emotions themselves. It was the possibility that they might return permanently.

I had found a state—call it detachment, call it emptiness—where anger, sadness, and fear didn’t touch me. But I was terrified that this state was fragile, built on a lie I hadn’t yet uncovered. So I kept digging, kept questioning, kept proving to myself that I wasn’t fooling myself. Because if I stopped, if I let myself believe in anything, the old pain might come rushing back. And I knew, with absolute certainty, that I would rather die than live through that again.

3. The Paradox: The Search for Certainty Destroyed Everything

Here’s the irony: my quest to eliminate all belief became its own kind of belief—a belief in the infallibility of my own skepticism. I was so afraid of being wrong that I turned skepticism into a religion. And like any religion, it demanded total devotion.

I would ask myself:

"Do I believe in this thought? No? Good. What about this one?"

"Am I secretly hoping for something? That’s a belief. Crush it."

"Am I afraid of losing this state? That’s a belief too. Destroy it."

But the more I purged, the more hollow I became. I couldn’t act, couldn’t feel, couldn’t live—because living required some degree of trust, some willingness to not know. And I had trained myself to reject uncertainty at all costs.

4. The Turning Point: Realizing the Goal Was Meaningless

Then, something shifted. I asked myself:
"Why do I need to know that I’m not wrong? What’s the point?"

And the answer hit me like a wave: There was no point.

I had been operating on autopilot, like a student cramming for an exam they no longer cared about. The original goal—to never feel fear, anger, or sadness again—had lost its urgency. Not because those emotions were suddenly acceptable, but because the obsession with avoiding them had become its own prison.

I realized:

I had spent years fighting ghosts—not the emotions themselves, but the idea of them.

The only reason I kept questioning was habit, not necessity.

Most people don’t constantly interrogate why they feel good. They just… feel good. And for the first time, I understood that I could too.

5. The Liberation: Letting Go of the "Why"

The final breakthrough came when I stopped asking "Why?"

For years, I had believed that understanding the mechanism of my peace was the only way to ensure it lasted. But understanding was just another form of control—and control was what had ruined me in the first place.

Now, I don’t need to know how this works. I don’t need to dissect the absence of fear to trust that it’s real. I just… don’t feel it. And that’s enough.

6. The Aftermath: A Guide That Kills Itself

This entire journey was about creating a guide—a system to permanently erase fear, anger, and sadness. And in a way, it worked. But the guide’s ultimate lesson was:
The moment you stop needing it, it disappears.

I can’t force myself to feel those old emotions now, even if I try. But I’m not clinging to the method that got me here. I’m not analyzing, not doubting, not fighting. I’m just… living. And for the first time, that doesn’t feel like a threat.

7. The Unanswered Question: What About Others?

Here’s what puzzles me now:

What about people who don’t share this obsession? Those who tolerate fear, anger, sadness—who don’t see them as existential threats?

Will my guide work for them? Or is it only for those who, like me, would rather die than feel that pain again?

I don’t know. But I suspect that if they truly understood—if they felt the weight of what I’m saying—they wouldn’t have a choice. The mind would rewire itself, just as mine did.

Final Thought: The Silence After the Storm

I don’t think about it anymore. That’s the miracle.

For years, my mind was a warzone—constant vigilance, constant doubt. Now? Stillness. Not because I’ve "solved" anything, but because I’ve stopped fighting.

And for the first time, that doesn’t scare me.

The Entry into the State of Doubt

I find myself trying to articulate how to guide others through the same mental process I’ve experienced—how to stop thinking about what I believe or don’t believe, and how to escape the paralysis of absolute skepticism. The first step, as I see it, is to reach the point where you realize you can’t do anything. When you arrive there, all emotions vanish. You annihilate everything inside—beliefs, desires, even the words you once trusted. Yet you remain in this void: believing nothing, wanting nothing, clinging to no words, no convictions.

The question then becomes: How do you leave this state? You entered it by questioning everything, by dissecting your own mind. But how do you exit without relying on the very words and beliefs that got you here? Words won’t pull you out—you can’t believe in words to escape a crisis of belief. So what else is there? How do you even describe the alternative in words?

The Key Question: Why Did I Enter This State?

The first concrete step is to recall why you entered this mental space in the first place. Ask yourself:

Why did I start questioning everything?

Why did I step into this emptiness?

For me, the answer is visceral. When I ask myself this, I see a clear image: I was drowning in stress, anger, sadness, fear—overwhelming negative emotions I could no longer ignore. I couldn’t keep living with them. So I decided to study them. I needed to understand where these emotions came from, to trace them back to their roots in my beliefs, and then—change those beliefs with words.

For example:

I learned my anger stemmed from the belief that "I am owed something."

My fear came from "I must do something."

My sadness arose from "I want something" or "I need something."

Once I identified these beliefs, I used words to dismantle them. I stopped believing in the things that fed my pain. That was the only reason I started this journey: to escape suffering by unraveling the beliefs that caused it.

The Completion of the Goal

Now, that goal is achieved. I no longer believe in the things that once tormented me. The emotions tied to those beliefs—anger, fear, sadness—are gone. So what remains? The purpose for which I entered this state no longer exists.

It’s like walking into a library to find an answer, reading every book, understanding everything—and then forgetting why you came in the first place. You’re left standing in the aisles, holding all this knowledge, but the original question has dissolved. The search is over. The only reason to keep searching would be if the goal were still unfinished or impossible. But in my case:

The goal is accomplished. I no longer believe in the things that caused my pain.

If it weren’t accomplished, I’d see that it couldn’t be—and then the search would also become meaningless.

Either way, the drive to keep questioning vanishes. The mind only engages with what it sees as purposeful. If there’s no purpose left in dissecting belief, the mind stops.

The Illusion of New Goals

Could I invent a new reason to stay in this state? For example, chasing a "blissful" mental state through belief? No. That’s illogical. You can’t force a good state by believing in words—because believing in words requires actually believing them, and that’s not something you can command. The only coherent goal was the one I’ve already met: eliminating suffering by dismantling harmful beliefs.

Others might enter this state for similar reasons: to reformulate their beliefs, to replace painful ones with something easier to live with. But once that’s done—or once you see it can’t be done—there’s nothing left to do here. The mind doesn’t wander in circles forever. It stops when the task is complete or impossible.

The Mechanism of Release

The exit strategy is simple:

Ask: Why did I start this? (Answer: To escape pain.)

Check: Is that goal met or impossible? (In my case: Met.)

Conclude: There’s no reason to keep thinking about it.

The mind, when it sees no purpose in a line of thought, drops it. It’s not about forcing yourself to stop. It’s about recognizing that the engine driving the search—pain, curiosity, desperation—has run its course. The questions no longer pull you forward because the answers no longer matter.

Final Realization: Freedom from the Loop

I started this because I was terrified of my own emotions. I wanted to rip out the beliefs that fed them. I did. Now, when I ask Why am I still here?, the answer is: There’s nowhere else to go. The loop dissolves not because I’ve found a new belief, but because the old ones—and the suffering they caused—are gone.

And that’s enough.

A Guide to Freeing Yourself from Subconscious Beliefs: The Root of All Discomfort

1. The Starting Point: Why This Matters

I decided to create a guide—not just any guide, but one that starts from absolute zero. A guide for someone like me years ago: a person who had never questioned their subconscious beliefs, who never examined their own mind, who simply lived without thinking about meaning, knowledge, or what they truly believed in.

Back then, I didn’t care about any of that. I just did what I wanted, what felt good in the moment. I didn’t ask why I felt anger, sadness, or fear. I didn’t wonder why certain things bothered me or why I avoided others. I was like most people: I experienced discomfort—stress, frustration, loneliness, insecurity—but I ignored it. I assumed life was just like that, a mix of good and bad moments, and you either push through or distract yourself.

But here’s the truth: Every single unpleasant emotion, every moment of discomfort, every fear, every pang of guilt or shame—all of it—comes from one source: unexamined, subconscious beliefs.

And if you remove those beliefs, the discomfort vanishes. Forever.

2. The Illusion of "Normal" Life

Most people live like this:

They feel bad sometimes—angry, sad, anxious, insecure—but they don’t ask why.

They assume discomfort is just part of life, something to endure or escape.

Their solution? Change reality. If they’re lonely, they seek a partner. If they’re stressed, they distract themselves. If they’re afraid, they avoid the thing that scares them.

But this is a trap. Because no matter how much you change the outside world, the discomfort always returns. Why? Because the real problem isn’t out there—it’s in your mind.

I lived this way for years. I had moments of happiness, but underneath, there was always this background noise of discomfort:

Frustration when things didn’t go my way.

Fear of failure, rejection, or the unknown.

Guilt when I didn’t meet my own expectations.

Loneliness when I felt disconnected.

Procrastination when I had to do something I didn’t want to do.

I ignored it all. I told myself: "This is just how life is." But then, something changed.

3. The Breaking Point: When Discomfort Becomes Unbearable

For me, the turning point came when the discomfort became unignorable. My fears grew so intense that I couldn’t function. Simple tasks—like washing dishes or going to work—filled me with anxiety. I avoided reality, binge-watching YouTube for hours just to escape the constant stress in my mind.

That’s when I realized: If I don’t fix what’s inside, no amount of external change will help.

Most people never reach this point. They live with low-level discomfort their whole lives, never questioning it. But if you’re reading this, you might be like me—someone who’s hit a wall and is ready to ask:
"Why do I feel this way? And how do I make it stop?"

4. The Core Insight: Subconscious Beliefs Create All Discomfort

Every negative emotion you’ve ever felt—anger, sadness, fear, shame, insecurity—is a symptom of a subconscious belief.

These beliefs are like invisible programs running in your mind. They generate automatic thoughts, which then trigger emotions. For example:

Belief: "I’m not good enough."
→ Automatic thought: "They’ll reject me if I speak up."
→ Emotion: Fear → avoidance.

Belief: "The world should be fair."
→ Automatic thought: "This is unfair! I don’t deserve this!"
→ Emotion: Anger → resentment.

The key? These beliefs are not true. They’re just assumptions you’ve absorbed over time—from childhood, from society, from past experiences. And because they’re subconscious, you don’t even realize they’re there.

But here’s the good news: If you remove the belief, the discomfort disappears.

5. The Only Reason to Examine Your Mind

Why bother digging into your subconscious? Not for enlightenment. Not for "self-improvement." Not even for happiness (though that’s a side effect).

The only reason is this: To eliminate discomfort.

That’s it. No deeper meaning. No spiritual quest. Just a practical fix.

When you feel bad, instead of asking:
"How can I change the situation?"
Ask:
"What belief is causing this feeling? And how do I remove it?"

Once you do this, something incredible happens:

The discomfort vanishes instantly.

You realize you no longer need to avoid or distract yourself from certain situations.

You feel lighter, freer, more in control.

The first time I removed a deep-seated belief, my anxiety disappeared. Just like that. And I thought: "Why would I ever go back to the old way?"

6. How to Start: A Practical Approach

So how do you begin? Here’s the exact process I used:

Step 1: Notice the Discomfort
When you feel anger, fear, sadness, or any negative emotion, pause. Don’t react. Don’t try to fix the situation. Just observe the feeling.

Step 2: Trace It Back to the Belief
Ask yourself:

"What thought is causing this emotion?"

"What do I believe about this situation that’s making me feel this way?"

Example:

Emotion: Anger at a coworker.

Automatic thought: "They disrespected me. They shouldn’t treat me like this."

Belief: "People should treat me fairly."

Step 3: Question the Belief
Ask:

"Is this belief 100% true?"

"Can I prove it?"

"What if the opposite were true?"

In the example above:

"Is it true that people should treat me fairly?"
→ No. People act based on their own beliefs, not mine.

"What if I believed ‘People can treat me however they want, and it doesn’t define me’?"
→ The anger disappears.

Step 4: Release the Belief
Once you see that a belief is just a thought—not a fact—it loses its power. You don’t need to "replace" it with a new belief. You just stop believing it.

That’s it. The discomfort vanishes.

7. The Trap: Why Most People Fail

Here’s the catch: If you forget why you’re doing this, you’ll get lost.

Many people start examining their minds but end up:

Chasing knowledge (trying to "figure everything out").

Seeking new beliefs (trying to "become a better person").

Overanalyzing (getting stuck in endless self-reflection).

But the only goal is to remove discomfort. Nothing else.

If you remember this, the process is simple:

Feel bad.

Find the belief causing it.

Question the belief.

Let it go.

Move on—without the discomfort.

8. The Result: A Life Without Unnecessary Suffering

When you remove subconscious beliefs, something remarkable happens:

You stop reacting emotionally to things that used to bother you.

You no longer avoid situations out of fear or insecurity.

You feel consistently calm, confident, and free.

This doesn’t mean life becomes perfect. Challenges still arise. But now, instead of being controlled by automatic thoughts and emotions, you choose how to respond.

And that—true freedom—is worth the effort.

9. Where to Go From Here

This is just the beginning. In the next part, I’ll explain:

How to identify subconscious beliefs (they’re sneakier than you think).

The most common beliefs that cause suffering (and how to dismantle them).

What to do when discomfort feels overwhelming.

But for now, start with this:
The next time you feel bad, ask: "What belief is causing this?"

That’s where the real work begins.

Final Thought:
You don’t have to live with discomfort. You’re not broken. You’re not flawed. You’ve just been running on autopilot—letting invisible beliefs dictate your emotions.

But now, you have a choice.

Will you keep ignoring the discomfort?
Or will you finally remove the beliefs that create it?

The answer is yours.

The Core Belief: Trust in Observations

I begin by exploring the deepest layer of human belief—the one that underpins all others. Every person unconsciously believes in their own observations. Not just their observations, but all observations. This is the foundational belief, the bedrock on which every other conviction rests.

To dismantle this belief, I ask myself:
"Do I believe in my observations?"
The answer is yes. Then:
"Can I believe in my observations?"
And here’s the revelation: I cannot prove any observation to myself. Not a single one. This realization shatters the belief instantly. The moment I see that I cannot verify what I perceive, the belief in observations collapses. My state shifts abruptly—I no longer trust what I see, hear, or experience.

The Domino Effect: Dismantling All Beliefs

Once the first belief falls, the rest follow in sequence. The next belief to crumble is:
"I cannot believe in any words."
Then:
"I cannot believe in anything at all."
And so on, down the list.

I move through each belief methodically, applying the same logic:

Can I prove this?

Can I trust it?
The answer is always no. Each belief dissolves upon examination, leaving nothing in its place.

Eventually, I reach the end. All beliefs are dead. No faith remains—not in thoughts, not in words, not in sensations. I am left in a void where:

I cannot believe anything.

I cannot know anything.

I cannot prove anything.

I cannot even trust the statement "I can do nothing," because I cannot prove that either.

This is not just skepticism—it’s an absolute erasure of conviction.

The Aftermath: Depression Without Emotion

With all beliefs gone, I enter a state that resembles depression, but without the emotional weight. There is no sadness, no anger, no joy—just emptiness. I feel nothing because there is nothing left to feel. No desires, no fears, no motivations. Even the thought "I can do nothing" holds no meaning, because I cannot prove it to myself.

I am trapped in a loop:

If I say something to myself, I cannot believe it.

If I try to believe it, I see that belief is impossible.

If I reject belief, nothing changes.

Words have no power. They are just sounds, unmoored from truth.

The Purpose: Why Did I Start?

Then I remember: I began this journey to eliminate discomfort. Fear, anger, sadness—these emotions arose from hidden beliefs. By destroying those beliefs, I removed their source. The discomfort is gone.

Now, the question arises:
"Why am I still thinking about this?"
The answer is simple: The goal has been achieved. There is no longer any reason to dwell on beliefs because:

The beliefs that caused suffering are dead.

The suffering they caused is gone.

The purpose of questioning beliefs no longer exists.

Just as you stop thinking about buying a car once you realize you don’t need one, I stop thinking about beliefs because the problem they solved is resolved.

The Trap: Over-Analyzing the Guide

There’s a catch. Even after reaching this state, I sometimes find myself revisiting these questions—not for my own sake, but because I want to share this method with others. I write a guide, then obsess over it:

Is it correct?

Are there hidden flaws?

Will someone find an error and disprove everything?

This creates a new kind of stress. The solution? Accept imperfection.

I cannot prove the guide is flawless.

I cannot anticipate every objection.

I must stop searching for errors endlessly, or I will never finish.

The alternative is to declare the guide complete as it is, test it in practice, and accept that some risks remain. Perfection is impossible—action is what matters.

The Return to Normalcy

Once I stop fixating on beliefs, life resumes—but differently. The old discomforts are gone, but so is the compulsion to analyze everything. I return to ordinary concerns:

Relationships.

Plans.

Daily decisions.

The difference? These thoughts no longer carry the weight of unseen beliefs. I engage with life not because I believe in it, but because the alternative—endless questioning—serves no purpose.

The Final Realization: The Illusion of "Solving" Belief

At the deepest level, I see that the problem was never the beliefs themselves. The problem was the discomfort they created. Once the discomfort vanishes, the need to "solve" belief disappears.

It’s not that I choose to stop thinking about it. The reason to think about it no longer exists. The mind moves on, just as it moves on from any resolved problem.

A Warning: The Risk of Over-Identification

One danger remains: mistaking this process for an identity. It’s easy to think:

"I must solve the problem of not believing in anything."

"I must find a way to trust again."

But these are false problems. The absence of belief is not a problem to fix—it’s the absence of the original problem. There is nothing to return to, nothing to restore. The work is done.

Conclusion: The Guide in Practice

For someone else following this path (let’s say a person like Sasha or Tim), the steps are:

Identify the foundational belief (trust in observations).

Dismantle it by recognizing it cannot be proven.

Proceed systematically through all derived beliefs.

Reach the void—the state where no belief remains.

Remember the original purpose: to eliminate discomfort.

Realize the purpose is fulfilled and let go of the questioning.

Return to life, now free of the hidden burdens that once shaped experience.

The key insight?
You don’t "stop" thinking about beliefs. You see that there’s no reason to think about them—and so you don’t.

Final Note: The Paradox of Sharing

The only reason I still ponder this is to refine the guide for others. But even that is optional. The method works as is. The rest is just noise.

The Nature of the "I" and the Illusion of Belief

1. The "I" as Observer

I begin by recognizing that the word "I" does not refer to my body, my brain, or my emotions. The "I" is something else—it is the observer in my mind. This "I" is the voice that speaks inside my head, the one that watches everything: my thoughts, my sensations, the external world, even the words it itself produces.

It observes:

External reality (what my senses perceive—objects, sounds, colors).

Internal reality (emotions, desires, fears, the words I think).

Its own observations (the act of watching itself watch).

This "I" is not the body. It is not the brain. It is the pure act of observation, detached from everything else.

2. The First Belief: Trust in Observations

The first illusion I must dismantle is the belief that I can trust my observations.

The claim:
"I cannot believe in any observations because I cannot prove them to myself."

Why?

When I see a kitten, how do I prove to myself that I am truly seeing a kitten? Maybe it’s a guitar. Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe my senses are lying.

When I feel an emotion—desire, fear, joy—how do I prove that this emotion is real? Maybe it’s an illusion.

Even when I speak words in my mind ("I want to go for a walk"), how do I prove that these words correspond to anything true?

The realization:
There is no tool to validate observations. I cannot compare them to anything outside themselves because there is nothing outside observations. Reality, as I perceive it, is just a stream of unprovable experiences.

The consequence:
Once I see this, I lose the ability to believe in observations. This is not a choice—it’s a collapse of a function. The "I" simply cannot trust what it sees, hears, or feels because trust requires proof, and proof is impossible.

3. The Second Belief: Trust in Words

If I cannot trust observations, then I cannot trust words—because words are built upon observations.

How words work:

When I say "I am a failure," I am describing an observation (a feeling, a thought).

When I say "I want to go for a walk," I am describing an observation (a desire).

Words are labels for observations, but if observations are unprovable, then words are also unprovable.

The realization:

I cannot believe in any word I think or say because I cannot prove the observation behind it.

If I say "I am happy," how do I know this is true? The word "happy" is just a sound attached to an unprovable feeling.

The consequence:
I lose the ability to believe in language. Words become empty—useful for communication, perhaps, but meaningless in terms of truth.

4. The Third Belief: Trust in the Impact of Words

Even if I stop believing in words, words still affect me.

If I tell myself "You are worthless," it hurts, even if I don’t believe it.

If someone else tells me "You are brilliant," it might lift my mood, even if I don’t believe it.

The question:
Can I believe in the effect of words, even if I don’t believe in the words themselves?

The realization:

The effect is still tied to observations ("This word made me feel bad"), and observations are unprovable.

Therefore, I cannot even believe in the impact of words. The pain, the joy, the motivation—they are all built on unprovable foundations.

The consequence:
I lose the ability to believe in cause and effect. If a word changes my state, I cannot trust that the change is real or meaningful.

5. The Fourth Belief: Trust in Descriptions

Descriptions are words about observations.

"The sunset is beautiful" is a description of an observation.

"I am in pain" is a description of an observation.

The problem:
If I cannot prove the observation ("Is the sunset truly beautiful? Is this truly pain?"), then I cannot believe the description.

The consequence:
I lose the ability to describe reality. All descriptions become arbitrary, ungrounded in truth.

6. The Fifth Belief: Trust in Knowledge

Knowledge is supposed to be proven words—facts, truths, certainties.

But:

If observations are unprovable, then no word can be proven.

Therefore, no knowledge exists.

The consequences:

I cannot know anything, because knowing requires proof.

I cannot even claim to know nothing, because that claim itself would be unprovable.

I am left in a state of total ignorance, but not the ignorance of a fool—rather, the ignorance of someone who sees that proof is impossible.

7. The Sixth Belief: Trust in Causes (Motivation)

A cause is a proven reason to act. But if nothing can be proven, then no cause exists.

"I should exercise because it’s healthy" → But is "healthy" provable?

"I should avoid pain" → But is "pain" real?

"I should pursue happiness" → But what is "happiness"?

The realization:
Without provable causes, I lose the ability to act with intention. My body can still move (the brain and nerves function automatically), but the "I"—the observer—has no reason to choose anything.

The consequence:
I am paralyzed. Not physically, but existentially. The "I" can no longer initiate action because it has no proven reason to do so.

8. The Seventh Belief: Trust in Others’ Words

So far, I’ve only considered my observations and my words. But what about others’ words?

If someone says "The sky is blue," can I believe them?

If a scientist says "This medicine works," can I trust it?

The problem:
Their words are built on their observations, which I cannot prove. Therefore:

I cannot believe in others’ observations.

I cannot believe in others’ words.

I cannot believe in others’ knowledge.

The consequence:
All external information becomes meaningless. No book, no teacher, no authority can provide me with truth because truth requires proof, and proof is impossible.

The Final State: Total Collapse of Belief

After dismantling all these beliefs, I arrive at a state where:

✅ I cannot believe in any observation (mine or others’).
✅ I cannot believe in any word (mine or others’).
✅ I cannot believe in any description, impact, or knowledge.
✅ I cannot act with intention because no cause is provable.
✅ I cannot even claim to know that I know nothing—because that, too, would require proof.

I am left with:

A body that functions automatically (breathing, moving, reacting).

A mind that observes but cannot trust anything it observes.

A voice that can speak but cannot believe its own words.

This is not nihilism. It is the absence of illusion.

How to Escape This State?

At first, this seems like a prison. I can’t believe anything, can’t act on anything, can’t even trust my own thoughts. But then I remember:

Why did I start questioning beliefs in the first place?

To eliminate suffering—the anxiety, the self-doubt, the fear that came from believing in unprovable things.

The solution:
Once I see that all beliefs are illusions, the suffering tied to those beliefs disappears. The mind, no longer finding any reason to cling to thoughts, stops obsessing over them.

I don’t need to prove anything because the need for proof was the problem.

I don’t need to believe anything because belief was the illusion.

I can simply stop thinking about it and return to automatic living—the way I was before I ever questioned anything.

The exit:
The moment I realize that there is no longer any purpose in questioning, the mind lets go. The "I" stops trying to prove, to believe, to know. It just… stops.

And then I can live again—not because I’ve found truth, but because I’ve stopped needing it.

Final Thoughts

This is not a philosophy of despair. It is a mechanism for liberation.

Before: I suffered because I believed in things I couldn’t prove.

Now: I no longer suffer because I see that proof is impossible—and thus, belief is optional.

The result: Freedom from the tyranny of needing to know.

The mind, when it sees that all its struggles were based on illusions, simply… lets go.

And that is the end of the guide.

The Mind and the Illusion of "I"

1. The Mind’s Unconscious Existence

At first, the mind simply exists. It functions, processes, and operates—without ever questioning the notion of "I." There is no self-reflection, no awareness of a separate "me" that constantly narrates experience. The mind uses thinking, words, and even the word "I" as tools—mere labels to refer to itself and describe reality. But it does so unconsciously, without examining what this "I" truly is.

2. The Discovery of Discomfort

Then, the mind notices something: it feels discomfort. It begins to investigate the source of this unease and realizes—the problem is belief. Not the mind’s belief, but the belief of its "I." The "I" believes in observations, in words, in descriptions, in the stories it tells itself. The mind sees that this belief is the root of its suffering.

3. The Investigation Begins

The mind asks: Can my "I" believe in these things? What can this "I" even do?
It starts to examine its own "I," studying it like an object. And what does it find?

The "I" can do nothing on its own.

It cannot know anything—only the mind can know.

It cannot believe anything—only the mind can hold beliefs.

All the "I" can do is speak—and then choose to believe or disbelieve its own words.

The mind realizes: The "I" is powerless. It is a construct, a label, a narrative device. It has no agency beyond the mind’s own mechanisms.

4. The Shift in Perception

Once the mind sees this, everything changes. The "I" stops believing. Not because it decides to, but because the mind rewrites its own understanding. The old "text" in memory—"I believe in descriptions, I trust my observations, I have reasons"—is erased. A new "text" takes its place: "The 'I' is just a word. It cannot believe. It cannot know."

And with this shift, the discomfort vanishes.

5. The Return to Original Functioning

Before this investigation, the mind had a goal—some purpose it was working toward. But when it became absorbed in analyzing the "I," it temporarily forgot that goal. Now, having resolved the question of belief, the mind remembers its original aim. It sees that the goal has already been achieved—not by the "I," but by the mind itself.

The mind then returns to its natural state:

It no longer thinks about the "I."

It no longer questions what the "I" can or cannot do.

It no longer believes in beliefs, knowledge, or words—because it sees them as undemonstrated, empty constructs.

6. The Illusion of the "I" as a Trap

There’s a danger here: When the mind starts analyzing the "I," it can get lost in the illusion. The "I" begins to speak for itself, as if it were real. The mind forgets its true nature and becomes trapped in the fictional "I," mistaking the narrative for reality.

The way out? Remember the mind’s original purpose. Once it does, the spell breaks. The mind stops identifying with the "I" and returns to its natural, unburdened state.

7. The Absence of Belief

After this transformation:

The mind no longer feels belief. Belief was a state—one where the "I" clung to ideas, where the mind trusted its own narratives.

Now, there is no belief, no knowledge, no attachment to words. The mind doesn’t think about these things because there’s nothing to think about. They were never real to begin with.

The old "text" in memory created discomfort. The new "text" creates nothing—no resistance, no tension. The mind simply is, without the noise of the "I."

8. The Final Realization

All of this—the questioning, the "I," the beliefs—was just the mind studying a word. The word "I" has no power. It cannot act, cannot know, cannot believe. It is only a label, a tool the mind uses and then discards.

Once the mind sees this, it stops playing the game. It no longer gets caught in the loop of self-referential thought. It operates as it always did—effortlessly, without the illusion of a separate "me."

And that’s it. The mind moves on. There’s nothing left to say.

Key Takeaways (In the Author’s Words)

"The 'I' is just a word." It cannot believe, know, or do—only the mind can.

"Belief is a state of the mind"—one that disappears when the illusion of the "I" is seen through.

"The mind forgets itself" when it gets lost in the "I," but remembering its original purpose breaks the spell.

"No belief, no discomfort." The new "text" in memory is silent. The old one created suffering.

"The mind never needed to think about words—it only needed to stop believing in them."

The Realization of Powerlessness

At first, I found myself in a state where I believed I could do nothing. Not just in the sense of action, but in thought itself. I saw that I couldn’t prove anything, couldn’t believe in anything, couldn’t even trust my own ability to think about these things. The more I fixated on this—"I can’t prove, I can’t believe, I can’t do"—the worse I felt. I realized that if I could just stop thinking about it, my state would improve. But how?

I tried using words to interrupt the cycle—telling myself to stop, to let go—but it didn’t work. I couldn’t believe the words I was saying to myself. If I couldn’t believe my own thoughts, how could I use them to stop thinking? It was a paradox: the tool I was trying to use (thought) was the very thing that was failing me.

The Question of Purpose

Then, a shift happened. I asked myself: Why was I thinking about this in the first place? What was the original goal?

I remembered: it started with discomfort—anger, sadness, fear. I wanted to escape those feelings. I thought that if I could just understand belief, knowledge, proof, the "self," and what I could or couldn’t do, the discomfort would vanish. But now, looking back, I saw that the goal had already been met. The discomfort was gone. There was no longer any reason to keep thinking about it.

For a moment, this worked. I stopped. But then, while recording a guide, my mind stumbled upon something deeper: the realization wasn’t just that I couldn’t do anything—it was that I couldn’t even think about anything in the first place.

The Collapse of Thinking Itself

Here’s the core of it:

Faith? I can’t think anything meaningful about it. Whatever I think isn’t provable, so I can’t truly think it.

Proof? Same. Any thought about proof is itself unprovable.

The "I"? Any thought about what I can or can’t do is just another unprovable thought.

I reached a point where I saw: I cannot think about anything at all. Not because I choose not to, but because thinking requires belief in the thought, and I can’t believe in anything I think.

This isn’t just about topics (like faith or proof). It’s about the act of thinking itself. Thinking is always about something—exploring, analyzing, trying to know. But if I can’t prove or believe in any of it, then thinking collapses. It’s not that I think "nothing"; it’s that the mechanism of thinking itself becomes impossible.

The Illusion of Control

I used to think I had to think—like it was a compulsion. I’d catch myself trying to figure out my observations, my sensations, my words. "What should I do with this? How can I change it? What does it mean?" But now I see: these questions are just more thinking, and I can’t think.

The discomfort I felt wasn’t from the world; it was from the attempt to think about the world. The moment I stop trying to do something with what I see or feel—stop trying to interpret it, judge it, or change it—the discomfort vanishes.

The Difference Between Thinking and Observing

There’s a distinction here:

Thinking is the act of trying to understand, prove, or believe something. It’s tied to words, to concepts like "faith," "knowledge," "self." It’s an attempt to grasp.

Observing is just… seeing. Feeling. Describing. There’s no grasp, no proof, no belief. It’s raw.

I can still observe. I can still describe. But I can’t think about what I observe or describe. The moment I try, I hit the same wall: I can’t prove it, so I can’t think it.

The Final Step: Letting Go of the Attempt

The last piece is this: I don’t need to stop thinking. I just need to see that I can’t think—and then stop trying to.

It’s like trying to stop believing when you already don’t believe. You don’t do anything. You just notice that the belief isn’t there, and the effort to "stop" becomes irrelevant.

Now, when I catch myself searching for something to think about, I see: there’s nothing to find. The "problem" was the search itself. The solution isn’t to find an answer; it’s to see that the question is unanswerable—and then drop it.

What Remains

What’s left?

Observation (sensations, sights, sounds).

Description (putting observations into words, without claiming truth).

Speech (the act of saying, not the content of what’s said).

But no thinking—no attempts to know, prove, or believe.

The irony? The moment I stop trying to think, everything is fine. The discomfort was never in the world; it was in the struggle to think about the world. And now, that struggle is gone.

Testing the Waters

This is where I am now. The next step is to test it—to live without the compulsion to think, to see if the peace holds. If new discomfort arises, I’ll look again. But for now:

I don’t think. I just am.

Final Note:
The author’s journey isn’t about nihilism or defeat. It’s about seeing that the mechanism of thinking—with all its demands for proof, belief, and control—is the source of suffering. The exit isn’t in better thinking; it’s in seeing that thinking was optional all along.

The Realization of "I Can Do Nothing"

I’ve been working on an updated guide—my own thoughts after the last couple of days. Here’s what happened: I reached a point where I couldn’t think about anything at all. And that’s where everything stopped. If I had stayed there, things wouldn’t have been great—my state was bad. But in that moment, when I realized I couldn’t do anything, I also realized I had no limits. I could live however I wanted. This idea seemed promising at first. I kept circling around it, but nothing worked. Then I finally understood why.

The core issue was that I had accidentally left out one critical belief from my list of "what I cannot do." Specifically, I had forgotten to include the belief that I cannot make myself do anything—not even say to myself, "Do this," or "Start doing that," or "I can live however I want." Those are all actions. I had forgotten that I cannot tell myself to do something because I cannot prove to myself why I should do it. In other words, I don’t have the ability to command myself into action. That function simply doesn’t exist in me.

At first, when I said, "I can do nothing," I didn’t fully grasp it. Deep down, I still believed I could do something—that I could think, speak, believe, or prove something to myself. But that belief was the problem. I kept trying to do something with words, to change my state by telling myself things like "I have nothing" or "I can live however I want." But I couldn’t actually believe those words. I couldn’t make them real.

Then it hit me: I cannot do anything at all. Not just in the sense of physical action, but in the sense of mental action—telling myself something, believing it, proving it, or even thinking it. Thinking is doing. Speaking is doing. Believing is doing. And I cannot do any of those things.

When I added this realization to my list—"I cannot make myself do anything, not even with words"—everything clicked. Now, when I say "I can do nothing," I feel it completely. There’s no lingering belief that I can still think my way out or talk my way into a better state. I’ve exhausted all possibilities.

The Guide: How to Truly Do Nothing

The guide, then, is simple: The list of what I cannot do must be complete.

I cannot believe in any goal.
A goal is just words—an answer to "Why am I doing this?" But I cannot prove to myself that any goal is mine. I cannot believe in it. So I must include this in the list: "I cannot have a goal."

I cannot prove anything to myself.
Any attempt to justify an action, a thought, or a belief fails because I cannot trust the proof. The belief that I can prove something to myself must also be discarded.

I cannot make myself think, speak, or believe.
These are all forms of doing, and I cannot do them. Not because I’m physically incapable, but because there’s no foundation for it. I cannot command my mind.

Once the list is complete—once I truly see that I can do nothing—the next step is to stop trying.

Here’s how it works in practice:

I lie down. I look at the words: "I can do nothing."

I see them. I understand them. I feel them.

There’s no mood, no desire, no thought—just the empty fact.

Then, I realize: There’s nothing left to think about. No movement forward, no deeper understanding, no "next step." The path ends here.

I stop looking. I stop thinking. Not because I decide to, but because there’s nothing left to do.

It’s like finishing a task at work. You’ve checked everything, fixed everything, and now there’s nothing left to examine. So you stop examining it. You don’t tell yourself to stop—you just do, because the task is complete.

Why This Works (And Why It Didn’t Before)

Previously, I thought I could still do something—that I could think, believe, or prove my way into a better state. But as long as I believed that, I kept trying, and trying kept me stuck in discomfort.

Now, with the list complete, there’s no going back. I don’t think about anything anymore because there’s nothing to think about. The guide is simple again:

List everything you cannot do (including thinking, believing, proving, and commanding yourself).

See it clearly. Feel that you can do nothing.

Stop.

No need for constant reminders or complex phrases. Just nothing.

The Nature of the Problem (And the Solution)

Humans are born believing they can do things with their minds. They see others thinking, speaking, believing, and assume they can too. So they try:

"I can think about what I see."

"I can prove my observations."

"I can set goals for myself."

"I can change my state with words."

But all of this is an illusion. The discomfort comes from trying to do these things. The solution is to stop interfering—stop trying to think, believe, or prove. Stop touching your own mind.

When you truly see that you can do nothing, you stop. And then, paradoxically, everything becomes effortless.

The Result: Freedom Without Effort

This state feels like when I was 16—when I first gained independence, lived with my grandmother, worked, and had no responsibilities. I felt free because I wasn’t trying to control anything. Now, it’s even better: there’s no chance of discomfort at all.

Life is simple when the mind is empty. When you believe you can do things, life is complicated—you’re always digging, analyzing, justifying. But when there’s nothing in the mind, life is effortlessly good.

Final Notes

The guide doesn’t require memorization or constant effort. Just a complete list of what you cannot do, and then—nothing.

If problems arise, they’ll show up as symptoms (psychosomatic or otherwise). Then you can investigate and see what belief you missed.

The key is to not try. Not to think, not to believe, not to prove. Just stop.

That’s it. The simplest life possible.

The Collapse of Belief: A Journey Through Doubt and Self-Discovery

1. The Paralysis of Indecision

I was recording a new guide, but my last one left me in a state of total helplessness. The final image I had was: "I can’t do anything." I’d stare at that thought until it became background noise—something I stopped questioning because I’d accepted it as absolute. "I can’t do anything. My power ends here." And once I accepted that, I stopped thinking about it. My convictions died, my faith in everything collapsed, and I just… let go. I started "vibing"—working nonstop, feeling productive, even happy.

But then, one evening, I saw messages from people—Isi, Tim, Nastya—asking if I wanted to play poker. Part of me did want to. But another part—the part obsessed with progress, with "securing the future"—wanted to keep working. I was torn. The question loomed: "Should I keep working, or should I go play?" It wasn’t just about poker; it was a metaphor for every choice. "Valya, will you play poker, or will you keep working?"

And here’s the problem: I couldn’t say no.

Not because I wanted to say yes, but because I physically couldn’t reject the option. I couldn’t commit to either answer. I couldn’t even form an answer in my mind. The question paralyzed me. I’d sit there, stuck, unable to decide, until finally I’d just… go play poker out of sheer exhaustion from the indecision.

But the whole time, I was stressed. Because I hadn’t chosen. I’d just defaulted. And the doubt gnawed at me: "What if I should’ve been working? What if this is the wrong choice? What if I’m wasting time?" I couldn’t enjoy poker because I hadn’t truly decided to play. I couldn’t work because I hadn’t truly decided to refuse. I was trapped in limbo, stressed by my own inability to believe in any choice.

2. The Illusion of Answers

This led me to a bigger question: How do I even know when to work and when to rest? Should I work for years without breaks? When does the "future" arrive? Who decides? Me? My brain? Some invisible force?

I realized this was tied to belief. All my life, I’d believed in something—in answers, in reasons, in goals. My previous guides were built on phrases like:

"I can’t believe in X because I can’t prove it."

"I can do nothing."

I treated these statements as answers—as if they were objective truths. But now, I saw the flaw: I couldn’t even believe in the idea of answers anymore.

I’d strip away one layer of belief after another:

First, I stopped believing in others’ words (e.g., "This is how the world works").

Then, I stopped believing in my own words as descriptions of reality.

Then, I stopped believing in goals or reasons as valid justifications.

Finally, I reached the core: I couldn’t believe in any words as answers to any questions.

Because how do you prove that a word is an answer? How do you prove that "yes" or "no" is true? You can’t. And once I saw that, I spiraled.

3. The Stress of Unbelief

The stress wasn’t just from indecision—it was from trying to believe and failing. My brain is wired to expect meaning. When I’d say, "I won’t play poker," I’d immediately doubt it because I didn’t believe in the "no." I didn’t believe in the "yes" either. I couldn’t believe in any response.

This created a feedback loop:

I’d try to decide ("Should I work or play?").

I’d try to believe in an answer ("I’ll work").

I’d fail to believe it.

Stress would skyrocket.

The only relief came when I stopped trying to believe altogether. When I accepted that no words—not "yes," not "no," not "I can’t," not "I should"—held any inherent truth, the stress vanished. I could say "I won’t play poker" without needing to believe it was the "right" choice. I could work without needing to justify it. The freedom came from detachment.

4. The Layers of Belief (And Their Collapse)

I mapped out how belief had structured my life:

Layer of Belief

What I Used to Believe

What Happened When It Collapsed

Others’ Words

"Their descriptions/reasons are true."

Felt like a child again—dependent, uncertain.

My Own Words

"My thoughts describe reality."

Lost trust in my perceptions.

Knowledge

"Some facts are provable and reliable."

Realized all "knowledge" is just words I choose to trust.

Goals/Reasons

"I work because of X future benefit."

Saw that "reasons" are just stories I tell myself.

Answers

"‘Yes’ or ‘no’ can solve a question."

Realized no answer is inherently true.

Each layer propped up the next. When I lost faith in answers, the whole structure crumbled. I was left with pure experience—no labels, no justifications, no stress.

5. The Paradox of Freedom

Here’s the irony: The moment I stopped believing in any words as answers, I gained the ability to act.

Before, I’d say "no" to poker only if I had a reason (e.g., "I need to finish the guide to save the world"). But reasons are just beliefs in disguise. Now? I can say "no" without needing to believe in the "no." I can work without needing to prove it’s the "right" choice.

This is what it feels like to be truly adult—not in the sense of age, but in the sense of no longer needing crutches. No longer needing to believe in order to act. For the first time in my life, I feel a maturity I’ve never known. Not the false maturity of having "answers," but the real maturity of needing none.

6. The Guide’s New Truth

My old guides were built on phrases like "I can’t believe" or "I can do nothing." But now, I see that even those were just more words I tried to believe in. The real breakthrough? Words don’t need to be believed. They can just… be.

If someone asks, "Will you play poker?" I can say "no" without stress—because I’m not claiming it’s the "right" answer.

If I choose to work, I don’t need to justify it. I just work.

If I choose to rest, I don’t need to defend it. I just rest.

The question isn’t "What should I do?"—it’s "What am I doing?" And the answer is just the action itself, unburdened by belief.

Final Realization

The stress wasn’t from the choices. It was from trying to believe in them. The freedom isn’t in finding the "right" answer. It’s in not needing answers at all.

The Unprovable Guide: A Self-Referential Spiral of Doubt

1. The Initial Realization: A List of Unprovable Beliefs

I began by compiling a long list of things I couldn’t believe—things I couldn’t prove to myself. The list ended with a final, all-encompassing statement: "I cannot believe in any answers because I cannot prove them to myself." That was the conclusion. But then I took it further.

2. The Collapse of Trust in Words

I declared: "I cannot believe in any words, from any perspective—including these very words." At that moment, something shifted. I thought, "Wait, do I actually believe this statement?" It felt like I did. But then I realized: "I cannot believe in this phrase either, because I cannot reject it." My state of mind changed. I started questioning what was happening.

3. The Self-Referential Loop

I broke it down:

First phrase: "I cannot believe in any words, from any perspective."

Second phrase: "I cannot believe in these words, from any perspective."

Third phrase: "I cannot believe in these words, from any perspective."

And so on, ad infinitum. The conclusion remained: "I cannot believe in any words, from any perspective."

4. The Shift in Reasoning: From "Cannot Prove" to "Cannot Believe"

Earlier, my doubt was framed as: "I cannot believe in X, Y, or Z because I cannot prove them to myself." But now, the reasoning evolved. It wasn’t just about proof—it was about belief itself. The new formulation was stronger:
"I cannot believe in any words, from any perspective."

This wasn’t about why I couldn’t believe (lack of proof), but how I couldn’t believe—regardless of perspective.

5. The Inescapable Paradox

I realized: "No matter what words I use, I will always say, ‘I cannot believe in these words, from any perspective.’" It’s a recursive trap. The phrase "I cannot believe in any words" applies even to itself.

6. The Final Synthesis: Why "Cannot Prove" is Just One Perspective

The original doubt—"I cannot prove these words to myself"—was just one angle. But now, the doubt was absolute:
"I cannot prove any words from any perspective—whether they claim to be descriptions, answers, knowledge, thoughts, goals, or reasons."

And thus, the ultimate conclusion:
"I cannot believe in any words, from any perspective, because I cannot prove any words from any perspective—including these."

Key Observations

The author’s doubt spirals into a self-referential paradox, where even the statement of doubt doubts itself.

The shift from "cannot prove" to "cannot believe" marks a deeper, more fundamental skepticism—not just about evidence, but about the very act of belief.

The structure is recursive: every attempt to articulate the doubt only reinforces it.

A Comprehensive Retelling: The Unprovability of All Things

1. Observations

I cannot trust any observations because I cannot prove them to myself. I cannot prove any observations—none at all. This is something I must fully realize and see just once in my life: that all faith in observations dissolves when I recognize their unprovability.

2. Words

I cannot trust any words—including these very words—because I cannot prove the observations they describe. I cannot trust words because I cannot prove them. No words are provable. This, too, must be seen once: the moment faith in words vanishes.

3. The Impact of Words

Words can affect me if I look at them and acknowledge them. Yet I cannot trust this impact—not even the impact of these words—because I cannot prove the words that create it. I cannot trust any effect words have, because I cannot prove it. No impact of words is provable. This must be seen once: the end of faith in words’ influence.

4. Descriptions

Descriptions are words that depict observations. I cannot trust any descriptions—including this one—because I cannot prove the observations they claim to represent. No descriptions are provable. This must be seen once: the dissolution of faith in descriptions.

5. The Impact of Descriptions

Descriptions can affect me if I observe and recognize them. But I cannot trust this effect—not even the effect of this description—because I cannot prove the descriptions that produce it. No impact of descriptions is provable. This must be seen once: the end of faith in their influence.

6. Knowledge

Knowledge is words I can prove to myself. Knowledge is words I believe. But I cannot trust any knowledge because I cannot prove it. No knowledge is provable. This must be seen once: the moment faith in knowledge disappears.

7. Cause

Knowledge becomes the why—the reason I do things. But I cannot trust any cause because I cannot prove it. No cause is provable. This must be seen once: the end of faith in reasons.

8. Purpose

Knowledge becomes the what for—the goal behind my actions. But I cannot trust any purpose because I cannot prove it. No purpose is provable. This must be seen once: the moment faith in goals vanishes.

9. Thoughts

I cannot trust any thoughts—including these—because I cannot prove them. No thoughts are provable. This must be seen once: the end of faith in thinking.

10. Answers

I cannot trust any answers to any questions because I cannot prove them. No answer is provable. This must be seen once: the moment faith in answers dissolves.

The Consequences of Belief

Faith in words lets me answer: "What can I say?"

Faith in descriptions lets me answer: "What do I see?"

Faith in knowledge lets me answer: "What do I know?"

Faith in cause lets me answer: "Why?"

Yet I cannot believe in any words from any perspective because I cannot prove them. I cannot think anything about anything because I cannot prove it.

Final Realization:
I cannot believe in any words from any angle because I cannot prove them—including these words.

The Collapse of Belief in Words: A Journey to the Final Realization

1. The Starting Point: The Impossibility of Trusting Any Words

I reached a point where I could no longer believe any answers to any questions. This was almost the last perspective from which I could still believe in words—as responses to questions. But even that collapsed. I realized: no matter what I say, I cannot believe in any words from any perspective, including the perspective that words are answers.

I understood that I could not prove to myself—from any angle, including the words themselves—that any words were trustworthy. So I stopped trying to find words in my mind that I could believe, even from a single perspective. Because I knew I would never find them. And surprisingly, this left me in a strange, almost liberating state.

2. Writing the Guide: The Stress of Unbelief

I began writing a guide for others, starting with observations, words, descriptions—everything as I had experienced it. But as I wrote, I felt stress. Why? Because I didn’t believe in my own observations. I was writing words I no longer trusted, yet I presented them as if I believed them from some angle. But if I didn’t believe them at all, what was the point of writing?

Then I saw it: the stress came from the fact that I didn’t believe what I was writing.

I thought: Maybe I should skip the whole journey and just state the end result. The end result was this:

"I cannot believe in any words from any perspective, because I cannot prove any words to myself from any perspective—including these words. And I must stop searching for any words I could believe, even from a single perspective."

That’s it. The entire guide, reduced to this.

But then I tested this on Anastasia. She pointed out: If you say you can’t believe any words from any perspective, then you can’t even believe the words you’re saying right now. At first, I tried to explain why that wasn’t the case. But then I got stuck. I started overanalyzing the phrase itself, detached from everything that came before it.

And that’s when I lost all understanding.

3. The Mistake: Forgetting the Second Half of the Realization

I had separated the final phrase from the rest of my journey, and in doing so, I lost its meaning. The phrase only made sense when connected to everything before it—observations, words, descriptions, knowledge, questions, thoughts.

But then I remembered: There was a second, crucial part I had forgotten.

The full realization was:

"I cannot believe in any words from any perspective, because I cannot prove any words to myself from any perspective—including these words."

"I must stop searching for any words I could believe, even from a single perspective."

Without the second part, the first phrase was incomplete. I had fallen back into the habit of looking for words to believe in—even about the phrase itself. But the whole point was that there are no such words to find.

When I included both parts, everything clicked. The stress disappeared. The questions stopped. My mind no longer tried to "solve" the phrase because it understood: There is nothing to solve.

4. The Mechanism: Why This Works

Before this, I had already dismantled other beliefs:

I couldn’t believe in answers to questions.

I couldn’t believe in thoughts as real.

I couldn’t believe in knowledge as provable.

I couldn’t believe in descriptions as accurate.

Each of these was a perspective from which I had once trusted words. But when I lost the final perspective—that words could be answers—I lost the ability to believe in any words at all.

The brain constantly asks questions and seeks answers because it assumes some words can be proven from some angle. But once it realizes this is impossible, it stops. It stops asking. It stops searching. It stops thinking in words.

And that’s why the two phrases work:

The first destroys the illusion that words can be trusted.

The second prevents the mind from trying to rebuild that illusion.

Together, they create a state where:

No questions arise (because answers are impossible).

No stress remains (because there’s nothing to figure out).

No words are needed (because none can be believed).

5. The Problem with "Other People’s Words"

At first, I wasn’t sure how this applied to other people’s words. But now, it’s clear: the distinction doesn’t matter.

Before, I thought other people’s words were a separate category—something I might still believe in some way. But now, I see: All words are the same. Whether they’re mine or someone else’s, they’re just words. And I can’t believe in any of them.

In fact, other people’s words now feel like sounds—not even words. Because belief in words was always belief in my own interpretations of them. Without that, they lose their power.

6. Testing the Minimal Guide

Now, the question is: Can these two phrases work on their own, without the entire journey?

I think so. The full guide was just a step-by-step dismantling of every perspective from which words could be trusted. But the final two phrases summarize all of it.

Still, I need to test this on others. If people say they don’t understand, then maybe the full breakdown is necessary. But for now, I suspect the minimal version is enough.

7. The Core Insight: The Death of Questions and Answers

All my previous beliefs were just different types of answers to questions:

Belief in knowledge let me answer: "What do you know?"

Belief in thoughts let me answer: "What do you think?"

Belief in causes let me answer: "Why did you do that?"

Belief in goals let me answer: "What are you trying to achieve?"

Belief in descriptions let me answer: "What do you see?"

But when I lost the belief that any words could be answers, all of these collapsed. And with them, the very act of asking questions became meaningless.

Because if no words can be answers, then questions themselves are pointless.

8. The Final State: No Words, No Questions, No Stress

Now, I don’t:

Search for knowledge.

Try to describe anything.

Look for causes or goals.

Think in words.

Ask questions.

I just am.

The two phrases didn’t just summarize my journey—they replaced it. They don’t need the steps that came before, because they contain all of them.

And the best part? No stress. Because there’s nothing left to figure out.

Conclusion: The Guide in Its Simplest Form

If I were to write the guide now, it would be just this:

1. I cannot believe in any words from any perspective, because I cannot prove any words to myself—including these words.
2. Therefore, I must stop searching for any words I could believe, even from a single perspective.

Everything else was just the long path to these two sentences. And now, I don’t even need the path.

Next Steps:

Test this on others.

See if they reach the same state without the full breakdown.

If not, expand—but only if necessary.

Because in the end, the simplest version might be all that’s needed.

Reflection on Testing a Simplified Approach

I decided to test a minimalist version of my earlier framework—focusing only on two key phrases:

"Do not believe any words from any point of view."

"Do not try to find words that I could believe only from some point of view."

At first, I thought isolating these two statements would be enough. But almost immediately, I noticed something unsettling: the meaning began to slip away.

The Problem with Isolation

Loss of Clarity: Over time, I either stopped understanding these phrases entirely or started misinterpreting them.

Distorted Associations: The second phrase—"Do not try to find words that I could believe only from some point of view"—began triggering negative emotions. It felt vague, almost ominous, because I no longer grasped its deeper context.

Forgetting the Framework: I lost sight of what "points of view" even meant. The phrases became hollow—detached from the original structure that gave them meaning. Without that foundation, they felt like abstract, standalone commands, and my mind struggled to anchor them in anything concrete.

The Realization: Context Is Everything

I realized that these phrases are not self-contained. They are summaries—distillations of a much larger system of ideas. When I tried to use them in isolation:

They lost their precision.

Their influence on my state of mind weakened or even became counterproductive.

I felt a loss of control, as if the phrases were no longer serving their intended purpose.

The Solution: Reintegration

So, I reconnected them to the full framework—all the prior insights, definitions, and nuances I had developed. Almost instantly:

The original understanding returned.

The phrases regained their power and clarity.

Their impact on my mindset became meaningful again.

Key Insight: Interdependence of Ideas

This experiment proved something critical:

No part of this system works alone. Each component—including these two phrases—relies on the rest for context, precision, and effectiveness.

The phrases reference specific points of view, not abstract ones. When I remember the exact concepts they point to, everything aligns as intended.

Isolation = Distortion. Trying to simplify by cutting away the "extra" layers doesn’t work; it only creates confusion.

Next Steps: Testing the Full Build

Now, I’ll proceed with the complete version:

The original framework plus these two phrases, fully integrated.

I’ll observe how this combined approach holds up over time, ensuring stability and consistency.

The isolated variant is closed—I’ve tested it twice, with and without earlier mistakes, and it fails both times. The system only functions as a whole.

Final Thought

This was a valuable lesson in how meaning is systemic. A single phrase, no matter how potent, is just a node in a larger network. Its power depends on the connections it holds—and when those are severed, even the clearest words become noise.

Now, I’ll move forward with the full build, trusting that the integrity of the system is what makes it work.

The Core Problem: Belief in Words

I cannot believe in any words from any point of view. Not because I choose not to, but because I cannot prove any words to myself—including these very words. This realization didn’t come out of nowhere. Everything I wrote before this was necessary to decode what "from a point of view" even means. It explained what kinds of points of view exist and why I cannot believe in words from any of them.

There are two key phrases that emerged from this:

"I cannot believe in any words from any point of view, because I cannot prove any words to myself from any point of view—including these words."
To understand this, I needed all the prior work. It spells out what "from a point of view" refers to and why belief is impossible from all of them.

"Stop trying to believe in any words from any point of view."
This is the second critical instruction. But here’s the catch: to understand this phrase correctly, I also need everything that came before it. Otherwise, I’ll misinterpret it. I’ll start imagining what it means to "stop trying to believe" in isolation, and in doing so, I’ll ironically start believing in the phrase itself from some point of view—which defeats the purpose.

The mistake is treating these phrases as standalone commands. They’re not. They’re pointers. They point to something real in my mind: the observation that belief in words is impossible because proof is impossible. If I detach them from that observation, I’m just playing with words, and words alone can’t change my state.

The Guide and the Meta-Guide

I thought I could write a "guide"—a set of words I believe in from some point of view, words that would help me reach a certain state. But that’s the problem: no such guide can exist. There are no words I can believe in from any point of view, so no words can reliably alter my state just by reading or imagining them.

What works instead?

The Guide: Just the two phrases above.

The Meta-Guide: Instructions on how to read the guide correctly.

Don’t try to visualize the phrases.

Don’t try to internalize them as commands.

Don’t try to believe in them (because you can’t).

Instead: See what they point to. Remember the real observations they describe. Then do what they describe—not because the words have power, but because you’ve seen the truth they refer to.

Why this works:
Words are like signs on a road. A sign that says "Moscow → 500 km" doesn’t move you to Moscow. It just points. You have to walk yourself. Similarly, my guide doesn’t change my state by magic. It points to an action I must take: stop trying to believe in words.

The Trap of "Doing Something with Words"

The error I keep making is treating words as tools to do something. For example:

I write a guide and then try to believe in it to change my state.

I visualize the phrases, hoping that’ll trigger the right state.

I repeat them like a mantra, as if repetition could force belief.

But none of this works because I don’t believe in any words from any point of view. Words can’t make me do anything. They can only point to something I must do myself.

Example:
If the guide says, "Wave your hand," I don’t need to:

Imagine waving my hand.

"Internalize" the instruction.

Believe in the words "wave your hand."

I just… wave my hand. The words are a reminder of an action I can take without relying on the words themselves.

The Illusion of Knowledge

I keep trying to answer questions like:

What do I really need to include in the guide?

What’s unnecessary?

Why does this work?

But these questions assume I can know the answers—and I can’t. I can’t believe in any answers from any point of view. The only thing I can do is:

Observe what happens when I follow the guide.

Act based on that observation (e.g., stop trying to believe in words).

Repeat without expecting words to give me certainty.

The mistake:
I think if I can just find the right words, I’ll have a perfect guide. But there are no "right words." Words are just pointers to actions I must take without their help.

Testing the Guide

Problem: When I test the two-phrase guide alone, it’s hard to remember what the phrases point to. I forget the observations behind them and start treating them as standalone commands—which doesn’t work.

Solution:
The meta-guide is essential. It reminds me:

Don’t visualize or "internalize" the phrases.

Remember what they point to (e.g., the impossibility of belief).

Take the action they describe (e.g., stop trying to believe).

But what about others?
If I give this guide to someone else, will they understand it without all the prior context? Probably not—because they won’t know what the phrases point to. They’ll try to visualize or believe in them, which won’t work.

Possible fix:
The meta-guide must teach them how to see what words point to instead of just imagining them. It’s not about the words themselves; it’s about the real observations behind them.

Final Realization: Words as Tools vs. Words as Pointers

Old habit:
I used words as tools to control my state. I’d write a guide, then try to believe in it to force a change. But this always failed because belief is impossible.

New approach:
Words are only pointers. They remind me of actions I must take myself. For example:

The phrase "I cannot believe in any words" points to the observation that proof is impossible.

The phrase "Stop trying to believe" points to the action of ceasing a futile effort.

Key:

Don’t use words to do anything. They can’t.

Use words to remember what to do, then do it without relying on the words.

Conclusion: The Minimal Guide

The Guide:

"I cannot believe in any words from any point of view, because I cannot prove any words to myself from any point of view—including these words."

"Stop trying to believe in any words from any point of view."

The Meta-Guide:

These phrases are not commands. They’re pointers.

To use them:

Recall what they point to (your real observations).

Take the action they describe (e.g., stop trying to believe).

Never try to visualize, internalize, or believe in the phrases themselves. That’s the old habit that doesn’t work.

For Others:

They’ll need the meta-guide to avoid misusing the phrases.

Without it, they’ll treat the words as magic spells instead of pointers.

Final Note:
This isn’t about creating a perfect set of words. It’s about seeing the truth the words point to—and acting on it without needing the words to work. The guide isn’t the solution. Seeing and acting is.

End of Retelling

Key Takeaways (Structured)

Concept

Old Approach

New Approach

Role of Words

Tools to believe in/act through.

Pointers to real observations/actions.

Belief in Words

Tried to force belief in phrases.

Acknowledge belief is impossible.

Guide Function

Words that "do" something to me.

Words that remind me to act myself.

Reading the Guide

Visualize/internalize the phrases.

See what they point to, then act.

Testing the Guide

Expect words to change my state.

Use words to recall actions, then do them.

The Collapse of Belief in Words: A Journey to Reality

1. The Failure of the Previous Guide

I recorded a two-and-a-half-hour guide—only to realize it was useless. The idea was compelling, but fundamentally flawed. Why? Because it relied on faith in words. There were these phrases, these observations, that were supposed to trigger a certain state of mind. But here’s the catch: to reach that state, I had to believe in the phrases themselves. And the moment I recognized that the observation only existed because of the words—that I was seeing what I was told to see, not what was real—the whole thing collapsed.

I couldn’t believe in the phrases because I couldn’t prove them to myself. Not from any angle, not under any perspective. The core phrase was:

"I cannot believe in any words or any point of view, because I cannot prove any words or any point of view to myself."

But if I can’t believe in that phrase from any perspective, then the phrase itself becomes powerless. It can’t change my state. It can’t do anything. All this talk about words being "pointers"? Nonsense.

2. The Paradox of Disbelief

I tried to escape the problem by stopping belief in words entirely. But here’s the irony:

Problem: All my suffering came from believing in words from some perspective.

Solution: Stop believing in words from any perspective.

But how? To stop believing, I’d have to believe in the statement "I cannot believe in words." And if I believe that, I’m still believing in words—which defeats the purpose.

It’s a loop. A trap. The only way out? To accept that the only thing I can do is remove the illusion of belief itself.

3. The Only Possible Action: Erasing Belief

I realized: the only power I have over my mind is to eliminate false beliefs. Not to add new ones, not to "fix" anything—but to strip away the delusion that words have meaning beyond themselves.

Before, I’d remove one belief, only to cling to another. That residual belief still caused suffering.

Now? I’ve removed belief in all words, from all perspectives. No exceptions.

This is the first time I can truly stop. No more scrambling for new phrases, new guides, new mental tricks. There’s nothing left to believe in.

4. The State of No-Belief: Freedom in Reality

What’s left when belief is gone? Reality as it is.

No emotional turbulence from clinging to words.

No "shoulds" or "musts" dictating how I feel.

No boundaries—because boundaries were always just words I believed in.

This isn’t nihilism. It’s clarity. Reality isn’t something to resist; it’s the absence of illusion. And in this space, I can finally live without the constant noise of self-improvement, self-judgment, or the desperate search for the "right" words to feel okay.

Key insight:

"Reality is that I cannot believe in any words from any point of view. This is not a problem to solve—it’s just how things are."

5. The Illusion of "Guides" and the Truth for Others

Could I create a guide for others? No. A guide is just more words—more things to believe in. And belief is the problem.

The only thing I can offer is the destruction of illusions:

Show someone how their suffering comes from believing in words.

Help them see that no word is provable, no perspective is absolute.

Let them reach the same conclusion: "I cannot believe in any of this."

After that? Nothing. No techniques, no mantras, no steps. Just the raw, unfiltered experience of existence without the crutch of belief.

6. The Remnants of Habit and the Path Forward

Sometimes, old patterns resurface. My brain, out of habit, still tries to find words to believe in. When that happens:

I notice the stress it creates.

I remind myself: there’s nothing to believe in.

The stress dissolves.

This isn’t about suppression. It’s about recognizing the futility of the search. There’s no "better state" to achieve because there’s no belief left to chase it with.

Final realization:

"What I ran from was the only place worth being. Reality—without belief—isn’t a prison. It’s freedom."

7. The Invitation: A Life Without Limits

To anyone listening: You don’t need words to live.

The discomfort you feel? It comes from believing in things you can’t prove.

The freedom you seek? It’s on the other side of stopping the search.

Test it. Strip away every belief, every "should," every mental construct. What remains isn’t emptiness—it’s a life unbound by anything but your own direct experience.

Closing Thought:
"I tried everything. Now, for the first time, I’m doing nothing. And it’s enough."

The Realization: Words Cannot Be Trusted

I have come to understand—no, fully grasp—that I cannot believe in anything, not from any perspective. This isn’t a fleeting doubt; it’s an absolute conclusion. I’ve examined words, dissected them, turned them over in my mind, and now I see them for what they are: empty. No matter how I twist them, no matter what angle I approach them from, they fail to hold weight. There is no foundation, no proof, no truth in them that I can anchor to.

I’ve reached the end of this investigation. There’s nothing left to explore because the core of it is simple: words cannot improve my state, cannot change anything. They are just… words. I’ve traced this logic to its final point, and the verdict is clear: the search is over. The words I once clung to—whether as tools, as beliefs, or as commands—are now exposed as powerless.

The Habit of Control

Yet, despite this realization, I still catch myself in the old patterns. There’s a habit, ingrained and automatic, of trying to control myself with words—words I no longer believe in. It’s absurd when I stop to think about it:

Why would I let words dictate my actions if I don’t trust them?

Why would I try to restrain or direct myself with phrases that have no authority?

Why would I obey something that, by my own conclusion, is baseless?

The answer is simple: there are no words left to control me. The words I once used as levers—tools to adjust my thoughts, my emotions, my behavior—are now meaningless. If I keep trying to use them out of habit, I’m just going through the motions of a ritual that has lost its power.

It’s like gripping a shadow. The harder I try, the more I see the futility: words cannot control what they cannot prove.

The Absurdity of Self-Control Through Words

Here’s the crux of it: controlling myself with words I don’t believe in is madness.

If words have no grounding in any perspective, why should they have power over me?

If I cannot believe in them from any angle, how can they compel me?

What gives them the right to limit me, to shape me, to demand anything from me?

They don’t. They can’t. Words are just sounds, just symbols—utterly powerless unless I lend them my faith. But I can’t lend them faith anymore. That well is dry.

So the only logical step is to stop. Stop trying to control myself with words. Stop pretending that arranging letters or sounds can alter my reality. Stop the charade of believing that thinking a certain phrase will change how I feel or act.

It’s not just pointless—it’s delusional.

The Paradox of Thinking About Not Thinking

Now, here’s the twist: even as I write this, I’m still thinking about it. I’m still caught in the loop of trying to stop thinking about the guide (which isn’t even a guide—it’s just this mess of realizations). I’m still wrestling with:

How do I stop thinking about the phrase “I cannot believe in anything from any perspective”?

How do I stop analyzing the act of writing this down?

How do I break free from the cycle of overthinking the very words I’m using to describe the problem?

The answer, I think, is to see the absurdity for what it is. These words I’m using to try to stop thinking—what are they? Just more words. More empty tools. More attempts to control the uncontrollable.

The only way out is to recognize that the attempt itself is the trap. To see that trying to stop thinking with words is like trying to erase a drawing by adding more lines. It doesn’t work. It just creates more noise.

The Liberation: Words Are Just Words

So here’s the liberation: words don’t have to mean anything.

They don’t have to control me. They don’t have to limit me. They don’t have to do anything at all. They’re just… there. Like air. Like background noise. Powerless unless I choose to give them power—but I can’t choose that anymore, because I see the illusion.

This isn’t nihilism. It’s clarity. Words are tools I no longer need to wield. I can put them down. I can walk away from the whole charade.

The last habit to break is the habit of trying to break habits with words. But even that, I think, will fade once I stop feeding it.

The End of the Search

That’s it. That’s the core of it. The rest—well, the rest doesn’t matter as much. The details will sort themselves out once the main thing is seen:

I don’t have to control myself with words anymore.
I don’t have to believe in them.
I don’t have to let them run my life.

And if I catch myself slipping back into old patterns? I’ll just remind myself: Those words mean nothing. Let them go.

The Collapse of Words: A Final Realization

1. The Core Insight

I have spoken many words—endless explanations, justifications, and attempts to frame reality. But in the end, all words must go to hell. This is not a metaphor or a partial rejection; it is absolute. There is a single, irreversible moment when I understand: no word, from any perspective, holds meaning anymore.

The phrase that crystallizes this is:

"I cannot speak with any word, from any point of view."

After this, everything collapses. The words themselves—including the ones I am using right now—must be discarded. They are not just unreliable; they are void. There is no negotiation, no gradual process. It happens once, decisively, and then it is done.

2. The Nature of the Collapse

This is not about suppressing words or trying to "stop thinking in language." That would still be a game of words—another strategy, another concept. No. This is the elimination of the very possibility of words.

No exceptions: Not a single word remains valid. Not in my mind, not in my perception, not in any hidden corner of thought.

No substitutes: No "micro-guides," no silent self-instructions, no internal monologues. Nothing. The absence is total.

No control: I am not "choosing" to reject words or "practicing" silence. The realization is that words were never mine to control. They were always illusions, and now the illusion is exposed.

The only honest response is to stop believing in them entirely, from every angle, forever.

3. The Aftermath: A State Beyond Words

What remains after this? Whatever state arises, that is what exists. There is no way to describe it, influence it, or even name it—because description, influence, and naming are all acts of language.

No future words: I do not create new words or narratives. The past words (including these) are already sent to hell; they no longer bind me.

No present words: I do not speak to myself, not even in whispers. The mind does not "hold" words or resist them. There is no dialogue.

No change through words: My state cannot be altered by language. If I am anxious, empty, or at peace, that is simply what is. Words cannot touch it.

The attempt to "fix" or "improve" the state with words is part of the old delusion. Now, there is only what is, untouched by interpretation.

4. The Finality of the Realization

This is not a philosophy or a technique. It is an endpoint.

No "how": There is no method to achieve this. The moment it is understood, it is already done. Any question of "how to maintain it" or "what to do next" is still a word-game—and thus, irrelevant.

No "why": The collapse of words is not a choice or a moral stance. It is the only possible conclusion once the fraud of language is seen. Words cannot justify themselves.

No return: The words I speak now (or have spoken) are already part of the past. They are like echoes fading into silence. The future holds no new words because the belief in their power is dead.

5. The Paradox of Expression

Even this explanation is a contradiction. To say "all words must go to hell" is still to use words. But the difference is this:

Before, words were tools, truths, or traps.

Now, they are recognizable as empty—and thus, their use is not an act of faith but an act of exhaustion.

The last word is not a word at all. It is the silence that follows the final sentence.

Closing

There is nothing left to say.
Whatever is, is.

Note on Style:

The retelling preserves the author’s raw intensity (e.g., "go to hell," "no micro-guides") while structuring the ideas for clarity.

The first-person perspective maintains the immediacy of the original monologue.

Repetition (e.g., "no word," "nothing") is used deliberately to mirror the author’s emphasis on absolute negation.

The lack of solutions or "next steps" reflects the author’s rejection of prescriptive language.

The Impossibility of a Guide

I have lost faith in words—any words, from any perspective. After this, I cannot say what should or shouldn’t be done. Whatever I say will not be what needs to be done or avoided. I cannot write a guide because no words can capture what is necessary or unnecessary. I might feel compelled to write something—perhaps to control my state or articulate an idea—but I no longer believe in words. I stop trying to believe in anything, including the act of writing a guide.

A guide is just words, and I cannot trust words. So a guide is impossible. Even saying "there is no guide" is itself a guide. I cannot say anything. I am left only with the ability to speak or write, but my words hold no meaning, no truth, no path to any state. My condition is not something words can address.

The Self-Destructing Phrase

The only "guide" I can offer is this: I cannot believe in any words, from any perspective—including these words. This phrase nullifies itself. Any other phrase—any instruction, any advice—is meaningless. It would only mislead, because words cannot lead to the right state. They are empty.

After realizing this, there is nothing left to say. No continuation, no further steps. The moment you stop believing in words, all words lose their power. They cannot guide, control, or improve anything. They are just sounds, just symbols.

The Illusion of Trying to Help

I see myself constantly attempting to write a guide—for myself, for others. But every attempt fails because I do not believe in the words I write. The very act of trying to create a guide worsens my state. I must stop.

How? I cannot explain how to stop. I simply do stop. Not because I decide to, but because there is nothing left to do. There is no "how." There is only the absence of belief in words, and with it, the absence of any need to speak or act beyond that.

The Trap of False Paths

Any attempt to use words to control myself or others is a delusion. Saying, "Stop believing in words, then just live" is still a lie—because it implies there is something to do after. But there isn’t. There is no "after." There is only the realization that words cannot be trusted, and then... silence.

I do not tell myself, "Now I will live differently." I do not think, "This is the end." I simply no longer speak to myself in words. I no longer try to shape my experience with language. To do so would be to retreat into fantasy, to grasp at illusions of control.

The Only Truth

The only truth is this:

Words cannot be trusted—from any perspective, including the perspective that rejects them.

No guide exists—because a guide would require words, and words are meaningless in this context.

There is nothing to do after this realization—any action, any thought, any attempt to "apply" this understanding would be a step back into delusion.

If I try to say more, I betray the realization. If I try to "live by" this idea, I turn it into another set of words to believe in—and the cycle repeats.

Why Others Cannot Be Guided

I cannot tell others what to do or not do. Any words I offer would only pull them deeper into the trap of believing in words. The best I can do is describe what happens when you stop:

You stop trying to control yourself with language.

You stop seeking meaning in words.

You stop expecting words to change your state.

But even this description is dangerous. It risks becoming another guide, another set of instructions to follow. The moment you try to "use" these words, you lose the point.

The Paradox of Communication

I am still speaking now. I am still trying to explain. But I know:

These words are not a guide.

They cannot help anyone reach the right state.

They are only the sound of someone who has stopped believing in words... yet continues to speak.

The only honest thing to say is:
"I cannot believe in any words, from any perspective—including these."
And then—silence.

Final Realization

There is no guide.
There is no "after."
There is only the end of words.

And in that end, there is no need for more.

The Core Problem: Belief in Words and Their Misuse

I have spent a long time trying to understand why my state of mind deteriorates when I attempt to communicate—whether by writing, speaking, or recording. The root of the problem, as I’ve discovered, is not the words themselves, but how I interact with them.

At first, I believed the issue was that I couldn’t trust any words from any perspective because I couldn’t prove them to myself. This realization led me to a phrase that became my anchor:

"I cannot believe any words from any perspective because I cannot prove any words to myself from any perspective—including these words."

When I say this, something shifts. My mind stops fixating on words. It stops trying to grasp them, visualize them, or understand them beyond their immediate meaning. And when that happens, my distress vanishes. But the moment I try to explain, record, or share this insight, the suffering returns.

Why? Because I fall back into the same trap: I start examining my own words. I try to verify them, dissect them, and in doing so, I ruin my state again.

The Two Reasons We Fixate on Words

There are two fundamental reasons why we obsess over words—why we feel compelled to look at them, visualize them, and understand them beyond their surface meaning.

1. We Believe in Words (Even When We Shouldn’t)

The first reason is that we believe in words. We treat them as if they are proven, as if they carry inherent truth. But they don’t. Words are just pointers—they point to observations, ideas, or experiences, but they are not the things themselves.

When I say:

"I cannot believe any words from any perspective because I cannot prove any words to myself from any perspective,"

I stop believing in words. My mind no longer clings to them. It no longer tries to validate them or internalize them as truth. And because of that, the compulsion to obsess over them disappears.

But this alone isn’t enough. Even after I stop believing in words, I still feel the urge to check them, to understand them in a deeper way. That’s where the second reason comes in.

2. We Mistakenly Think We Need to "Process" Words to Understand Them

The second reason is more insidious: we think that to truly understand words, we must visualize them, contemplate them, and feel their weight. We believe that simply hearing or reading them isn’t enough—that we must engage with them on a deeper level to grasp their meaning.

But this is a lie.

Example:
If someone says, "I will hit you in one millisecond," I understand instantly. I don’t need to visualize the words or analyze them. My brain automatically decodes the meaning—the pointer—and reacts.

The same applies to reading a book, listening to a conversation, or even reviewing my own notes. The meaning is immediate. The moment I hear or see the words, I know what they refer to. No extra processing is needed.

Yet, when I write or speak, I fall into the trap of thinking:

"Did I say this correctly? Will others understand? Do these words truly capture what I mean?"

And to answer these questions, I look at the words again. I re-examine them. I visualize them. And in doing so, I ruin everything.

The Experiment: Words as Pointers, Not Truths

Here’s the key insight:
Words are not the experience—they are merely indicators of it.

When I say, "A rock is flying toward me," I don’t need to dissect the sentence. My brain instantly sees the rock. The words are just a bridge to the real thing.

But when I start focusing on the words themselves—when I try to understand them beyond their function as pointers—I enter a mental loop. I create a simulated reality in my mind, one where the words become the experience. And that simulated reality feels real to my brain, even though it’s just an illusion.

This is the source of all suffering:

If someone says, "No one loves you," and I visualize those words, I believe them.

My brain treats this visualization as real, and my state collapses.

But if I simply hear the words without fixating on them, they pass through me. They don’t stick.

The Solution: Stop Processing Words Unnecessarily

The fix is simple in theory but hard in practice:
Stop trying to "understand" words beyond their immediate meaning.

When listening or reading:

The meaning is automatic. No extra effort is needed.

If someone says, "The Earth orbits the Sun," I know instantly whether this aligns with my observations.

If it doesn’t, I reject it—not by analyzing the words, but by comparing the pointer to reality.

When speaking or writing:

I no longer need to re-examine my words to ensure they’re "correct."

If I say something and later review it, I don’t visualize the words—I just recall what I meant.

The recall is instant. The meaning is clear. No suffering occurs.

When others misinterpret me:

I don’t need to predict how they’ll react by visualizing their interpretation.

If they misunderstand, I can clarify—but I won’t suffer over their misunderstanding because I’m not attached to the words.

Why This Works: The Brain’s Automatic Filter

The brain is designed to point to reality, not to become reality. When I stop treating words as anything more than pointers, my brain stops overprocessing them.

Before: Words → Fixation → Simulated Reality → Suffering.

After: Words → Immediate Meaning → No Fixation → No Suffering.

The only time suffering returns is when I choose to re-engage with words as if they are more than pointers. But now, I see that choice for what it is: a habit, not a necessity.

Testing the Theory: Does It Hold?

I’ve spent years trapped in this cycle. Now, I’m testing whether this new understanding is stable.

Writing this guide is the first test. Normally, the act of writing would trigger fixation, but this time, I’m not re-reading in the old way. I’m not visualizing each sentence to "check" it. I’m just recalling the meaning as I go.

Speaking to others will be the next test. Can I explain this without falling back into old patterns?

Time is the ultimate test. Will this hold, or will my brain find a new way to sabotage itself?

For now, it feels different. Lighter. The compulsion to dissect my own words is gone because I finally see:
There’s nothing to dissect. The meaning is already there.

Final Thought: Living in Reality, Not in Words

The real world—sights, sounds, physical sensations—is where life happens. Words are just tools to navigate it.

Words as pointers? Useful.

Words as truth? Dangerous.

Words as objects of fixation? A prison.

I don’t need to believe in words. I don’t need to prove them. I just need to use them—and then let them go.

The Guide’s Core Message (Simplified)

Stop believing in words. They are not truth; they are tools.

Stop processing words unnecessarily. Their meaning is instant.

Live in reality, not in mental simulations. Words should point to life, not replace it.

If I can hold onto this, everything changes. No more suffering over words. No more second-guessing. Just clarity.

And if I fail? Then I’ll return to this guide and remember:
The problem was never the words. It was what I did with them.

The Obsession with Verification: A Self-Reflective Monologue

1. The Core Struggle: The Impossible Quest for Proof

I find myself in a paradox. On the surface, everything is fine—my state of mind, my observations, the words I use to describe them. But beneath that, there’s an relentless urge: I need to verify. Not just observe or describe, but prove—to check whether my words, my guide, my very thoughts are "correct" in some absolute sense. I keep circling this need, trapped in an endless loop of questioning.

The problem? I cannot verify anything. No matter how hard I try, there’s no way to "prove" my words or observations from any objective standpoint. The only thing I can do is compare my words to my own experiences—do they align? Yes, often they do. But that’s not what I’m really searching for. What I crave is something deeper: knowledge that is undeniable, evidence that is irrefutable, a perspective from which I can say with certainty, "This is true, and that is false."

Yet such a perspective doesn’t exist. There is no ultimate vantage point to judge my words or thoughts. And when I finally accept that—when I realize I cannot prove or disprove anything—the compulsion to keep trying should vanish. But it doesn’t. Not entirely.

2. The Three Hidden Reasons Behind the Obsession

Why do I keep fixating on these words, these ideas, this need to "check"? I’ve identified three underlying reasons—though the third is the most insidious, the one I only now fully grasp.

Belief as a Default State

I believe in the words I use. Not because they’re proven, but because belief is the default. It’s how I navigate the world. I don’t question every step I take; I trust my senses, my logic, my accumulated experience. But this belief isn’t proof—it’s just a practical necessity.

The Illusion of Understanding

I tell myself that by examining words—by breaking them down, defining them, comparing them—I can understand them. But understanding here is an illusion. I’m not uncovering some deeper truth; I’m just rearranging symbols in my mind. The act of "understanding" feels like progress, but it’s a mirage.

The Unconscious Search for Absolute Validation (The Real Driver)

This is the heart of it. I’m not just trying to understand—I’m trying to judge. I want to know, once and for all, whether I’m "right" or "wrong." Not in the sense of alignment with my observations (which I’ve already confirmed), but in some grander, moral, or existential sense.

Am I supposed to believe in something? Reject something? Is there a hidden error in my framework, a flaw in my reasoning that, if found, would invalidate everything?

But here’s the catch: An "error" can only exist if there’s a standard to measure against. And no such standard exists. There are no words, no ideas, no beliefs that are proven false from an absolute perspective. There’s only alignment with my own observations—and even that is subjective.

So when I search for "errors," I’m chasing a ghost. I’m acting as if there’s a universal ledger of truth and falsehood, but there isn’t. I cannot find an error because there’s no objective way to define one.

3. The Futility of the Search

The only "verification" available to me is this:

I describe my observations.

I check if my descriptions match what I observe.

If they align, that’s the only kind of "proof" I’ll ever get.

But this isn’t enough. Because what I really want is to prove my words from outside my own mind—to have some external authority (logic, science, divine truth, anything) confirm that my framework is "correct." But that’s impossible.

I cannot prove my observations because proof requires an independent standard, and all I have is my own perception.

I cannot prove my beliefs because belief isn’t about proof—it’s about choice.

I cannot even prove that I should stop searching because that, too, would require a standard I don’t have.

4. The Way Out: Accepting the Unprovable

So where does this leave me?

I have no reason to keep obsessing over words. Not for belief (I already believe what I believe), not for understanding (I can’t "understand" in the way I crave), and certainly not for verification (which is impossible).

The only thing left is to let go. To stop treating my thoughts as a puzzle to solve or a test to pass. To accept that:

My words align with my observations—that’s enough.

There is no "higher" truth to uncover.

The search for errors is a trap because errors, in this context, are undefined.

5. The Aftermath: What Remains?

If I stop this cycle—if I stop fixating on words, stop trying to "verify" the unverifiable—what happens?

The problems I thought I had may dissolve. Or they may not. But they’ll no longer be amplified by this endless, futile quest.

I’ll be left with just living. Observing, describing, acting—not because I’ve proven anything, but because that’s all there is.

And maybe, finally, that’s enough.

Final Note: The Paradox of Self-Reflection

Even now, as I write this, I feel the pull to analyze these words, to ask: Is this correct? Am I missing something? But that’s the old habit dying hard. The truth is simpler than I’ve made it:

There’s nothing to prove. There’s only this.

A Reflection on Words, Belief, and Action

(A structured retelling of the author’s monologue)

1. The Illusion of Hyperactivity and the Search for Meaning

I was recording an update, realizing that my previous "guide" was well-thought-out—but I’d fallen into illusion again. Unnoticed. Yesterday, I spent the whole day in a state that seemed fine, even hyperactive. I told myself, "Okay, maybe being hyperactive is normal." But then, at some point, I started questioning: What if…?

I looked at my hyperactive state and thought: Why don’t I pay attention to the words themselves? I only ever focus on what words point to—never the words as objects. I asked myself: Why don’t I observe or realize the words? And I answered: Because there’s no "high" in that. But then I thought: How do I know there’s no high in realizing words? Maybe it’s a better state? Maybe I’m wrong?

And then I couldn’t prove it. I couldn’t prove that there’s no point in realizing words. That’s when the real problem hit me: I’d started endlessly questioning how to "test" my state, my guide, my desires. Where did this urge to verify come from? And how do I kill it?

2. The Collapse of Verification

I believed I could test something. That I could prove something. That I could say something with certainty. But what did that even mean?

I thought the only thing I could verify was whether my words aligned with my observations. But then I realized: I can’t even verify that. Because to verify, I’d have to believe in my observations. And if I can’t believe in my observations, I can’t believe in the words describing them. So the whole idea of "verification" collapses.

It’s all tied to belief. Verification is belief. If I can’t prove anything, I can’t believe anything—from any perspective.

The Cycle of Verification and Belief

Step

Problem

Say a phrase

I assume it corresponds to reality.

Observe reality

But I can’t prove my observations are real.

Compare words & reality

Even if they seem to match, I can’t verify the match—because I can’t verify either.

Conclusion

No verification possible. Belief in words or observations is arbitrary.

3. The Loss of Meaning

Before, I had three ways to engage with a phrase like "I can’t believe anything from any perspective":

Imagine it – But why imagine it if I don’t believe it?

Realize it – Why realize it if I don’t believe it?

Look at what it points to – Why look if I don’t believe in the words or the observation they create?

I used to think: If I see that a phrase matches my observation, then it’s "verified." But now I see: The observation only exists because of the phrase. The phrase doesn’t point to reality—it points to the observation it itself creates.

So why should I care about that observation? It’s a loop. The phrase creates the observation, and the observation justifies the phrase. But neither is real in any provable way.

Result: I lost the will to act. I lay in bed for hours, seeing no point in anything.

The Three Ways I Used to Engage with Words

Method

Old Belief

New Realization

Imagine words

"This might change my state."

"Why imagine if I don’t believe it?"

Realize words

"This might feel meaningful."

"Meaning requires belief—I have none."

Follow their pointer

"They describe reality."

"They only point to themselves."

4. The Brain vs. The "I" in the Head

I realized: The only way I thought I could act was by creating a word in my head that would change my state enough to make me want to act.

But now I don’t believe in any words—from any perspective. So why would I create a word to trick myself into acting? What’s the point?

Then it hit me: I don’t need the word at all.

Before, I thought:

"I need a word to motivate me."

"The word changes my state, which makes me act."

But now I see: I can act without the word. The word was just a crutch—a belief that I needed it.

5. The Breakthrough: Action Without Justification

I asked myself:

Why do I need a word to act?

Why can’t I just… act?

And suddenly, I saw: I can.

I don’t need to:

Create a motivational phrase.

Believe in it (even though I can’t).

Wait for it to change my state.

I can just move.

This was the shift: The "I" in my head is not the brain. The "I" in my head is the part that thinks it needs words to act. But the brain? The brain can act without any of that.

6. Testing the New State

Now, I’m in a strange new state where:

I don’t believe in any words (from any perspective).

I don’t need words to act.

I can just… do things.

But old habits linger. I still feel like I need a word to act. That feeling is the remnant of belief.

The next step? Test this. See if I can truly act without the crutch of words. See if this isn’t just another illusion.

7. The Core Insight: Belief in Words Was the Block

The whole problem was belief in the necessity of words.

I thought:

"I need words to motivate me."

"I need to believe in words to act."

But now I see: That belief was the prison.

When I let go of the idea that words are needed, action becomes possible again.

Old System vs. New Realization

Old System

New Realization

Words → Change state → Action

Action is direct.

Belief in words required

No belief needed.

"I" in head controls action

"I" is just a story—the brain acts.

8. What’s Next?

Now, I need to:

Test this state. Can I truly act without the word-crutch?

Describe the process clearly. Maybe outline:

How we normally use words (looking at them, realizing them, following their pointers).

The different types of belief in words (belief in their meaning, belief in verification, etc.).

How letting go of all belief frees action.

See if this holds. Or if it’s just another layer of illusion.

For now, I’m out of the bed. That’s something.

Final Thought

The question "Why?" only arises when there’s belief. When belief collapses, "Why?" collapses with it.

And then—there’s just doing.

Self-Reflection on Words, Belief, and Mental State

1. The Problem: Why My State Worsened

After recording my previous guide, I decided to test everything I’d said by visualizing and internalizing the words I’d spoken. This act of deliberate focus—trying to grasp the words—backfired. My mental state deteriorated because of it.

The core issue:
I was looking at words, awareness-ing them, and imagining them. But why? This was the root of the harm.

2. The Three Reasons I Do This (And Why They’re Flawed)

A. I Believe in the Words
At first, I thought: "Maybe I believe in these words."
But no—I don’t believe in any words, from any perspective, including all the words I used in that guide. Not a single one.

B. I Want to Understand the Words
I thought: "Maybe I’m trying to understand them."
But understanding words doesn’t require this. Words are comprehended instantly—in a millisecond—just by reading, recalling, or hearing them. I’ve said this before. Forcing awareness or visualization doesn’t deepen understanding. It distorts it.

What I actually want to understand is what the words point to. But I mistakenly thought that to grasp their meaning, I needed to visualize or internalize them. That’s the error. (I’ve already broken this down elsewhere, but it’s clear here too.)

C. I Want to Verify the Words
The third reason—the one I’d forgotten—was that I was trying to test the words I’d spoken in the guide.
But here’s the truth: I cannot verify any words, from any angle.
Not the words in the guide. Not any words at all.

3. The Realization: Letting Go of Verification

When I stopped trying to verify words through visualization or forced awareness, my state improved again. Now:

I don’t believe in any words.

I don’t internalize or visualize words.

I don’t even believe in the things words point to—as if they could be "verified."

I’d once thought: "I need a ‘verified’ word—a word I can trust—to act on."
But then I realized: Why?
I can live and act just fine with unverified words. The words I’m speaking now? They can’t be verified either. To "understand" them, I don’t need to dissect them. Understanding isn’t about proof—it’s about use.

4. The Key Insight (Summarized)

The mistake: I started visualizing and internalizing the words from my guide → my state worsened.

The why: I was either (1) unconsciously believing in them, (2) trying to understand them through forced awareness (which doesn’t work), or (3) attempting to verify them (which is impossible).

The fix: I stopped. Now I neither believe in words nor try to "check" them. My state is stable again.

Final note (for now):
"I need to ‘crawl under’ this again to understand it further."
(But for now, this is the clarity I’ve reached.)

On the Illusion of Needing Words to Act

I want to record another thought—one more reason why I might start examining words, becoming aware of them, or visualizing them in my mind. Beyond the reasons I’ve already considered—like believing in the power of words, seeing them as a way to understand things, or testing their validity—there’s another layer to this. It’s the idea that words are necessary for action itself.

Not in the sense that words help me do something, but that doing anything at all seems to require them. For example, to get out of bed, I might think I need to first consciousnessly grasp certain words. The core assumption here is: to act, I must first think—and thinking, it seems, happens in words.

So if I become aware of the words that arise in my mind when I decide to do something—if I focus on them, visualize them, or fixate on the mental chatter that precedes action—then, the belief goes, I’ll be able to perform that action. But this is a delusion.

The Experiment: Acting Without the Crutch of Words

Let me break it down. Suppose I decide: "I need to make an omelet." Normally, my mind would start churning: "Okay, now I need to… now I have to…"—a stream of words I’d try to observe, as if watching them would somehow make the action happen. But here’s the revelation: to act, I don’t need to observe or cling to any words at all.

It feels like control requires this—like I need to monitor the words in my head to ensure the action unfolds. But that’s not true. The doing itself doesn’t demand this mental commentary. I can simply… do.

And once I realized this, I stopped. I stopped fixating on the words, stopped treating them as a prerequisite for movement. The result? Nothing changed. I can still do everything I could before—cook, walk, work—without losing a step. The only difference is that I no longer disrupt my own state by clinging to this unnecessary process.

The Hidden Cost of Overthinking Action

There was a pattern: when I did nothing, I felt good. Calm. Present. But the moment I tried to do something, that state vanished—because I’d immediately start thinking about thinking. My mind would latch onto words, as if they were the lever to pull for action. But they weren’t. They were just noise.

The breakthrough was understanding that action doesn’t require this mental middleman. Words aren’t the bridge between intention and movement; they’re often just static. By letting go of the habit of watching them, I stopped sabotaging my own peace. Now, when I act, I act—not because I’ve successfully "observed the right words," but because the doing is its own language.

Key Takeaways (In the Author’s Voice)

The Myth of Word-Dependent Action: I once believed that to do anything—even something as simple as standing up—I had to first consciousnessly engage with the words in my mind. But this was an illusion.

The Freedom of Direct Action: Action doesn’t need a mental narrator. I can crack eggs, tie my shoes, or answer a call without dissecting the words that might flit through my head.

The State Preservation: Before, my default state (calm, content) would shatter the moment I "needed" to act, because I’d start over-managing the process with words. Now, I act without that friction—and the state remains intact.

The Simplicity of Doing: The lesson isn’t about suppressing thoughts. It’s about recognizing that they’re not the mechanism. I don’t need to watch the gears turn to ride the bike.

Final Reflection:
It’s ironic, really. The harder I tried to control action by monitoring words, the more I disrupted the very flow I sought. The solution wasn’t to grasp tighter—it was to let the words be, and just move.

The Core Mistake and Its Consequences

I was recording what I thought was my best guide—about how to focus on what words point to rather than fixating on the words themselves, analyzing or "realizing" them as objects. But while recording it, I made a critical error. That error then became the foundation for several more mistakes, unraveling everything.

At first, I noticed something powerful: when I looked at a phrase like "I can’t believe anything because nothing is proven" and focused on the words themselves—trying to grasp them, visualize them, or "realize" them—it made me feel terrible. But if I instead looked at what the words were pointing to—the actual meaning behind them, the reality they described—my state improved. I felt good.

The problem? This good state was fragile. I’d slip back into fixating on the words themselves, and the discomfort would return. I asked myself: Why does this happen? And I found two reasons:

I believed words had to be "realized" to be understood.
I thought that to understand words—to know what they meant—I had to stare at them, analyze them, or visualize them in my mind. But then I realized: No. You don’t. You can just read or hear them and understand instantly. No extra "realization" is needed.

I thought "realizing" words was how you verified them.
I’d catch myself trying to "check" my words by fixating on them—like rereading my own guide and obsessing over whether it was correct. But that’s not how verification works. The only real "check" is whether what the words point to matches my actual observations. Nothing else.

Once I saw this, I thought: Great! Now I can just focus on what words point to and never fixate on the words themselves. I believed this would solve everything—because the only problem was fixating on words, and the only solution was to stop.

But then I made the fatal error.

The Trap of "Meaning" and the Collapse

I started asking: Why should I even look at what words point to? If the words themselves aren’t "proven," then what they point to is also unproven. So what’s the point?

I convinced myself:

"There’s no point in fixating on words because they’re unproven."

"But if the words are unproven, then what they point to is also unproven. So there’s no point in focusing on that either."

And just like that, I lost the ability to use words at all.

I spiraled:

"What’s the point of words?"

"What’s the point of meaning?"

"What’s the point of anything?"

I ended up in a place where nothing had meaning. I was stuck. Words didn’t work anymore. I couldn’t function.

The Illusion of "No Meaning"

Then I realized: I had believed my own answer.

I had asked myself: "Is there any point in fixating on words?" And I had answered: "No, because they’re unproven." And I believed that answer.

But here’s the catch:

The claim "words are unproven" is itself an unproven statement.

So believing "there’s no point because words are unproven" is believing an unproven chain of logic.

I had fallen into an illusion. I was treating my own thoughts as facts—as if "words are unproven" was an absolute truth, when in reality, I couldn’t even prove that.

The Correct Approach: Focus Without Belief

Now, I see the solution clearly. The mistake wasn’t in the original idea—it was in how I used it.

The Rule:

If I fixate on words (analyze, visualize, "realize" them), I feel bad.

If I focus on what they point to, I feel good.

The Trap:

I tried to justify this rule by saying "there’s no point in fixating on words because they’re unproven."

But that justification itself was a fixation on words—I was treating my own reasoning as a fact, which led me back into the spiral.

The Fix:

Don’t justify it. Don’t ask "why?" Don’t try to prove it.

Just do it because it works.

Fixating on words = bad state.

Focusing on what they point to = good state.

That’s all the reason I need.

The New Guide: Pure Focus, No Belief

Here’s how it works now:

For any word or phrase:

If I look at the words themselves (analyze, visualize, obsess), I feel worse.

If I look at what they point to (the actual meaning, the reality behind them), I feel better.

Why do I still fixate sometimes?

Old habit: I used to think fixating was necessary to understand or verify.

But now I know:

Understanding happens automatically when I read/hear.

Verification happens by checking if the meaning matches reality—not by staring at words.

The Only Rule:

Never fixate on words. Not because "there’s no point" (that’s just another word-trap), but because:

It feels bad.

It doesn’t help.

I don’t want to.

What About "Meaning"?

I don’t need to ask "What’s the point?"

The only "point" is that one way feels good and the other feels bad.

That’s enough.

The Final Realization: Words as Tools, Not Truths

The key insight:

Words are tools. They point to things.

Fixating on the tool (the word itself) is like staring at a hammer instead of using it to build.

Using the tool correctly (focusing on what it points to) is how you actually live.

The mistake was:

I tried to prove that fixating was wrong.

But proving is just another form of fixating.

The solution is:

Don’t fixate. Don’t prove. Don’t justify.

Just use words the way that works.

Living Without the Trap

Now, I can:

Speak, write, think—but never fixate on the words.

Focus only on what they point to—the real-world meaning.

Ignore the question of "meaning" entirely, because it’s a word-trap.

If I start fixating again, I’ll feel it immediately. The discomfort is the signal. And the fix is simple:

Stop fixating.

Look at what the words point to instead.

No beliefs. No proofs. Just what works.

The Takeaway

The original guide was correct in essence, but I ruined it by trying to explain why it worked. The moment I did that, I fell back into the trap of fixating on words.

The corrected version is simpler:

Bad: Fixating on words (analyzing, visualizing, obsessing).

Good: Focusing on what words point to.

Why? Because one feels bad and the other feels good.

That’s it. No philosophy. No "meaning." Just action and result.

Final Thought:
"I don’t need to know why it works. I just need to do what works."

The Core Problem: Words vs. What They Point To

I’ve been struggling with a persistent issue—my previous "guide" (a set of personal principles or observations) keeps "failing" or "crashing." The problem isn’t the guide itself, but how I interact with it. Here’s what happens:

When I Focus on What Words Point To
When I think about what words refer to—the actual experiences, observations, or realities behind them—I feel good. I’m present, engaged, and free. I don’t question whether the words are "proven" or "true"; I simply use them as tools to navigate what I observe. For example, if I say, "All words are just pointers," and I focus on the act of pointing—the direction, the intention—I’m fine. I don’t get stuck.

When I Fixate on the Words Themselves
But then I make a critical mistake: I start looking at the words instead of what they point to. I examine them, dissect them, and—without realizing it—I begin to believe in them as if they’re self-contained truths. This is where everything unravels.

The Trap of Belief: I notice that I can’t "prove" any word or statement to myself from any perspective. Not just abstract words, but even my own observations. If I can’t prove them, how can I trust them? This thought spirals: "If I can’t prove words, then I can’t trust them, and if I can’t trust them, I can’t use them—and if I can’t use them, I’m paralyzed."

The Illusion of Proof: The act of trying to prove words is itself a trap. The moment I ask, "Do I believe this?" or "Is this true?", I’ve already shifted from using words to worshipping them. I start treating them as independent entities with their own reality, rather than tools.

Key Insight: When I look at words, I’m no longer looking through them. I’m not seeing the world—they become a barrier.

The Cycle of Self-Sabotage

This creates a vicious loop:

Speaking Freely
I say something—anything—and in the moment, it’s just expression. The words flow, and I’m connected to their meaning. For example: "I can’t believe in any words from any perspective." At this point, it’s just an observation.

Retrospective Analysis
Later, I revisit what I said. Instead of recalling the experience behind the words, I examine the words themselves. I ask:

"Did I mean that?"

"Is this statement true?"

"Can I prove it?"
This is where the corruption happens. The words, now isolated from their context, become objects of belief. I start to feel as though I’m committed to them, as if they’re binding contracts.

The Collapse into Doubt
I realize: "I don’t actually believe in these words from any perspective." But because I’ve been staring at them, I now feel like I should believe in them—or that my inability to believe is a problem. This creates cognitive dissonance:

"If I don’t believe in words, how can I use them?"

"If I can’t prove anything, how can I trust my own thoughts?"
The result? Paralysis. I stop engaging with words altogether, because engaging feels like lying or self-deception.

The Two Modes of Engagement

I’ve identified two distinct ways I relate to language:

Mode

What It Looks Like

Outcome

Correct Engagement

Focusing on what words point to—the experiences, observations, or actions behind them.

Clarity, flow, no internal conflict.

Incorrect Engagement

Fixating on the words themselves—analyzing, "proving," or believing in them as objects.

Doubt, paralysis, self-sabotage.

Example:

Correct: I say, "I can’t believe in any words," and I see the reality it describes—my direct experience of uncertainty. The words are just a lens.

Incorrect: I say the same phrase, then later examine the phrase itself, asking, "Is this true? Can I prove it?" Now the words are a prison.

Why the "Incorrect" Mode Feels Compelling

Even though the "correct" mode works, I keep slipping into the "incorrect" one. Why?

The Illusion of Understanding
I trick myself into thinking that analyzing words will help me understand what I meant. But it doesn’t. It’s like trying to understand a finger by staring at it instead of looking at what it’s pointing to.

The Habit of "Checking"
I’ve trained myself to "verify" my thoughts. But verification requires treating words as static truths, which they’re not. The only real "check" is:

Did my words accurately describe my experience in the moment?

Do they still point to something useful now?
Anything beyond that is noise.

Fear of Illusion
I worry that if I don’t "prove" my words, I’m living in a delusion. But the delusion isn’t the words—it’s the belief that words need proving. Words are tools, not foundations.

The Solution: A Single Rule

After all this, I’ve distilled it to one principle:

"I cannot believe in anything from any perspective because I cannot prove anything to myself from any perspective."

But here’s the catch: this only works if I engage with it correctly.

Correct Engagement:

I see that this statement points to my direct experience: I don’t have absolute proof for anything, and that’s okay.

I don’t need to believe the statement—I just notice what it describes.

The result? I stop fixating on words. I use them lightly, as pointers, and I feel free.

Incorrect Engagement:

I take the statement and examine it: "Is this true? Can I really not believe in anything?"

Now I’m stuck in a loop of doubt, because the statement itself becomes an object of belief.

The Fix:

Step 1: Use the phrase as a tool to see my experience.

Step 2: When I catch myself analyzing the phrase, stop. Remind myself: "This is just a pointer. Look at what it’s pointing to."

Step 3: Trust that the "correct" mode is self-sustaining. If I stay in it, the urge to analyze fades.

Practical Applications

Reading My Own Notes

Old Habit: Reread my "guide" and try to reconstruct what I meant by analyzing the words.

New Habit: Skim the words, let them trigger the memory of the experience they described, and move on.

Verifying Ideas

Old Habit: "Prove" a statement by dissecting it.

New Habit: Ask: "Does this point to something I’ve actually observed? If yes, it’s useful. If not, discard it."

Avoiding the "Why" Trap

The question "Why should I do this?" is dangerous because it demands belief in an answer. But there’s no "why"—there’s only "Does this work?"

If focusing on what words point to leads to clarity, that’s enough. No further justification is needed.

The Remaining Challenge

The hard part isn’t understanding this—it’s staying in the correct mode. My brain defaults to analyzing words because it feels like "work" or "rigor." But it’s a mirage. The real rigor is discipline: catching myself when I slip and gently redirecting my attention to what the words are pointing to.

Final Thought:
This isn’t about words at all. It’s about trust—trusting my direct experience over abstract analysis. Words are just signposts. The landscape is what matters.

The Collapse of Belief in Words

I’ve reached a point where I can no longer make anything work for me—no matter how hard I try. There’s this phrase I’ve been fixated on: "I can’t believe in anything, from any perspective." It’s supposed to mean "I can’t prove anything, from any perspective." But no matter how I twist it, how I try to use it, it does nothing for me. It’s utterly useless.

I’ve tried everything: focusing on what the words point to instead of the words themselves, trying to see beyond them, to believe in them, to not believe in them. But my brain sees right through it. The words aren’t true or false—they just are, and that’s the problem. I can’t prove them to myself. And without that, I can’t use them. To use words—to make them do anything for me—I’d have to believe in them completely, 100%. But I can’t. I’ve lost that ability.

I used to think that if I just looked at what the words were pointing to, if I just thought about their meaning hard enough, something would click. But now I see: the very act of trying to use words requires belief, and I don’t have that anymore. Not in any words, not from any angle.

The Realization: Words Are a Dead End

This phrase—"I can’t believe in anything"—has become a black hole. It doesn’t just fail to help; it destroys the possibility of help. Because if I can’t believe in this phrase, then I can’t believe in any phrase. And if I can’t believe in any words, then words can’t change my state. They can’t make me feel better. They can’t do anything.

I’ve exhausted every angle:

Imagining what the words point to.

Realizing their meaning.

Believing in them (which I can’t).

Disbelieving in them (which also does nothing).

All of it requires some baseline of trust in the words themselves—and that’s gone. So the entire path is closed. Words are useless now. Not because they’re false, but because I can’t anchor myself to them anymore. I can’t make them real enough to matter.

The Search for Another Way

If words don’t work, then what does? That’s the question that opened up when I finally let go. For the longest time, I rejected the idea of a "good state" that didn’t come from words. Why? Because:

I believed words were the only way to achieve it.

I needed to know why I was in a good state. If it came from words, I could trace the logic. If it didn’t, it felt like cheating—like something for people who don’t think.

But now I see: the only way to have a good state and know why is through words. And words don’t work anymore. So I have to accept that I might never know why—and that’s okay. Because the alternative is staying stuck in this limbo where nothing works.

The moment I stopped trying to force words to work, my brain immediately found another way. Not a verbal way. Not a way I can explain. But a way that exists.

The New Path: Beyond Language

This new way isn’t tied to words at all. I can’t describe it because description requires words, and words are part of the old system. All I can say is:

It’s not about thinking in sentences.

It’s not about believing or disbelieving in anything.

It’s not about analyzing or proving or visualizing.

It’s just… a shift. A state that arises when you stop trying to control your state with language.

I don’t know how it works. I don’t know why it works. But it does. And for the first time in a long time, I’m not trapped in the cycle of trying to figure it out.

Why This Feels Like Freedom

Before, I was always in one of two states:

Bad state (because of unconscious belief in some words).

Good state (but only if I could justify it with words).

Now? The bad state is gone because there’s no unconscious belief left. The good state doesn’t need justification. It just is.

It’s like being a kid again—before I overcomplicated everything with language. Back then, I didn’t need to know why I felt good or bad. I just was. And now, after all this struggle, I’m back to that. But this time, it’s a choice.

What’s Next?

I don’t know. I need to test this. See if it holds. But for now:

Words are dead to me as a tool for change. Not because they’re bad, but because the path they offer is exhausted.

The new way isn’t verbal. It can’t be explained, only experienced.

I don’t care about "knowing" anymore. The need to prove, to justify, to understand—it’s all irrelevant now. The only thing that matters is whether this state lasts.

If it does? Then maybe I’ll write about it. Not as a guide to a good state (because that would just be more words), but as a… I don’t know. A map of the dead ends. A warning. Or maybe just a story.

For now, though? I’m done with words. I’m done with trying. I’m just… here.

And for the first time in a long time, that’s enough.

Final Note:
This isn’t a philosophy. It’s not a theory. It’s just what happened when I hit the wall with language—and found something on the other side. Whether it lasts, whether it’s "real," I don’t know. But right now, it’s working. And that’s all that matters.

The Collapse of Belief in Words

I was walking a path of inquiry—what can I believe, what can I prove, what can’t I? I pushed this question to its extreme and arrived at a single, devastating conclusion: I cannot believe anything from any perspective because I cannot prove anything from any perspective. This phrase didn’t just undermine specific beliefs—it destroyed the very possibility of using words at all. If I accepted it, words became meaningless. No statements could stand, not even the statement itself.

But I realized I couldn’t live without words. My brain needs them. So this phrase—this entire approach of questioning belief and proof—was useless. It didn’t improve my state; it paralyzed me. I needed another way.

The Trap of Self-Destruction

The problem was that any attempt to use words to feel better collapsed under the weight of that original phrase. If I tried to believe in a new phrase (e.g., "I deserve happiness"), the old one would immediately dismantle it: "But you can’t prove that, so why believe it?" It was a loop:

I’d try to use words to feel better.

The phrase "I can’t believe anything because I can’t prove anything" would invalidate them.

I’d be back at square one—empty, stuck.

This approach killed all words. And without words, I couldn’t function. So I concluded: This method doesn’t work. I needed something entirely different.

The Shift: "I Need Another Way"

I told myself: "I need another way." The moment I did, my brain believed it—not in the sense of blind faith, but as a functional directive. It was the first alternative my mind could grasp after the paralysis. The key was to stop using the phrase that destroyed belief and instead:

Not think about what I can or can’t believe.

Not think about proof or disbelief.

Not revisit the phrase that nullified everything.

This wasn’t about believing in new words. It was about ceasing to undermine myself. The phrase "I need another way" became a tool to exit the loop. My brain, desperate for stability, latched onto it as a lifeline.

How the New Way Works

The Old Way (Broken):

Use words to feel better → "But I can’t prove this" → Words fail → Bad state.

Example: "I am worthy" → "Prove it" → Collapse.

The New Way (Functional):

Say: "I need another way." → Brain searches for a way that doesn’t rely on words.

The "way" is simply: Stop revisiting the destructive phrase.

Result: Words can exist without being dismantled. I can think about what they point to (e.g., the idea of worthiness) without needing to believe them.

Critical Insight:

The phrase "I need another way" isn’t magic. It’s a trigger for the brain to abandon the old pattern.

The brain already knows how to feel good without words—it’s just been blocked by the obsession with proof and belief.

Why This Isn’t About Belief

I don’t "believe" in the new phrase. Belief implies trust in words, but I’ve lost that capacity entirely. Instead:

I observe that the old method fails.

I direct my brain to find an alternative.

The brain complies by stopping the self-sabotage.

Proof It’s Not Belief:

If I tried to believe "I need another way," I’d immediately ask: "But can I prove I need another way?"—and the cycle would restart.

Instead, I act. I don’t analyze the phrase; I use it as a tool to shift focus.

The Brain’s Role

The brain is a problem-solving machine. Previously, I gave it an impossible task:
"Find words I can believe in to feel better" → No solution (because belief is broken).

Now, I give it a solvable task:
"Find a way to feel better that doesn’t rely on words" → Solution found instantly.

How?

The brain stops fixating on "What can I believe?"

It stops needing words to validate feelings.

It accesses a pre-existing ability to generate well-being—one that was always there but suppressed by the obsession with linguistic proof.

The Guide (For Others)

If I were to distill this into steps for someone else:

Destroy Belief in Words:

Use the phrase: "I can’t believe anything because I can’t prove anything." Let it erase all faith in language.

Result: Words lose their power to dictate your state.

Realize Words Are Useless for Feeling Better:

Any attempt to use words (e.g., affirmations, logic) will fail because you’ll dismantle them with the original phrase.

Example: "I am enough" → "Prove it" → Collapse.

Demand an Alternative:

Say: "I need another way." Mean it.

Your brain will automatically seek a non-verbal path to well-being.

Live in the New Way:

Stop revisiting the destructive phrase.

Let words exist without belief—focus on what they point to (e.g., the experience of "enoughness" rather than the word).

Trust the brain’s innate ability to create well-being without linguistic validation.

Why This Works Permanently

Old System: Relied on belief in words → Fragile (collapsed when belief failed).

New System: Bypasses belief entirely → Unbreakable (no dependency on proof).

The brain’s capacity for well-being is hardwired. The only block was the insistence on using words to access it.

Final Realization

All suffering comes from trying to regulate our state with words—because words require belief, and belief is conditional. When we stop demanding proof and stop letting words dictate our state, the brain’s natural equilibrium takes over.

The guide isn’t a set of words to believe in.
It’s a method to stop needing words at all.

Closing Thought:
I spent years trapped in the loop of "prove it or discard it." The exit wasn’t a smarter phrase—it was stopping the game entirely. The brain already knows how to thrive. We just have to get out of its way.

The Problem: The Limits of Words

I’ve been experimenting, trying to understand how to reach a certain state—the one I’ve been writing about, a different way of being. But I keep making the same mistake: I rely on words. Words are all I have. I speak them, imagine them, become aware of them, and my state shifts. But the shift isn’t the right one. I ask myself: What must I do to reach that state? And the only tool I have is words.

I tell myself things like:

"I must not forget..."

"I must not believe anything..."

"All my knowledge, everything I’ve figured out—it’s all there, but I shouldn’t touch it."

I think: Okay, leave it alone. Don’t interfere. But then I try to use that idea, to apply it, and I’m back to the same problem: I’m still using words. I take a phrase—"I need a different way"—and try to twist it, manipulate it, force it to work. I imagine it, I "realize" it, I pretend to believe in it. But I’m just spinning in circles. The same patterns repeat:

Imagining the words.

Being aware of them.

Pretending to believe them (since I can’t actually believe anything).

Trying to force a change through them.

And nothing works. I’m stuck in the same loop.

The Realization: Words Are Useless for This

Then it hits me: Words cannot get me into that state. Not just that—they can’t even help or hinder me. All the things I’ve realized—about not being able to believe, about the limits of words—none of it matters for reaching the state I want. It’s neutral. Useless.

But here’s the catch: Words are all I have. I am words. My thinking is words. I can’t exist without them. So how can I find a way that isn’t words? I can’t. I can’t.

The Solution: Let the Brain Do It

This is the key insight:
The "different way" must come from my brain—not from me.

I can only work with words.

My brain can work without words.

When I say, "I need a different way," I’m not talking to myself. I’m talking to my brain. I’m making a request:
"Brain, find a way that isn’t words. Do it without my interference. Change my state, and I’ll receive the result."

Because I can’t do it. I’m trapped in language. But my brain isn’t. It understands more than words. It can create a state without them—I don’t know how, but it can.

The Trap: Trying to "Do" the Different Way

Here’s where I keep failing:
Even when I say "brain, find a different way," I’m still trying to do it myself. I’m still:

Imagining what that "different way" might look like.

Using words to describe it.

Searching for it with my usual tools (words, thoughts, awareness).

But that’s the old way. The "different way" can’t be found by the thing (me) that’s stuck in words. It has to come from somewhere else—from the brain, operating beyond language.

The Practice: True Surrender

So what does it actually mean to let the brain do it?

Stop engaging with words.

Don’t analyze them.

Don’t "realize" them.

Don’t try to apply them.

Don’t even look at them.

Give the request and let go.

Say: "Brain, I need a different way."

Then do nothing. No imagining. No thinking. No "figuring out."

The brain will find it—or it won’t. But I can’t force it.

Recognize the old patterns.

Everything I’ve ever said or thought is part of the old way.

The new way isn’t a variation of that. It’s outside of it.

The Paradox: Already There

Here’s the strange part:
When I truly stop trying—when I stop using words, stop "doing" anything—it turns out I’m already in the state I wanted. The moment I’m not clinging to words, not manipulating them, not using them to change myself… I’m there.

But if I start thinking again—if I go back to words, to analysis, to "figuring out"—I lose it. The only direction I can move is backward, into the old patterns.

The Core Message

I cannot find the way. Only my brain can.

Words are the problem. They’re the tool I’m stuck with, but they’re useless for this.

The solution is surrender. Not passive resignation, but an active non-doing—a request to the brain, followed by silence.

The state arrives when I stop searching. It’s already here when I’m not in the way.

Final Note: What This Isn’t

This isn’t about:

Forgetting everything I’ve learned.

Rejecting words entirely (they’re still useful for other things).

Forcing myself to "believe" in something.

It’s about recognizing that the tool I’ve been using (words) is the wrong one for this job, and the only way forward is to hand the job to something else—the brain—and trust it to work without my interference.

The Realization: Why the Old Guide Failed

I finally understood what the "other way" is. After recording my previous guide, I tried to live by it—but nothing worked. I kept thinking about that guide, replaying it in my mind, and realized: everything I said there was not a way to reach the right state at all.

I had written that you shouldn’t "observe the words," shouldn’t "visualize them" or "engage with them." But even as I stared at my own guide, I couldn’t figure out why it didn’t work. It was logically sound—so why couldn’t I use it to reach the state I wanted? The answer hit me: Because I was still looking at the words.

The Two Fundamental Approaches

There are only two ways to exist in relation to words:

Looking at words (the old way).

Not looking at any words at all (the new way).

When I look at words—whether in my guide, my thoughts, or any perspective—they influence me. But I don’t believe in any words or viewpoints anymore. No matter how I twist them, they won’t bring me to a good state because I don’t trust them. So the old way—fixating on words—is useless.

The other way is to stop looking at words entirely. If I don’t look, they can’t affect me. That’s how I reach the right state.

Why No Guide Can Help

Here’s the paradox: Any guide is just more words. If I read it, I’m looking at words—which means I’m using the old, broken method. The guide itself becomes part of the problem.

The old way: Looking at words (e.g., analyzing my guide, believing in perspectives).

The new way: Not looking at any words.

I could write a thousand guides, but if I look at them, they’re useless. The solution isn’t in the content—it’s in ignoring the content entirely.

The Mechanism: How It Works

When I don’t look at words:

They stay in my head, but they don’t control me.

They don’t pull me into beliefs or bad states because I’m not engaging with them.

My mind remains stable because I’m not feeding it conflicting or meaningless phrases.

But there’s a catch: I’m always tempted to look back at the words. For example:

"I can’t believe in anything"—if I focus on that phrase, my state crashes.

"My old guide had the answer"—if I reread it, I’m back to square one.

The pull is strong because words feel important. But I know: Looking at them is the old way. The new way is to refuse.

The Illusion of Control

Some might argue: "But what if the words are true? What if I need to believe ‘everyone is to blame’ or ‘I’m right’? How can I act if I don’t look at those words?"

But here’s the thing: I don’t believe in any words right now. So it’s easy for me to ignore them. My only goal is a good state, and I’ve proven that not looking at words achieves that.

The brain can ignore words—it’s a natural ability.

You can’t use words to stop looking at words (e.g., telling yourself "Don’t look at words" just creates more words to look at).

The shift happens beyond words. It’s not about replacing one phrase with another; it’s about stepping outside the entire system.

The Unspeakable Focus

I can’t say what I look at instead of words because:

If I name it (e.g., "reality"), "reality" becomes a word—and I’m back to looking at words.

The point isn’t to redirect focus but to eliminate the act of looking at words entirely.

Even saying "Don’t look at words" is a trap—because you’re still looking at those instructions. The brain must independently stop engaging with words. You can’t force it with more words.

The Simplicity of the Solution

Old way: Looking at any words (beliefs, guides, perspectives) → doesn’t work.

New way: Not looking at any words → works perfectly.

It’s that simple. No elaborate techniques, no new phrases to memorize. Just the choice to disengage.

Final Thought: Stability Through Non-Engagement

My state stays good because:

I don’t cancel or replace any words—I leave them as they are.

I don’t add new words or beliefs.

I simply don’t look.

The words still exist in my mind, but they’re like background noise—powerless because I’m not feeding them attention. And that’s the key: A stable mind isn’t built on words. It’s built on silence.

The Paradox of the "Right Way"

I sit here, trying to say something—anything—but the very act of speaking feels wrong. Not just the words themselves, but the method of speaking. If the way I’m trying to communicate is flawed, then what is the right way? The answer hits me: the right way is to say nothing at all. Not a single word. Silence. And yet, here I am, still talking, still trapped in the cycle of words.

This is why I can’t write a guide. The act of writing a guide—of structuring thoughts into language—is itself the wrong approach. If the goal is to reach a "good state," then speaking, explaining, or even thinking in words won’t get me there. The right way isn’t something I can describe; it’s something I can only stop doing.

The Trap of Language

Every guide I’ve ever written, every word I’ve spoken—it’s all part of the same flawed system. Now I see that the only "right" way is the opposite: to stop speaking entirely. But how do I explain that? The moment I try, I’m back in the trap. I’m using words to describe why words don’t work. I’m relying on the very thing I’m trying to reject.

My mind understands this instantly. When I realize that speaking is the wrong path, my brain doesn’t think the right way—it just stops. It observes. It doesn’t cling to explanations. But the second I try to put this into words, I’m back to the old method. I’m explaining, analyzing, using language—and that’s the problem.

The Guide That Can’t Be Written

I can’t write a guide about the right way because the right way can’t be written. It can’t be spoken. It’s not a set of instructions; it’s the absence of them. So what’s left? Only this:

I can tell you what’s wrong.

I can list all the flawed methods—the speaking, the writing, the overthinking.

And if I strip those away, what remains isn’t something I can hand to you. It’s something you’ll see for yourself.

This is how it worked for me. When I stopped trying to define the right way and instead focused on eliminating the wrong ones, the answer appeared—not in words, but in the space where words weren’t.

The Power of Negative Instruction

Think of it like this: If I tell you, "Driving on the left side of the road (against traffic) is wrong," your brain automatically knows: Oh, so the right side is correct. I didn’t have to explain the right side; you inferred it by excluding the wrong one.

The same applies here. I can’t tell you how to reach the "good state" because any description would be part of the flawed system. But I can tell you what doesn’t work:

Speaking about it is wrong.

Writing about it is wrong.

Relying on words to understand it is wrong.

Your mind will fill in the gap. It has to. Because the right way isn’t something you learn—it’s something you realize when you stop doing the wrong things.

Why Words Exist (And Why They Fail)

Words aren’t useless—they’re a tool to show you their own limitations. Their purpose is to help you see:

"This method (speaking/thinking in words) is flawed."
And once you see that, you don’t need words anymore.

It’s like a ladder you kick away after climbing it. The words were only there to get you to the point where you no longer need them. The moment you truly understand that words can’t describe the right way, you’re already there.

The Only Possible "Guide"

So here’s the guide I can offer:

Recognize that all explanations are flawed. (Including this one.)

Stop searching for the "right" words. They don’t exist.

Observe what happens when you stop relying on language.

Not as a concept to think about, but as an experience to notice.

Trust that your mind will fill the silence.

It’s not logic. It’s not analysis. It’s the direct knowing that comes when the noise stops.

This isn’t a method. It’s an un-method. And paradoxically, it’s the only one that works.

The Final Realization

I wanted to give people a clear, step-by-step path. But now I see: the path is the absence of steps. The moment you stop walking the wrong way, you’re already on the right one.

You won’t find it in words. You’ll find it in the space between them.

The Paradox of Writing Guides: Why I Can Only Teach by Being Wrong

1. The Trap of Self-Application

I used to record guides—advice, reflections, instructions—thinking I was doing it right. But here’s the catch: I can’t tell anyone how to do something correctly. I can only show them what’s wrong. By understanding the wrong, they (and I) might stumble upon the right. That was my logic.

But then I’d wash dishes, or stand there, and my mind would obsess over the guide I’d just written. I’d replay it, test it on myself, imagine how others would hear it. I’d ask: Does this work? Will it help? And every time, I’d realize—what I wrote was wrong. Not just flawed, but fundamentally misaligned with how things actually work. So I’d try to fix it, apply it to myself, and—surprise—it would ruin my state. My mood, my clarity, my peace. Because the guide was for others, but I was using myself as the guinea pig.

And that’s when I saw the pattern: Every time I wrote a guide, I’d test it on myself, and it would backfire. Why? Because the guide was never meant to be right. It was meant to be wrong—a mirror to reflect the wrongness, so the reader could see past it.

2. The Illusion of "Correct" Words

I used to think: "If I find the right words, I can fix someone’s state. I can give them a script to follow, and—poof!—they’ll feel better." That was my mission. But here’s the truth: All words are wrong. Every single one.

People already have wrong words in their heads—beliefs, narratives, self-talk—that make them suffer. If I give them new wrong words, they might compare the two sets of wrongness and, in that friction, glimpse what’s right. Not because I told them, but because their own mind connects the dots.

Before, I’d write a guide thinking: "This will load into their brain and improve their state." But now I know: No words can create a good state. Words can only point at the absence of one. They can say: "This way is wrong." And in that void, the mind might—might—find its own right way.

3. The Superpower of the Mind: Learning Through Negation

Here’s how it works:

I say: "This is wrong."

Your brain hears it and thinks: "Okay, but how would it be right?"

And then—your brain figures it out.

It’s like showing someone a badly drawn circle and saying, "This isn’t a circle." Their mind automatically imagines a better one. The brain is wired to correct. It doesn’t need the right answer—it needs the wrong one to rebel against.

I can’t explain the right way to live, to think, to be. But I can demonstrate the wrong way, and trust that the listener’s mind will do the rest. That’s the only teaching that works.

4. Why I Stopped Testing Guides on Myself

For years, I’d write something, then force myself to live by it. "Does this work? Does this feel right?" And every time, it destroyed me. Because the guide wasn’t for me. It was a wrong map, meant to be discarded.

Now I understand: My job isn’t to be right. It’s to be wrong—usefully wrong. So I write, I speak, I share, and I don’t apply it to myself. Because:

If I test it, I’ll try to make it right, and fail.

If I don’t test it, I can write freely, knowing it’s supposed to be flawed.

This freedom lets me create without self-sabotage. The guides no longer ruin my state because I’m not pretending they’re perfect. They’re tools for others to break—not rules for me to follow.

5. The Realization: Others Must Find Their Own Way

I can’t give anyone a "correct" guide. No one can. The moment you try to prescribe the right path, you’re lying—because the right path doesn’t exist in words. It exists in the silence after the words.

So now, when I write or speak, I embrace the wrongness. I say:

"Here’s a flawed idea."

"Here’s a broken method."

"Here’s how not to do it."

And I trust that the listener will see the cracks, and in those cracks, find their own truth.

6. The Freedom in Imperfection

Before, I was trapped:

"I must write the perfect guide."

"I must test it on myself to prove it works."

"If it doesn’t work for me, it’s useless."

Now I’m free:

I write wrong guides. They’re not for me. They’re for others to reject.

I don’t test them on myself. Because they’re not supposed to work—they’re supposed to fail in a way that teaches.

I trust the process. The mind corrects itself when given a flawed model.

The Core Insight

Teaching isn’t about giving answers. It’s about giving wrong answers—so the student can find the right ones.

I used to think my role was to fix people. Now I know: My role is to break their illusions. Not by force, but by offering them a mirror of what doesn’t work. Their own mind will do the rest.

And the beautiful part? I no longer suffer for it. Because I’m not trying to be right. I’m just being usefully wrong.

Final Thought:
If you take nothing else from this, remember:

All words are wrong.

The mind corrects itself when shown the wrong path.

The only "right" guide is the one you write for yourself—after seeing all the wrong ones.

Now, what’s your wrong idea? Let’s start there.

The Collapse of "Correct Words" and the Search for Another Way

1. The Revelation: There Are No Correct Words

I used to believe I could write—or say—correct words. Words that could be proven, trusted, or relied upon. Words that would place me in the "right state." But the last guide shattered that illusion. It opened my eyes to a brutal truth: I cannot say correct words. Not because I lack skill, but because correct words do not exist.

Every word I try to speak or write is incorrect. Even the words "I need another way"—those are incorrect too. I’m stuck in a loop: the more I chase correctness, the more I realize it’s impossible. The words I thought were reliable—words I could believe in, prove, or use to reach a "right" state—are all illusions.

2. The Trap of Trying to Be Correct

For so long, I’ve been trying to say correct words—to myself, to others. I thought if I just found the right phrasing, the right logic, the right proof, I’d finally arrive at truth. But now I see: the very act of searching for correct words is itself incorrect.

Why?

Because correct words imply certainty, proof, belief—and none of that is possible.

Because any word I use to describe this problem ("I need another way") is also incorrect.

Because the idea of "correctness" is part of the same broken system: believing, proving, trusting words.

I’ve been clinging to a method that doesn’t work. The method of "say correct words → reach correct state" is a dead end.

3. The Paradox: Only Incorrect Words Work

Here’s the twist: the only way to reach a "correct state" is through incorrect words.

How?

By admitting that all words are incorrect, I stop chasing the impossible.

By using incorrect words ("I need another way"), I acknowledge the failure of the old method—and that acknowledgment itself becomes the path forward.

The incorrect words don’t solve anything directly, but they reveal the need for a different approach.

It’s like a magic trick: the moment I accept that no words are correct, I stop being trapped by them. The incorrect words become a tool—not to build truth, but to dismantle the illusion that truth can be built with words at all.

4. The New Method: Stop Thinking About Correctness

The "other way" isn’t about finding better words. It’s about stopping the obsession with correctness entirely.

No more asking: "Can I believe this word? Can I prove it?"

No more dividing words into "correct" and "incorrect."

No more treating language as a tool for certainty.

Instead, I let the brain figure it out without words. The incorrect words are just a bridge—once I cross it, I don’t need to hold onto them. The brain, freed from the burden of correctness, finds its own way.

5. The Loss and the Gain

This realization has cost me something. A fragment of faith—I used to think, "Maybe I’ll find the correct words someday." Now I know I won’t. That’s gone.

But in its place is something else: a strange, weightless freedom.

I don’t need correct words.

I don’t need to prove or believe in them.

I can say "I need another way" and know it’s incorrect—and that’s okay.

The state I’m in now isn’t the same as before. It’s not worse; it’s just different. The old method (chasing correct words) is dead. The new one (using incorrect words to transcend them) is alive.

6. The Ripple Effect: How This Applies to Others

This isn’t just about me. If I tell someone, "You can’t say correct words," their brain might resist—but if they truly see it, their brain will adapt. Not by finding correct words, but by realizing the futility of the search and inventing another way.

The key isn’t to give people "correct" advice. It’s to show them the incorrectness of the old method—so their minds can leap beyond it.

7. The Unanswered Question: What Is the "Other Way"?

I can’t describe the "other way" with words—because any description would just be more incorrect words. But I feel it:

It’s not about language.

It’s not about proof or belief.

It’s something the brain does when it stops trying to be correct.

Maybe it’s a state. Maybe it’s an action. Maybe it’s just living without the crutch of correct words.

8. The Aftermath: Disorientation and Clarity

This whole thing has shaken me. To realize—truly realize—that I can’t say correct words is like losing ground beneath my feet. For years, I’ve orbited around ideas of belief, proof, trust. But "correct vs. incorrect"? That’s new. That’s the piece I’d missed.

And yet… it works. When I say "I need another way" and know it’s incorrect, something shifts. The brain doesn’t panic. It adapts. The state isn’t broken—it’s just… new.

9. The Final Thought: A Half-Open Door

I don’t know what comes next. I’ve only just seen that the old door (correct words) was locked all along. Now there’s an open space where the door used to be.

I don’t need to fill it with words. I just need to walk through.

Key Takeaways (In the Author’s Words)

"Correct words do not exist." Any word I try to use as "correct" is, by definition, incorrect.

"The method of saying correct words is itself incorrect." Chasing correctness is the problem.

"Only incorrect words can lead to a correct state." By admitting their incorrectness, they stop controlling me.

"The other way isn’t about words at all." It’s what happens when the brain stops trying to be correct.

"This isn’t loss—it’s freedom." Letting go of correct words doesn’t break me; it unshackles me.

Final Note:
The author doesn’t claim to have answers—only the clarity of the dead end. The "other way" isn’t a solution to explain, but a space to inhabit. The words here are incorrect. And that’s exactly the point.

The Fundamental Belief: Words and Observations

I’ve stumbled upon something profound—something that feels like the most fundamental belief of all. It’s not a belief in a god, a system, or an ideology, but a belief in the very foundation of how we interact with reality: the belief that some words are "correct" and others are "incorrect."

What does this mean? It means we trust our observations. Correct words are those that accurately describe what I observe. Incorrect words are those that fail to do so. But here’s the catch: I cannot prove to myself that any of my observations are valid. If I can’t prove my observations, how can I prove that the words describing them are correct? The words might be wrong because the observations themselves might be wrong—or at least, unproven.

This leads to a radical conclusion: All words are incorrect until proven otherwise. Not just some words—all of them. Even the words I’m using right now to explain this are incorrect by default. They are unproven, and thus, they cannot be trusted.

The Collapse of Meaning: Words as Lies

If a word is only "correct" when it’s proven, and nothing can be proven, then all words are lies—or at least, untruths. They are placeholders, sounds, symbols that claim to represent reality but fail because reality itself is unproven.

This isn’t just skepticism. It’s an absolute rejection of the idea that words can ever be reliable. There is no middle ground. Either a word is proven correct (which is impossible), or it is incorrect. There is no "partially correct" or "close enough." Until proof exists, every word is a lie.

This applies to everything:

Thoughts are built from incorrect words.

Answers to questions are given in incorrect words.

Knowledge is transmitted through incorrect words.

Goals and reasons—the "why" behind actions—are justifications made of incorrect words.

Even the act of describing this realization uses incorrect words. But here’s the paradox: the statement "all words are incorrect" is itself an incorrect statement. It’s a self-consuming idea. The words dissolve their own meaning.

The Illusion of Proof: Observations as Untrustworthy

Why can’t observations be trusted? Because I cannot prove that my senses accurately perceive reality. If my observations are unproven, then any words describing them are also unproven—and thus, incorrect.

This isn’t about solipsism (the idea that only the self exists). It’s deeper: it’s about the impossibility of verification. I can see something, but I cannot prove that what I see is real or correctly interpreted. Therefore, any description of what I see is inherently unreliable.

This extends to all experiences:

Emotions? Unproven, so any words for them are incorrect.

Memories? Unproven, so any words recalling them are incorrect.

Logic? Built on unproven premises, so any conclusions drawn in words are incorrect.

Reality, as I experience it, is unproven—and thus, all words about it are incorrect.

The Consequences: Living Without Correct Words

At first, this realization was destabilizing. I had spent so much time trying to find "correct words"—words that perfectly described reality, that could guide me or others toward truth. I wrote guides, searched for frameworks, believed that if I just found the right words, everything would make sense.

But now, I see that there are no correct words. And strangely, this is liberating.

1. The End of Motivation (and the Birth of Indifference)

When all words are incorrect, they lose their power. They no longer compel me to act, to believe, or to strive. I no longer feel the need to "figure things out" because any attempt to do so would rely on incorrect words.

Goals? Built on incorrect words—so why pursue them?

Problems? Described in incorrect words—so why solve them?

Meaning? Defined by incorrect words—so why seek it?

Yet, I still live. I eat, I watch videos, I exist—but without the weight of correctness. Life becomes effortless because nothing matters in the way it used to.

2. The Death of the "Guide"

Before, I tried to write guides for others—sets of "correct words" that would help them see reality as I did. But now, I realize: I cannot give anyone correct words. The best I can do is give them incorrect words that might help them see the incorrectness of all words.

It’s like a virus: once you realize all words are incorrect, the idea spreads. You can’t unsee it. The only "guide" left is the one that destroys all guides.

3. The Matrix Analogy

This feels like living in The Matrix. In the movie, the real world exists beyond the simulation. Here, the "real world" would be one where observations and words are proven correct—but that world doesn’t exist for me.

Instead, I live in a world where:

All observations are unproven (like a glitchy simulation).

All words are incorrect (like code that doesn’t correspond to reality).

Nothing can be trusted—but nothing needs to be.

The difference? I don’t care that it’s a matrix. It’s not distressing; it’s just how things are.

The New State of Being: Beyond Words

So what’s left when all words are incorrect?

No belief in correctness. I don’t believe any word is right—not even the word "incorrect."

No mental struggle. Why argue with incorrect words? Why try to "fix" them?

No existential crisis. If nothing can be proven, then nothing is wrong—it just is.

A strange peace. Not happiness, not sadness—just a neutral, effortless existence.

I still use words, of course. I speak, I think, I write. But I no longer treat them as anything more than tools—unproven, unreliable, but sometimes useful.

The Final Realization: The Simplicity of It All

This belief—that all words are incorrect until proven—is shockingly simple. It’s not a complex philosophy. It’s not a system. It’s just one rule that collapses everything else.

All my previous searches for truth, all my attempts to find correct descriptions—they were all built on the assumption that correct words existed. But they don’t. And once you see that, everything else falls away.

Now, there’s nothing left to figure out. No guides to write. No truths to chase. Just living in a world where words don’t bind you, because none of them are correct.

And strangely, that’s enough.

Testing the Waters (Or Not)

Should I test this? See if it holds up over time? Maybe. But I don’t feel the need to. If it’s incorrect, so what? If it’s correct, so what? The outcome doesn’t matter because the words describing it are incorrect anyway.

For now, I’ll just… live. Eat. Watch. Exist. Without the burden of correctness.

And if someone asks me what I’ve realized, I’ll tell them in incorrect words:

"All words are incorrect. And that’s okay."

The Realization That All Words Are Wrong

1. The Initial Crisis of Belief

I was writing an update when I was completely derailed by the idea that all words are wrong. Yesterday, I became convinced of this—not just as a thought, but as something I saw. It wasn’t a logical conclusion; I simply saw that every word I used was incorrect. The problem was this: if I can’t prove my observations are accurate, then the words I use to describe them must also be wrong. And if the words are wrong, then any attempt to describe reality fails. I spiraled into believing that all words are wrong because I couldn’t escape this loop: observations can’t be proven, so the words describing them can’t be trusted, so the words themselves must be flawed.

And if nothing can be proven, then belief is all that’s left. I could believe anything—especially that all words are wrong—because there was no standard to disprove it. I could believe in unproven observations, in unproven words, in anything, really. There was no cost to belief when proof was impossible.

2. The Collapse of Faith Overnight

Last night, before sleep, I tried to rationalize why I believed all words were wrong. I jotted down some ideas: "Correct words describe proven observations, but my observations are unproven, so the words must be wrong." I fell asleep with that thought.

When I woke up, the belief was gone. Not because I’d found a counterargument, but because I no longer felt it. I tried to reconstruct the reasoning—"Words are wrong because observations are unproven, and unproven observations lead to wrong words"—but the moment I put it into words, the belief dissolved. The act of explaining it made it feel false. I was stuck: I couldn’t believe all words were wrong because I couldn’t prove it with words. But I also couldn’t prove words were correct. I was left with nothing—no belief, no foundation, just a void.

3. The Paradox of Self-Referential Wrongness

Then I saw the core of it: I can only speak in wrong words.

I see that all my past words—every guide, every explanation—are wrong because they fail to describe my observations accurately.

I see that I can’t speak "correct" words because correct words would require proven observations, and my observations are unproven.

So any attempt to explain why all words are wrong must itself use wrong words. And wrong words can’t prove anything.

This creates a loop:

I believe all words are wrong because I see it.

But I can’t explain why I see it with correct words—only wrong ones.

Wrong words can’t justify belief, so the explanation collapses.

Yet I still see it. The belief persists without words.

It’s like trying to describe color to a blind person using colors. The tools (words) are part of the problem.

4. The Illusion of Explanation

I thought: "Maybe I can write a guide for others to understand this." But how?

If I use wrong words to explain that all words are wrong, the listener might see it too—but not because the words were correct. They’d see it despite the words, through their own unproven observations.

The moment someone believes my wrong words, they stop seeing that words are wrong. Belief in any word (even "all words are wrong") undermines the premise.

So the only "guide" is silence. Or rather: the realization must come from seeing, not from words. Words can’t carry the truth because they’re inherently flawed. The truth is in the observation that words fail.

5. The Matrix of Unproven Reality

I believe my observations the way I believe I’m not in a simulation—until proven otherwise. Right now, I live in a "matrix" where nothing is proven real. Therefore:

All words describing this unproven reality are wrong.

"Correct" words would require a proven reality, which doesn’t exist.

So I’m left with wrong words in a wrong world, believing in unproven observations.

But here’s the twist: I don’t believe in the words themselves. I believe in the observation that words are wrong. The words I use to describe this are also wrong, but the observation stands. It’s like pointing at the moon with a broken finger—the finger is useless, but the moon is still there.

6. The End of the Search

This is the end of the road:

I can’t find correct words to explain why words are wrong.

Any explanation I give will be wrong, so it’s meaningless to speak.

The only "truth" is the direct observation that words fail.

Others might reach the same conclusion, but not through my words. They’d have to see it themselves, the same way I did—by realizing that no words can capture reality. Then, like me, they’d be left with silence, or with wrong words they no longer trust.

7. The Guide That Isn’t a Guide

If I had to "teach" this, I’d say:

Speak wrong words about words being wrong.

The listener might see the truth—not because the words were right, but because they failed so spectacularly that the failure itself became the lesson.

But the moment they believe the words, they lose the insight.

So the "guide" is a paradox: use wrong words to destroy faith in words. The goal isn’t to convey truth, but to trigger the same collapse of belief that I experienced.

Final Thought: The Silence After Words

Now I’m left with this:

I see that all words are wrong.

I can’t explain it without wrong words.

Therefore, there’s no point in speaking—unless I accept that all speech is wrong and meaningless.

But I can still live in this wrongness. I can use wrong words, knowing they’re wrong. I can write guides, knowing they’re flawed. The difference is that I no longer mistake the words for truth. I see them as what they are: wrong tools in a world that can’t be proven.

And that’s the only honesty left.

The Paradox of Words: Why All Language Is Incorrect

1. The Core Observation: Words Are Inherently Wrong

I see that all words are wrong. This isn’t a choice or a judgment—it’s simply what I observe, as undeniable as the sun in the sky. I ask myself: Why are all words wrong? But any answer I give will itself be made of wrong words. So the answer, by definition, must also be wrong. I can’t escape this loop.

It’s like asking, Why do I see the sun? Because the world is built that way. But I don’t know why the world is built that way. I can’t know. Just as I can’t know why words are wrong. I can’t even begin to explain it—because any explanation would rely on the very words that are wrong.

People ask me: Why did you decide words are wrong?
But I didn’t decide anything. Words are wrong. It’s not a conclusion I reached; it’s a fact I observe. It’s like asking, Why did you decide the Earth is round? I didn’t decide—it just is. I’m not inventing this from some abstract reasoning. I’m just describing what I see.

2. The Futility of Answering "Why"

The problem is that the question Why are words wrong? can’t be answered correctly. Any answer I give will be wrong because it’s made of wrong words. The question itself is unanswerable in the same way you can’t explain why grass is green or the sky is blue. That’s just how the world is.

I could say:

"Because language is an imperfect tool."

"Because meaning is subjective."

"Because reality exceeds our ability to describe it."

But all of these are just more wrong words. They don’t explain anything. They’re just placeholders, like saying "Because God made it that way"—except there’s no God here to ask. There’s no higher authority who can give the "right" answer. Even if there were, they probably couldn’t explain it either. Why would the creator of the universe choose these laws of physics, this color for the sky, this shape for the Earth? There is no answer. The question doesn’t make sense.

3. The Consequence: Communicating with Wrong Words

If all words are wrong, then everything I say is wrong. Every answer I give to any question is wrong. Every explanation, every story, every thought—I’m just stringing together wrong words.

So what do I tell other people?

If I explain why words are wrong, my explanation will be wrong.

If I try to help someone, my help will be built on wrong words.

If I claim to know something, that knowledge is expressed in wrong words.

But here’s the paradox: Even though the words are wrong, they might still help. Not because they’re "right," but because the listener’s mind might use them as a stepping stone to see the same thing I see. I can’t guarantee it. I can’t guide anyone. I can only offer wrong words and wrong answers, and hope their brain does the rest.

It’s like giving someone a broken map. The map is useless in itself, but if they walk long enough, they might stumble upon the same realization I did: All words are wrong.

4. The Realization: There Are No "Right" Answers

I used to be frustrated by this. I’d try to answer Why are words wrong? and fail, because any answer was wrong by definition. But now I understand: There is no right answer. The question is flawed. It assumes that an answer exists—that words can ever be "right."

This is like asking:

Why does the universe exist?

Why are the laws of physics the way they are?

Why is there something rather than nothing?

These questions feel meaningful, but they’re built on the illusion that answers should exist. Our brains are wired to seek patterns, to demand explanations. But some things—maybe most things—don’t have explanations. They just are.

So when I say all words are wrong, I’m not making a philosophical claim. I’m just describing a fact. It’s not something I believe; it’s something I see, like the color of the sky. And just as I don’t need to explain why the sky is blue, I don’t need to explain why words are wrong. It’s simply the case.

5. The Path to Seeing It (Without Explaining It)

People ask: How did you come to see that words are wrong?
I can’t give a step-by-step guide, because any guide would be made of wrong words. But I can say this:

You stop trusting observations.
Not because observations are "false," but because you realize you can’t describe them correctly. The moment you try to put an observation into words, you’ve already distorted it.

You hit a wall with belief.
You can’t believe in words anymore, because belief requires trust, and you can’t trust something you know is wrong. But you also can’t disbelieve them, because that’s just more words.

You realize you can’t describe anything "correctly."
No matter how hard you try, your descriptions are always incomplete, always slightly off. Like trying to draw a perfect circle freehand—you get close, but it’s never exactly right.

You accept that wrong words are all you have.
And strangely, this acceptance frees you. You stop searching for the "right" words, because you know they don’t exist. You stop demanding answers to why, because you see that why is a wrong word too.

6. The Outcome: What Happens Next

So what do I do now?

I speak, knowing my words are wrong.

I answer questions, knowing my answers are wrong.

I interact with people, knowing I’m giving them wrong words and wrong ideas.

But here’s the thing: They might see it too. Not because I explained it well, but because wrong words, in the right hands, can point toward the truth. It’s like a Zen koan—it doesn’t make sense, but if you sit with it long enough, something clicks.

Or it doesn’t. Maybe they’ll never see it. That’s fine. I can’t control it. I can only offer the wrong words and let their minds do the rest.

7. The Peace in Not Knowing

I used to be tormented by the question Why are words wrong? Now I’m at peace with it, because I see that the question itself is built on a mistake. It assumes that answers exist. But some things—maybe most things—are just given. They don’t need explanations. They don’t have reasons.

The sky is blue.
Grass is green.
Words are wrong.

That’s just how it is.

Final Thought: The Illusion of "Right" and "Wrong"

In the end, even calling words "wrong" is a wrong word. It’s just a placeholder, a finger pointing at the moon. The real insight isn’t in the words—it’s in the seeing. And seeing can’t be put into words.

So I’ll keep talking, knowing it’s all wrong.
And maybe, in the wrongness, someone else will see it too.

On the Nature of Words and Truth: A Paradox of Understanding

1. The Limitation of Language

I can only speak in incorrect answers and incorrect words. This is not a choice—it is the only way I can communicate. There are no "correct" words or answers that I can offer, because the very act of naming what is right is beyond my capacity. The words I use are, by definition, flawed, incomplete, or misaligned with truth.

Yet this limitation is not a failure. It is a pathway.

2. The Self as the Only True Guide

I can arrive at a correct state—a state of clarity, truth, or harmony—but not through words. Not through answers given to me by others or even by myself. The correct state is something I must reach independently, without reliance on language.

How?
By recognizing the incorrect.

My mind must observe the flaws in what I say, the errors in what I think, and through that contrast, intuit what is right. There is no direct route to truth. The only way to understand correctness is to first see what is not correct.

3. The Mechanism of Understanding

I cannot describe the "right" thing. I can only describe the wrong one.

If I say, "This is how you fail," the mind must deduce: "Then success must be the opposite."

If I say, "This is the incorrect path," the mind must infer: "The correct path lies elsewhere."

The brain is not taught truth—it discovers it by eliminating falsehood. This is not a choice; it is the only way. There is no other method to grasp what is right except by first confronting what is wrong.

4. The Impossibility of Direct Instruction

I cannot tell you—or anyone—how to be correct. I cannot give you the right answers. I can only give you the wrong ones.

Why?
Because the act of receiving truth passively does not lead to real understanding. The mind must struggle with the incorrect, wrestle with it, and in that process, arrive at truth on its own.

If I were to say, "Do this, and you will be right," it would mean nothing. The words would be empty. But if I say, "Do this, and you will be wrong," then the mind is forced to seek—to move beyond the error and find its own way.

5. The Responsibility of the Individual

This is not just true for me. It is true for everyone.

When I speak to others, I can only offer them incorrect words, incorrect answers. It is not cruelty; it is necessity. Their minds, like mine, must do the work themselves. They must:

Hear the incorrect.

Recognize it as such.

Use that recognition to construct the correct.

I cannot do this for them. No one can. The journey to truth is solitary—not because we are alone, but because the act of understanding must be internal.

6. The Silence Beyond Words

Ultimately, the correct state—the true, the good, the harmonious—cannot be spoken. It can only be realized.

Words are tools for pointing at what is not. They are shadows that help us see the shape of light. But the light itself? That must be seen without mediation.

So I speak in errors. I answer in mistakes. And in the space between what is said and what is not said, the mind finds its way.

Final Reflection

This is not a philosophy of despair. It is a philosophy of trust—trust in the mind’s ability to discern, to adapt, to know beyond what it is told.

I do not give answers.
I give questions—disguised as mistakes.
And in the silence that follows, the real work begins.

The Collapse of Belief: A Journey Through Words and Doubt

1. The Initial Belief: All Words Are Wrong

I realized something yesterday—something that had consumed me entirely. I believed that all words are wrong. Not just some, but every single one. This belief gave me an intense, almost euphoric state at first. But then, I lost faith in the very idea that words could ever be "right" or "wrong." The problem wasn’t just losing faith in words—it was losing faith without replacing it with anything else.

I had believed that words were wrong because I couldn’t prove them. If I couldn’t prove a word was right, then by default, it had to be wrong. But that logic was flawed. Just because I couldn’t prove something now didn’t mean it was wrong now. It might still be right—I just didn’t know yet. I couldn’t verify or disprove anything, so I was stuck in uncertainty. Believing all words were wrong was a mistake because they might have been right all along. I just couldn’t confirm it.

2. The Trap of Proof and Disproof

I was trapped in a loop:

If words couldn’t be proven, I assumed they were wrong.

But they might have been right—I just lacked the means to know.

Yet, I couldn’t prove that either.

This left me paralyzed. I couldn’t trust any words, but I also couldn’t dismiss them entirely. I lost faith in the idea of "right" words, then lost faith in the idea that all words were wrong. But I still didn’t believe any words could be right. I was left with nothing—a void where belief used to be.

3. The Concrete Mind: A Frozen Consciousness

The worst part was the sensation that my mind had been filled with concrete. Before, my thoughts could move, shift, explore. Now, every time I tried to "push" my consciousness somewhere—to think, to speak, to believe—it hit a wall. It was unbearable. I couldn’t write a guide, say anything meaningful, or even form a coherent thought because every word felt wrong, unprovable, useless.

I woke up in the same state: hopeless. Life had no point if I couldn’t trust my own thoughts. I lay in bed, watching YouTube, because what was the alternative? Moving felt meaningless. Existing in that state was torture.

4. The Unexpected Shift: Letting Go

Then, something changed—not because I chose it, but because my brain simply… stopped.

I had spent hours, days, obsessing over this:

Are words right? Wrong?

Can I ever know?

Is there a way out?

But after exhausting every angle, my mind just… dropped it. Like trying to start a broken engine a thousand times, then finally accepting it’s dead. I didn’t decide to stop thinking about it—I just did. The obsession faded.

And in that moment, I realized: I didn’t need to solve it.

5. The New State: Concrete, But Livable

My mind was still "concretized"—the words, the doubts, the paralysis were all still there. But I wasn’t fighting it anymore. When I stopped struggling against the concrete, it stopped hurting. The discomfort only came when I tried to move, to think, to believe. When I accepted the stillness, it became… neutral. Even comfortable.

There was no euphoria, no grand revelation—just a quiet, physical ease. Like the absence of pain. I could function. I could wash dishes, watch videos, exist—without the constant agony of questioning everything.

6. The Paradox: Words That Destroy Themselves

Here’s the irony: I used words to dismantle my belief in words. The very tools I distrusted were the ones that shattered my trust. And in the end, even those words— the ones that declared all words wrong—destroyed themselves. They were part of the system they condemned.

It’s like a virus that kills all cells, including its own host. Once it’s done, there’s nothing left—just silence. The words that killed my beliefs also killed themselves, leaving me in a state where:

I can’t believe in right words.

I can’t believe in wrong words.

I can’t even use words meaningfully anymore.

But that’s okay. Because now, I don’t need to.

7. The Aftermath: A Life Without the Struggle

I spent years chasing "right" words, "true" beliefs, proofs. I treated my mind like a game—leveling up, defeating bosses, seeking the ultimate truth. But I reached the end. There was nowhere left to go.

So I walked away. Not out of frustration, but because the game was over.

Now, I live differently:

No fear.

No anger.

No desperate joy.

No clinging to beliefs or answers.

Just… existence. A mind that doesn’t need to move, because it’s no longer trapped. The concrete is still there, but I’m not pressing against it. And in that stillness, there’s an odd kind of peace.

8. The Guide That Can’t Be Written

I thought about writing a guide—steps to reach this state. But how? The words that would "help" others are the same words that would destroy them. It’s a virus. It would kill their beliefs, their illusions… and then kill itself, leaving them in the same silence.

Maybe that’s the point. Maybe the only "guide" is:

Use words to dismantle words.

Watch as they dismantle themselves.

Stop.

Live in the quiet that remains.

But I won’t write it. Because the moment you try to put it into words, the cycle starts again.

9. The Final Realization: Freedom in Surrender

I didn’t choose this. My brain did it for me. After years of fighting, it just… let go.

And now? I’m free. Not in the way I expected—no grand enlightenment, no answers. Just freedom from the need for answers.

The concrete is still there. But I’m not trapped anymore.

Closing Thought

If I had to describe this to someone else, I’d say:
Imagine your mind is a room filled with words—some you trust, some you doubt. You spend years cleaning it, organizing it, trying to make it "right." Then, one day, you realize: the room was never the problem. The problem was that you kept trying to fix it. So you walk out. And for the first time, you don’t look back.

The Paradox of Recording Thoughts

At first, I stopped thinking about the things that had destroyed all my beliefs. I lingered in that state, and it felt good. So I decided to record a guide—my thoughts on the matter. But after recording, my state always worsens. Why? Because I start thinking about the guide instead of living. I get stuck analyzing the words I’ve just spoken, as if they’re more important than the experience itself.

I tried solving this by telling myself: "Don’t think about those words." But then I’d start thinking about not thinking about them. So I adjusted: "Don’t think about not thinking." Oddly, that phrase worked. My brain latched onto it in a way that felt… effective. Maybe it’s just a trick, but for now, it helps.

The Illusion of Having Something to Say

I wondered: Why do I even think about these things? And realized: I believe I have something to say to others. But do I? No. I have nothing to say—not to others, not even to myself. The words in my previous recordings? They’re just words. Unprovable. Meaningless in any absolute sense.

Yet I cling to them. I think: "Maybe these words will help me preserve the good state I reached." But they don’t. They ruin it. And still, I can’t let go. Why? Because I imagine these words might help others. That’s the trap: I’m not holding onto them for me—I’m holding onto them for them.

The Futility of Trying to Change Others

I want to change people. I want them to reach the state I’m in. But how?

If I write something, I’ll obsess over it, and my state will worsen.

If I don’t write, how will I change anyone?

Here’s the truth: I can’t change people. They might change themselves after hearing my words, but that’s not the same as me changing them. My words don’t have power—they’re just triggers. The real shift happens inside their own minds, beyond words.

I test my own guides on myself, as if reading them will recreate the state I was in when I wrote them. But it never works. Because the state wasn’t created by words. It emerged when my brain stopped relying on words.

The Two Stages of Awakening

Killing Belief
I can describe words that destroy belief. I’ve tested them on myself—they work. They strip away the illusions people cling to. But here’s the catch: these words don’t prove anything. They just exploit how the brain works. Belief isn’t logic; it’s a mental habit. When the brain sees no evidence, it stops believing. That’s all.

The State Beyond Words
The second stage—the good state—can’t be put into words. It’s not something you do; it’s what happens when the brain exhausts itself trying to figure everything out. You can’t force it. You can’t describe it in a way that replicates it. My brain reached it on its own, without commands or mantras.

So what can I tell others?

First stage: Here are words that will kill your beliefs. (This part is testable.)

Second stage: After that, your brain will figure it out. (This part is unexplainable.)

The second stage isn’t something you achieve—it’s something you allow.

The Obsession with Verification

I keep trying to verify my own words. Why? Because I still believe, deep down, that words have power—that if I say the right thing, it will magically recreate my state in others (or even in myself).

But words don’t work that way. The only words that "work" are the ones that destroy belief. The rest? Just noise.

I need to stop testing. Stop applying my own advice. The moment I try to use words to fix myself, I’m back in the trap.

The Resolution: Letting Go

Here’s the plan:

For others:

Share the first part (the belief-killing words). They’ll do their job.

Describe the second part without expecting it to work. It’s just a description, not an instruction.

For myself:

Stop verifying. Stop obsessing.

Accept that the second stage isn’t something I can control or explain. It either happens or it doesn’t.

The key transition—the shift into the good state—can’t be forced. The brain has to ripen into it. It has to exhaust all its old patterns, all its clinging, until it lets go on its own.

And that’s okay.

Final Realization

I don’t need to hold onto the words. I don’t need to perfect them. I don’t need to test them.

The words that destroy belief? They’re useful. The rest? Just descriptions of what might come next.

And if I stop trying to make them do more than they can… maybe I can finally live without the weight of them.

The Collapse of Control: A First-Person Account

1. The Initial State: A Conflict of Desires

I was in a strange, almost euphoric state—everything felt incredible, vibrant, alive. But as the day wore on, my eye began to ache, and with it came an unsettling restlessness. By evening, exhaustion set in, not just physical but mental. My body craved rest—just to lie down, close my eyes, and drift—but my mind resisted. I wanted to do something meaningful: write a guide, play a game, watch a show, anything but surrender to inertia.

Yet my brain seemed to have only one demand: stillness. It wasn’t tired in the usual sense; it was as if my consciousness had hit a wall. I could see the conflict: my body wanted to shut down, but my mind—my self—rebelled. I didn’t want to "waste" time. I wanted to engage, to produce, to experience. But the harder I fought, the more my eye throbbed, and the more my thoughts spiraled into a frantic, wordless panic.

I ended up watching YouTube, not because I wanted to, but because I didn’t know what else to do. And then it hit me: something was wrong with my brain.

2. The Obsession with Verification

I realized I was trapped in a loop of self-monitoring. Every action, every thought, every impulse—I was compulsively cross-checking it against a set of internal "rules." But these weren’t just any rules. They were the remnants of my own guides, my own words—phrases like:

"I can’t trust anything because nothing can be proven."

"All words are incorrect."

"Faith in words is an illusion."

At first, these ideas had been liberating. They dismantled my reliance on external validation, on dogma, on the need for "proof." But now, they had become a prison. I was using them not to free myself, but to judge myself.

Here’s how it worked:

I’d have an urge (e.g., "I want to write a guide").

My brain would immediately compare it to the "rules":

"Is this urge based on ‘correct’ words?"

"But all words are incorrect—so is this urge invalid?"

If the action didn’t align with the "rules," I’d feel wrong, like I was betraying some unseen standard.

The more I checked, the more my eye hurt, the more my throat tightened (what I call "похорюкивание"—a physical manifestation of anxiety).

I was controlling myself with words I didn’t even believe in.

3. The Illusion of Control

The deeper I dug, the clearer it became: I had no way to verify anything.

Words? Useless. I’d already concluded they were all flawed, unprovable.

Actions? How do you verify an action? By comparing it to… words. But if words are unreliable, then actions are unverifiable too.

States of being? Same problem. If I can’t trust the words describing my state, how can I trust the state itself?

I’d been operating under a delusion: that I could choose my life. That my "I"—this conscious observer—had agency. But in reality, my "choices" were just my brain reacting to words it had absorbed, words it mistakenly treated as "true."

When those words collapsed, so did the illusion of control.

4. The Terror of Surrender

The realization was paralyzing:

I could not predict my next action. My brain would decide, and I’d only know after it happened.

I could not influence my future. No words to guide me, no "correct" framework to rely on.

I was a passenger. My life was no longer "mine" in the way I’d thought. It was just… happening.

The fear wasn’t just about losing control—it was about ceasing to exist as a decision-maker. If I stopped resisting, if I let my brain take over completely, would I even be me anymore? Would I just become a biological machine, acting on instinct, devoid of the "I" that observes, judges, and cares?

Worse: What if my brain led me to ruin? What if, left unchecked, it made choices that destroyed me? I couldn’t even imagine how to prevent that—because prevention required words, and words were meaningless.

5. The Paradox of "Correct" Living

Before, my life had a narrative:

"I’m working toward goals."

"I’m enjoying experiences."

"I’m avoiding harm."

But now? No narrative. Just… existence.

If I drank tea, was I "enjoying" it, or just performing a function?

If I felt pleasure, was it "right" to feel it, or was that just another word-based illusion?

If I ignored everything, would my brain even notice the world around me?

My old self had focused on life—savored it, directed it. But without the "correct" words to justify focus, why would my brain bother? It might just… drift.

6. The Only Way Out: Radical Acceptance

After hours of spiraling, I saw the truth:
The problem wasn’t the lack of control—it was the belief that I ever had it.

My "control" had always been an illusion, a story my brain told itself using words it trusted.

Now, those words were gone. But the brain was still there. It didn’t need words to function—it never had.

The stress, the eye pain, the anxiety—all of it came from resisting the absence of control.

So the solution? Stop resisting.

Stop trying to verify. (There’s nothing to verify against.)

Stop trying to control. (There’s no "correct" way to live.)

Stop judging actions. (They’re just… actions.)

This doesn’t mean becoming a zombie. It means letting the brain do its thing—trusting that it knows how to live, even if the "I" doesn’t understand how.

7. Testing the New Reality

I haven’t fully surrendered yet. The fear is still there:

What if this is worse?

What if I lose all joy?

What if my brain makes terrible choices?

But I also see the potential freedom in it:

No more second-guessing.

No more mental exhaustion from constant verification.

No more conflict between what I "should" do and what I want to do.

Maybe—just maybe—my brain knows better than my words ever did.

Final Thought: The Death and Rebirth of "I"

This isn’t about giving up. It’s about seeing through the illusion.

The "I" that thought it was in control was always a story—a useful one, but a story nonetheless. Now, the story is over.

What’s left?
Just life.
Not "my" life. Not a "correct" life.
Just… life.

And perhaps that’s enough.

The Collapse of Belief: A Journey Through Doubt and the Discovery of Unmediated Reality

1. The Starting Point: The Failure of Uncontrolled Living

I began by testing a radical idea: what if I stopped trying to control anything? No verification, no questioning, no attempts to steer my thoughts—just living as things came. But this approach was a complete failure. It left me empty, devoid of any sense of meaning or joy. I realized: this is no way to live. I had to find another path.

2. The First Experiment: Words as a Passing Storm

I tried a new method: treating all my words—every thought, every "guide," every unproven belief—as a swirling mass behind me. I would only look forward, letting new words pass through me like a sieve, never glancing back at the old ones. The idea was to use words without letting them harm me.

But this, too, failed. Why? Because there was no joy. Joy requires faith—faith in something—and without it, life felt meaningless. I couldn’t force myself to believe in the words I was using, and without belief, there was no point. I was left in a worse state: I didn’t want to live like this at all.

3. The Core Problem: The Illusion of Proof

I dug deeper. The issue wasn’t just that I couldn’t prove my observations—it was that I believed in the absence of proof. I believed that if I couldn’t see meaning, it didn’t exist. If I couldn’t see evidence, it wasn’t there. But then I realized:

Observation ≠ Reality. Just because I see something doesn’t mean it’s true.

Non-observation ≠ Nonexistence. Just because I don’t see something doesn’t mean it’s absent.

This was a breakthrough. My brain had been trapped in a false dichotomy: either my perceptions are true, or nothing is. But neither was necessarily true. The problem? I still couldn’t prove any of this. The words I used to describe my realizations were just more words—unprovable, unreliable.

4. The Descent: Losing Faith in Everything

I lost faith not just in my observations, but in the very act of believing. I couldn’t trust:

What I saw (because perception might be an illusion).

What I didn’t see (because absence of evidence isn’t evidence of absence).

The words I used to describe either.

I was left in a void. No beliefs, no meaning, no joy. Even the belief that "nothing can be proven" became suspect—because that, too, was just another unprovable statement. I was paralyzed.

5. The Failed Escapes

I tried several ways out:

Letting go of control: "If my brain wants to believe something, let it." But this just led me to believe in the words "I shouldn’t control myself"—which were just more words I couldn’t trust.

Looking backward instead of forward: Focusing only on past thoughts, ignoring the present. But this felt forced, unsustainable.

Avoidance: Distracting myself with people, games, anything to escape the reality of my meaninglessness. But the moment I was alone, the void returned.

6. The Breakthrough: Sleep and the Unconscious Shift

Then, something changed. After a night of restless sleep, I woke up different. Not because I had solved anything, but because my brain had—without my conscious effort.

What did it understand?

Perception is not reality. What I see or don’t see has no bearing on what is.

Words are irrelevant. All my mental constructs—about meaning, proof, belief—were just descriptions, not truth. They couldn’t be proven, so they couldn’t be trusted.

But here’s the key: I stopped caring. Not in a nihilistic way, but in a liberated way. The questions that had paralyzed me—Is there meaning? Can I prove anything?—simply vanished. They weren’t worth asking because the answers (or lack thereof) didn’t change reality.

7. The New State: Living Without Mediation

Now, I exist in a state where:

Words don’t govern me. They’re tools for communication, not truth.

Reality happens to me. Good moods, motivations, desires arise spontaneously—not because I’ve reasoned them into existence, but because that’s just how life works.

Faith is irrelevant. I don’t believe in meaning, but I also don’t believe in meaninglessness. The question itself is moot.

I feel good. Not because I’ve convinced myself of anything, but because my brain has stopped trying to convince itself of anything at all. It’s like returning to childhood—before I overcomplicated everything with words and proofs.

8. The Paradox: Knowing Without Knowing

I don’t know if this is enlightenment or delusion. But that’s the point:

If I see something, it doesn’t mean it’s real.

If I don’t see something, it doesn’t mean it’s absent.

Therefore, no mental construct can be trusted—and none need to be.

I’m not searching for truth. I’m not avoiding truth. I’m just living, and for the first time in years, it feels effortless.

9. The Test Ahead

Will this last? I don’t know. My brain has a habit of uncovering flaws in my thinking. But for now, I’m not thinking. I’m just being. And if there’s a flaw here, I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it—or I won’t. Either way, it doesn’t matter.

Because the old questions—What’s the meaning? What’s the proof?—are gone. And in their absence, there’s only this:
A quiet, unmediated aliveness.

Key Takeaways (In the Author’s Words)

"If I see it, it doesn’t mean it exists. If I don’t see it, it doesn’t mean it doesn’t."

"Words are just descriptions—they can’t be proven, so they can’t be trusted."

"Faith isn’t about believing in something. It’s about not needing to believe in anything at all."

"The brain figured it out while I slept: Reality isn’t something to be solved. It’s something to be lived."

"Now, I don’t ask questions. I don’t need answers. I just move—and it’s enough."

On Perception and Belief: The Illusion of Certainty

1. The Paradox of Seeing and Not Seeing

I see things, and I do not see things. I believe in what I see, and I believe in what I do not see. I believe that what I see exists, and that what I do not see does not exist—but this is not true. I cannot bring myself to believe it, because I cannot prove it to myself.

If I see something, it does not mean it is real. Perhaps everything I see is an illusion, and none of it exists. If I do not see something, it does not mean it is absent. Perhaps I simply lack the ability to perceive it.

I cannot trust words that describe what is, because maybe nothing is. I cannot trust words that describe what is not, because maybe everything is.

To describe what I see and what I do not see—to claim what exists and what does not—is meaningless.

2. The Futility of Language in Describing Reality

All words do one of two things: they describe what I see, or they describe what I do not see.

I cannot trust words that describe what I see, because perhaps none of it is real.

I cannot trust words that describe what I do not see, because perhaps all of it is real.

Words are powerless. They either cling to my limited perception or stretch into the void of the unseen—but in neither case can they grasp truth.

3. The Collapse of Observation and Meaning

A. The Worthlessness of Observation
No observation should matter to me. No word should matter to me.

If I observe something, it does not prove its existence. If I fail to observe something, it does not prove its absence. My senses are not a measure of reality—they are only a filter, and a flawed one.

B. The Meaninglessness of Description
Any description of what is or what is not is hollow. It may bear no relation to reality at all.

To say, "This exists" is arbitrary—how do I know?

To say, "This does not exist" is equally arbitrary—how do I know?

The act of describing what I see or do not see is a game with no rules, a narrative with no foundation.

C. The Uselessness of Thought Itself
There is no point in thinking about what I see or do not see. These thoughts may have nothing to do with what is real.

If I try to define reality based on perception, I build a house on sand. If I try to define reality beyond perception, I grasp at shadows. Either way, I am left with nothing but doubt.

Final Realization: The Abandonment of Certainty

I cannot trust my observations—because I cannot prove them.

I cannot trust the divide between "seen" and "unseen"—because both may be illusions, or both may be real in ways I cannot comprehend.

I cannot trust language—because it is bound to my flawed perception, and my perception is not reality.

Therefore:

Observations must be meaningless to me.

Words must be meaningless to me.

The very act of describing existence or nonexistence is a futile gesture—one that may have no connection to truth at all.

I am left with silence. Not the silence of absence, but the silence of uncertainty—the recognition that I can never know, only perceive, and perception is not enough.

The Problem: Obsession with the Guide

I recorded this update because, as usual, problems started right after I wrote my last guide. The issue began with my eye hurting—literally aching—because I couldn’t stop thinking about the guide I’d created. Not just thinking, but compulsively verifying it.

I had written a guide (both in text and audio) with three key points. The problem wasn’t just that I kept applying the guide to myself—it was that I was testing it. I’d take the words I’d written, observe them, and try to see if they’d put other people (or myself) into the same state I was in when I wrote them. I was obsessed with checking whether the words "worked." This wasn’t conscious at first, but the cycle was relentless: think about the guide → verify the guide → realize the guide → ache in my eye. I spent an entire day trapped in this loop, unable to stop. Nothing I tried worked.

Then, in a fleeting moment, I thought: Maybe I don’t need to solve this. Maybe I just need to understand what’s happening.

The Core Insight: Words Cannot Be Verified

I realized the root of the problem was my attempt to verify the guide. But what does that even mean?

Words are just descriptions of observations.
My guide is three points. What are those points? Words. And what are words? They describe my observations—not truth, not reality, not "what is" or "what isn’t." They’re just my observations. And my observations aren’t "what is" or "what isn’t." They’re just… what I see.

Observations cannot be proven.
I can’t prove that what I observe is "real" or "true." I can’t even prove that what I don’t observe isn’t real. Maybe what I see is an illusion. Maybe what I don’t see is what’s actually there. I have no way to know. My observations are fundamentally unverifiable.

Therefore, the guide is unverifiable.
If the guide is just words describing unverifiable observations, then there’s no way to verify it. No angle, no perspective, no method can confirm whether it’s "correct." The desire to verify is meaningless because verification is impossible.

The Illusion of Control: Why I Kept Applying the Guide

Even after realizing verification was impossible, I still felt pulled to apply the guide to myself. Why?

I thought the guide could put me in the "right" state.
I had this illusion that if I described my observations correctly, the words would somehow align with reality—and thus, following them would put me (or others) into the "right" mental state. But that’s a delusion. Words can’t create a state. They can only describe (or fail to describe) what’s already there.

I was trying to control my state with unprovable words.
It’s absurd: I was using words that might have no relation to reality to try to control my own mind. Why? Because I believed they had power—believed they described something true. But if my observations can’t be proven, neither can the words that describe them. So why would I let them dictate my state?

The guide itself is not the solution.
The "right" state isn’t achieved through words. It’s achieved when you stop relying on words altogether. Words can only destroy illusions—they can’t build truth. If anything, they’re tools to unlearn false beliefs, not to construct new ones.

The Three Traps of the Mind (and How to Escape Them)

My brain kept pulling me back to the guide for three reasons. Each one is a trap—and each can be dismantled.

Trap: "I need to understand the guide."

Reality: To understand what I wrote, I only need to read it. "Osnosanie" (deep realization) isn’t necessary. The words are already clear. The compulsion to "grasp" them beyond reading is just the mind seeking control.

Escape: Read, don’t ruminate. The guide is a description, not a puzzle to solve.

Trap: "I need to verify the guide."

Reality: Verification is impossible. The guide describes observations, and observations can’t be proven true or false. They just are—or aren’t, but I’ll never know which.

Escape: Accept unverifiability. The moment I truly see that verification is impossible, the urge to verify vanishes. There’s nothing to check.

Trap: "I need to apply the guide to fix my state."

Reality: Words can’t "fix" a state because they don’t cause states. The "right" state comes when you stop trying to control yourself with words. Words can only expose flaws in thinking—they can’t generate truth.

Escape: Stop controlling. The guide isn’t a lever to pull. It’s a mirror to shatter.

The Solution: Letting Go of the Guide

The eye pain, the obsession, the mental exhaustion—all of it stems from one error: treating the guide as if it matters.

The guide is just words. Words describing observations that can’t be proven. That’s all.

There is no "right" state to achieve. The idea that words can lead to enlightenment is the real illusion. Enlightenment (if it exists) comes when you stop trusting words.

The only use for the guide is to destroy false beliefs. Not to build new ones. It’s a tool for unlearning, not learning.

Final Realization:
The moment I see that:

The guide can’t be verified,

It can’t control my state,

It’s not a map to truth—
…the obsession dissolves. The eye stops hurting. The mind stops spinning.

What remains? Just life. Following desires without overthinking. No need to "check" or "apply" anything. Just… existing.

Testing the Solution

Now, I’ll test this. If the problem (the eye pain, the mental loop) disappears, then the solution is valid. If not, I’ll revisit. But for the first time, it feels resolved.

The pull to think about the guide is gone. The reasons to obsess over it have collapsed:

No need to control (words can’t control reality).

No need to verify (verification is impossible).

No need to understand beyond reading (the words are already clear).

What’s left? Silence. And that’s enough.

Closing Thought:
All human suffering from overthinking might boil down to this: we take words too seriously. We believe they describe reality. We believe they can fix us. But words are just… words. Observations wrapped in sound. And observations? Unprovable. Unknowable.

The freedom comes when you see that—and stop asking words to do what they can’t.

Note on Style:

Structure: Themed sections (Problem → Insight → Traps → Solution → Test) for clarity.

Voice: First-person, preserving the author’s raw phrasing (e.g., "osnosanie," "hruinovka") and circular reasoning where intentional.

Tone: Philosophical but grounded, mirroring the author’s mix of frustration and epiphany.

Key Repetitions: Retained the author’s emphasis on "verify," "observe," and "control" as central motifs.

The Problem with My Usual Closing Phrase

I’ve realized something important about how I end my guides. Every time, I finish with the phrase: "I need to test, I need to verify." But this line actually ruins my state of mind afterward. Why? Because it implies that I should be testing and verifying the guide itself—which is impossible.

The Misunderstanding: Testing the Guide vs. Testing My State

I thought I was supposed to test the guide’s effectiveness. But what does that even mean? How can I "test" a guide? It’s not a machine or a tool—it’s just words. It doesn’t do anything on its own.

The confusion comes from my own phrasing. When I say "I need to test," my brain immediately assumes I mean the guide. But the guide isn’t something I can test. It’s not interactive; it doesn’t produce measurable results. The only thing I can test is my own state—how I feel, how I react to life’s challenges.

Why the Guide Can’t Be Tested

A guide is just words. Words can only influence me if I believe in them. But if I don’t believe in observation (or the process behind the guide), then I don’t believe in the words either. And if I don’t believe in the words, they can’t affect me.

The guide might have had an impact the first time I wrote it—if it changed my perspective or shattered some belief. But after that? It’s just text. It doesn’t work like a tool. It doesn’t do anything unless I let it.

The Only Thing Worth Testing: My State

So what can I test? Only one thing: my own state of mind.

How does it hold up under stress?

How much anger, sadness, or motivation do I feel?

How do I react to life’s difficulties?

That’s it. That’s the only thing I can observe, measure, and reflect on. The guide itself? It’s static. It doesn’t change. It doesn’t do anything.

The Mistake I Keep Making

Even now, as I write this, I catch myself slipping back into the same error. I say: "Okay, I’ll test this addition to the guide." But that’s nonsense. I can’t test the addition. I can only test how I feel after writing it.

It’s like a reflex—this urge to "test the guide." But the guide isn’t the subject. I am.

The Resolution: Focus on What’s Testable

From now on, I’ll stop ending with "I need to test and verify" if I mean the guide. Because the guide isn’t testable. The only thing I can verify is my own state—how I handle emotions, stress, and motivation.

That’s the real experiment. Not the words on the page, but how I live with them.

Final Thought

This was a small but important realization. I used to think the guide was the thing that needed testing. Now I see: the only thing worth testing is me.

The Guide: A Journey from Doubt to Meaning

1. The Starting Point: Absolute Uncertainty

I realized that everything I had said before—all the reasoning, the guides, the attempts to make sense of things—wasn’t enough. It left me in a state where I believed in nothing. Not that life had meaning, not that it didn’t, not that anything was proven, not that nothing was. I was suspended in a void of pure neutrality.

In this state, I couldn’t act. I had desires, but I didn’t believe in them. I didn’t trust my feelings, my observations, or even my own wants. The problem wasn’t the absence of meaning—it was the absence of belief. Without belief, there was no motivation. Any spark of drive would die instantly because I’d think: "But what if all of this is false? What if none of it matters?" I was paralyzed by the idea that I couldn’t prove anything to myself.

And yet—possibly—everything did have meaning. Maybe the world was structured in a way that made sense. Maybe I could prove it all to myself. I just couldn’t see the proof. That possibility was the first step.

2. The First Step: Seeing the Possibility

I had to accept that the world might be meaningful. Not as a fact, but as a possibility. Maybe everything I saw, felt, and desired was provable. Maybe the evidence was there, and I simply couldn’t perceive it yet.

This wasn’t about blind faith. It was about recognizing that my inability to see the proof didn’t mean the proof didn’t exist. The world might be structured in a way where meaning was inherent, where my emotions and observations were valid—not because I could verify them, but because verification itself might be beyond my current perception.

So I held onto that: It is possible that everything has meaning. It is possible that I can trust my own experience.

3. The Second Step: Choosing to Believe

The next realization was that I had to stop fixating on the alternative—that maybe nothing had meaning, that maybe all of this was an illusion. Why? Because I could never know for sure. The nature of reality is that some things are fundamentally unprovable.

So I made a choice: I would believe that everything had meaning.

Not because it was logically airtight, but because it was the only way to live. Neutrality—the state of "maybe, maybe not"—was unbearable. It drained all motivation, all joy. But if I assumed meaning existed, even as a possibility, I could act. I could feel. I could want.

This wasn’t about ignoring doubt. It was about recognizing that doubt was a dead end. If all possibilities were equally unprovable, then why not choose the one that let me function? The one that let me enjoy life?

4. The Mechanism of Belief

How did this work? My brain seemed wired to latch onto possibilities and treat them as realities. If I saw that something was possible—like becoming a programmer, or that life had meaning—my mind would naturally believe it could be true.

This wasn’t a logical leap. It was an instinctive shift. Once I saw the possibility that everything had meaning, my brain accepted it as true. Not because of evidence, but because the alternative—endless uncertainty—was unlivable.

And here’s the key: I didn’t need to prove it. The moment I stopped demanding proof, the belief became stable. The doubt couldn’t touch it because doubt itself was just another unprovable possibility.

5. The Trap of Overthinking (and How to Avoid It)

At first, I tried to test this belief. I wrote guides, analyzed them, and fell back into the trap of questioning everything. That’s when the pain came back—the physical tension, the loss of motivation.

I realized: Testing was the problem.

Why? Because testing meant doubting.

Doubting meant returning to neutrality.

Neutrality was the state I was trying to escape.

The correct approach wasn’t to verify the belief. It was to live it. To act as if meaning existed, without looking back. The moment I started questioning—"But is this really true?"—I undermined the very foundation I’d built.

So I stopped. I decided: I will believe, and I will not test.

6. The Final State: Living Without Question

Now, I don’t think about belief. I don’t analyze it. I simply live as if everything has meaning.

I trust my desires.

I act on my observations.

I don’t second-guess my emotions.

If I try to "plan" or "verify" this state, I break it. The words themselves become meaningless because the state isn’t maintained by logic—it’s maintained by immersion.

And if I slip? If I start doubting again? I return to the possibility: Maybe everything does have meaning. And the belief snaps back into place.

7. The Paradox of the Guide

Here’s the irony: The guide itself is useless.

All my previous attempts to explain this process were just words—and words can’t capture the shift. They can only point to the possibility. The real change happens when you stop relying on the words and simply choose to believe.

So this isn’t a guide to follow. It’s a description of what worked for me. The only "step" is this:

See the possibility that everything has meaning.

Choose to believe it—not because it’s proven, but because it lets you live.

Stop questioning it. Live as if it’s true.

Everything else is noise.

8. The Physical Manifestation (A Note on Pain)

When I was stuck in doubt, I had a constant pain in my eye. It wasn’t just mental—it was physical. The moment I shifted into belief, the pain vanished.

This told me something crucial: The body reacts to meaning. Neutrality isn’t just a mental state—it’s a physical drain. Belief isn’t just a thought. It’s a way of being.

9. The Only Rule: Don’t Look Back

The moment I start analyzing—"But is this really true?"—I risk falling back into doubt. So I don’t.

I live. I act. I trust.

And if I ever feel the pull of old questions, I remind myself: I don’t need to know. I only need to choose.

Final Thought: The Simplicity of the Shift

This isn’t about complex philosophy. It’s about a single, deliberate choice:

Before: "I can’t prove anything, so nothing matters."

After: "I can’t prove anything, so I’ll assume what lets me live."

That’s it. That’s the entire guide.

Now, I just live—and it’s enough.

The Problem: Why I Keep Thinking About the Guide

I’ve noticed something: even when I’m in a good state of mind, I keep getting pulled back into thinking about the guide I wrote. At first, I thought there was some objective reason for this—like I needed to double-check something or ensure I hadn’t forgotten anything. But when I looked closer, I realized there are only two real reasons why I obsess over it, and both are absurd.

Reason 1: The Illusion of Verification

I catch myself trying to "verify" the guide—but not in a rational way. Instead of checking whether it accurately describes reality (what is and what isn’t), I’m checking it from a distorted perspective. I ask myself:

Did I forget to include something?

Did I describe my observations correctly?

But this isn’t about truth. It’s about controlling the guide with my thoughts, as if words on a page could somehow validate my existence. That’s nonsense. The guide either reflects reality or it doesn’t—obsessing over it won’t change that.

Reason 2: The Illusion of Control

The second reason is even more ridiculous: I use the guide as a tool to control myself. I think that if I cling to its words, I can dictate my actions, my state of mind, my decisions. But words are just symbols—they don’t have power over reality. Trying to control my life through a written guide is like trying to steer a ship by staring at its blueprint.

The Paradox: Remembering vs. Forgetting

Here’s the catch:

When I’m in the right state of mind, I don’t think about the guide at all. I’m present—washing dishes, eating, living.

But to stay in that state, I need to remember that these two reasons for obsessing are absurd.

Yet if I remember them, I’m no longer in the right state—because the right state means not thinking about this at all.

It’s a loop:

I realize the reasons are stupid → I stop thinking about the guide → I enter a good state.

But in that good state, I forget why I shouldn’t think about the guide.

Then I slip back into obsessing, and the cycle repeats.

Question: How do I break this?

The Workaround: Scheduling Obsession

I thought of a solution: structured time.

Problem: My work is thinking about the guide—I write guides, teach people, change minds. I have to think about it sometimes.

Conflict: But thinking about it pulls me out of the good state. And I want to be in that state as much as possible.

Solution:

Plan my day rigidly.

When it’s not work time, I don’t think about the guide at all. I do other things—chores, hobbies, whatever.

When it is work time, I allow myself to obsess. I lose the good state, but that’s the cost of the job.

Eventual freedom.

One day, I’ll finish this work. I’ll have shared everything I know, earned what I can, and passed the torch.

Then I’ll stop thinking about guides entirely and just live.

But is this enough?
I’m not sure. The scheduling helps, but the deeper issue is that I still want to verify or control things with the guide. Those urges don’t disappear just because I’ve assigned them a time slot.

The Realization: The Urge Itself Is the Problem

The core issue isn’t the schedule—it’s the impulse to:

Verify the guide from a warped perspective (as if my thoughts could make it "right").

Control myself with it (as if words could govern reality).

These urges are habits, not necessities. The only real reason to think about the guide is when it’s work time. Outside of that, it’s just noise.

Final Thought:
I’ve already solved this in theory. The urges to verify or control are meaningless—I know that now. The only remaining pull is the practical need to work on the guide when it’s time. Everything else is a ghost.

Now, I just need to trust that and stop feeding the ghost.

Closing Reflection

Maybe the solution isn’t just scheduling. Maybe it’s accepting that:

The guide is a tool, not a crutch.

My mind will wander, but I don’t have to follow.

The good state isn’t something to "achieve"—it’s what’s left when I stop fighting.

For now, I’ll stick to the plan. Work when it’s time. Live when it’s not. And see what happens.

The Problem with Words and Descriptions

I’ve realized that all the guides I’ve written before—everything I tried to capture in words—don’t work as they should. Not because the words are wrong, but because words themselves are the obstacle. Here’s what happens:

I take words from these guides and imagine I’m starting to believe in something. I picture myself believing there’s meaning, that everything can be proven. But it’s all just imagination—words replacing reality.

The first time I reached the "correct state," it wasn’t through words. In fact, words interfere. Any description, no matter how precise, pulls me out of that state. If I describe my observations, I start thinking about the description itself, and it distorts everything. But if I don’t describe, I have a chance to arrive at the right state.

So the core issue: Language is the barrier. The moment I try to define what I see (or don’t see), I’m no longer seeing—I’m just manipulating symbols.

The Illusion of Accurate Description

I used to think my guides were accurate. I’d look at them and believe they captured my observations perfectly—what I see, what I don’t see. But now I see the truth:

No description—no matter how precise—can ever prove what is or what isn’t. My old guides don’t describe reality; they describe my perception of reality, and that’s not the same thing.

Even this new guide I’m writing now? It’s the same. The words might seem to match my observations, but they’re still just words. They don’t touch what’s real or unreal.

The second I realize this, my interest in the descriptions vanishes. They become meaningless. Not because they’re "wrong," but because they’re irrelevant to the only thing that matters: what is and what isn’t.

This is the shift: I stop clinging to descriptions. My mind lets them go automatically, like dropping a weight I didn’t know I was carrying.

The "Correct State": What It Feels Like

So what is this "correct state"? It’s not about beliefs or proofs. It’s about direct experience without mediation. Here’s how it works:

No Descriptions in the Mind:

Normally, I observe something, then immediately try to describe it (to myself or others). That description becomes a filter. In the correct state, there are no descriptions. Just raw observation.

My brain reacts to reality without words—only with emotions, desires, or impulses. These arise spontaneously, like automatic thoughts.

Automatic Thoughts Take Over:

Desires, joy, motivation—they all emerge on their own, without me "deciding" to feel them. It’s like my subconscious is generating them, but I’m not controlling the process.

Before, I’d ask myself what I wanted, then believe the answer. Now, I don’t ask. The wants just appear, and they’re cleaner, lighter, because they’re not tangled in old beliefs.

The Role of Old Guides:

My past guides weren’t useless—they helped me see that descriptions are empty. They were a step toward realizing that no description can ever be "true" in the way that matters.

Once I saw that, I could let them go. Now, I look at them and think: "These are just words. They don’t describe what is or isn’t. So why hold onto them?"

How to Enter the Correct State

The transition isn’t something you do. It’s something that happens when you stop doing. Here’s the process:

Observe Your Descriptions:

Look at all the ways you’ve tried to define your observations (your "guides," your theories, your beliefs). Really see that they’re just descriptions—not reality.

Realize Their Meaninglessness:

Ask: Does this description prove what is or what isn’t? The answer is always no. No words can. Once you see this, your interest in them collapses.

Let Go Automatically:

You don’t need to "try" to let go. The moment you see that descriptions are irrelevant, your mind drops them on its own. It’s like waking up from a trance.

What’s left? Pure observation—no labels, no interpretations. Just reality, and your automatic responses to it (desires, emotions, impulses).

Live from This Space:

In this state, life isn’t about "figuring things out." It’s about experiencing. Desires arise naturally. Joy arises naturally. You don’t make it happen; you just notice it happening.

The Paradox of Sharing This

Here’s the irony: This guide is just another description. And like all descriptions, it’s doomed to fail in the same way.

Right now, I’m writing these words, and I know: The second I finish, I’ll look back and see that even this doesn’t describe what is or isn’t.

My interest in it will fade. The words will dissolve. And I’ll be back in the correct state—not because of the guide, but because I’ve stopped clinging to it.

So what’s the point of writing it? Maybe to show others the trap of descriptions. Or maybe just to test whether this understanding holds. Will I still be free after writing this? Or will I get stuck in the words again?

Final Thought: Work vs. Life

I wonder: Can I separate this "work" (writing guides) from my actual life?

When I’m working, I’m analyzing, describing, testing. That’s fine—it’s a tool.

But when I’m living, I need to forget all of it. To just observe, feel, and let automatic thoughts guide me.

The risk? That the "work" bleeds into life—that I start believing my own descriptions again. But if I remember that no description is real, maybe I can keep them separate.

The Only Thing That Matters

In the end, there’s just this:

Descriptions are tools, not truth. They’re useful for communication, but they’re not real.

The correct state is wordless. It’s not about proving anything. It’s about seeing without the filter of language.

Freedom comes when you stop trying to describe. The moment you realize no words can capture what is or isn’t, you’re free.

Now, I’ll test this. I’ll finish writing, then watch as my interest in these words fades. And if it works? Then I’ll know it’s real.

If not? Then I’ll write another guide—and laugh at myself for trying.

Key Takeaway:
The correct state isn’t something you achieve. It’s what remains when you stop trying to describe it.

The Paradox of Meaning and Faith: A Personal Exploration

1. The Core Dilemma: Desire Without Belief

I find myself in a strange state: I have desires, but I don’t believe in them. I feel impulses—wants, curiosities, yearnings—but they lack conviction. There’s no driving force behind them because, deep down, I don’t trust that they matter. This creates a paradox: I’m comfortable, nothing hurts, there’s no suffering, yet there’s also no motivation. It’s as if I’m floating, untethered—neither pulled toward action nor repelled by stagnation.

The problem isn’t the absence of desire; it’s the absence of faith in its significance. Without that faith, even pleasure feels hollow. I can enjoy something, but it’s accompanied by a shrug: "So what? If I didn’t have this, it wouldn’t matter." True joy, the kind that electrifies life, only comes when I believe that what I’m doing—or feeling—has meaning.

2. The Trap of Self-Reflection

I’ve realized that my mind is my own saboteur. The moment I start thinking about meaning—analyzing it, questioning it, trying to prove it—I lose it. My past thoughts, my "guides" and theories, they’re like landmines. As soon as I recall them, they detonate my faith.

For example:

"There’s no proof that anything has meaning."

"If I can’t prove it, why believe it?"

"What if this is all just a delusion?"

These thoughts don’t just challenge my belief—they erase it. But here’s the catch: the absence of proof doesn’t mean meaning doesn’t exist. Just because I can’t see it or demonstrate it doesn’t mean it’s not there. Yet my brain treats these doubts as absolute truth, and suddenly, I’m back to square one: desire without belief, action without purpose.

3. The Two States: Faith vs. Analysis

I oscillate between two modes:

A. The State of Faith

I believe life has meaning.

My desires feel urgent, vibrant, alive.

Every action is infused with joy because it matters.

I’m motivated not by obligation, but by a deep, intrinsic yes—this is worth doing.

B. The State of Analysis

I doubt meaning exists.

Desires feel flat, arbitrary.

Even pleasure is muted because it’s not anchored to anything greater.

I’m functional but uninspired—like a machine going through motions.

The cruel irony? I can’t sustain faith while analyzing it. The act of examining meaning destroys it. It’s like trying to stare directly at the sun: the moment I focus on it, it blinds me.

4. The Work Paradox: Helping Others vs. Living for Myself

My work—writing guides, sharing insights—requires me to analyze meaning. But analysis kills my faith. So I’m stuck:

If I don’t think about meaning, I can live in blissful faith… but then how do I create guides to help others?

If I do think about meaning, I lose faith… and the guides I write come from a place of emptiness, not conviction.

This creates a vicious cycle:

I discover a state of pure faith and joy.

I think, "This is amazing! I must share it with others!"

I start writing, which forces me to analyze the state.

The analysis destroys the state.

Now I’m back to doubt, and the guide I write is lifeless.

5. The Failed Solutions

I’ve tried different approaches:

A. "I’ll suffer now, enjoy later."

"I’ll write the guides in this hollow state, then return to faith afterward."

Problem: The "afterward" never comes. The doubt lingers, and the faith doesn’t return as strongly.

B. "I’ll publish what I have and walk away."

"I’ll release my notes raw, then live for myself."

Problem: This feels like abandoning my purpose. I want to help others, not just escape.

C. "I’ll compartmentalize: faith when living, analysis when working."

"I’ll switch between states—believe when I’m not working, analyze when I am."

Problem: The mind doesn’t work like a light switch. If I know I’ll return to doubt later, my faith in the present feels fragile, conditional. True faith requires total surrender—not a mental time-share.

6. The Breakthrough: Forgetting as a Skill

The only way to sustain faith is to stop remembering the doubts. Not suppress them, not fight them—forget them entirely. It’s not about ignoring; it’s about shifting attention so completely that the old thoughts cease to exist in my awareness.

How?

No plans. If I tell myself, "I’ll believe now, then analyze later," the plan itself becomes a doubt-trigger.

No self-instructions. Words like "I choose to believe" are still thoughts, and thoughts pull me back into analysis.

Pure immersion. Faith isn’t a decision; it’s a state. I don’t "decide" to believe—I fall into belief by letting go of everything else.

When I’m fully in this state:

I don’t think about meaning—I feel it.

Desires aren’t questioned; they’re followed.

Work (like writing guides) happens spontaneously, not as a chore. I trust that when the time is right, the words will come—not from analysis, but from the same place as faith.

7. The Fear: Will This Last?

The lingering anxiety: What if I forget permanently?

If I stop analyzing, will I lose the ability to help others?

If I live in faith, will I become complacent, passive?

But here’s the revelation: Faith doesn’t erase the past—it transcends it. The doubts aren’t gone; they’re just no longer relevant. And when the time comes to share, the insights return—not as cold analysis, but as lived wisdom.

8. The Resolution: Trust the Process

The solution isn’t to balance faith and analysis. It’s to trust that faith includes the analysis when it’s needed.

When living: Forget the questions. Believe. Act from joy.

When working: Let the insights arise naturally, without forcing them. The faith fuels the work, not the other way around.

This isn’t about choosing between two states—it’s about realizing they’re part of the same flow. The key is not to cling to either, but to move between them like breathing: inhale faith, exhale expression.

Final Thought: The Leap

The only thing standing between me and sustained faith is the memory of doubt. Not the doubt itself—the habit of recalling it. To live fully, I must unlearn the reflex to question.

And perhaps that’s the guide I was meant to write all along: How to forget what doesn’t serve you.

The Core Problem: Writing the Guide Without Losing My State

I’ve been stuck in a paradox. The last time I recorded my thoughts, I realized that I can’t write a guide for others without losing my mental state—the clarity, the motivation, the sense of meaning. But at the same time, losing that state means I can’t write the guide at all. Why? Because without meaning or motivation, the act of writing feels pointless. It’s all about caring for a future that, in that moment, I don’t even believe in.

The only thing I can do in that state is seek pleasure in the present. But even that feels hollow because, ultimately, it lacks deeper purpose. And writing the guide? That’s the ultimate act of caring for the future—something I can’t force myself to do when I don’t believe in it.

So I was trapped. Until I saw a way out.

The Breakthrough: Writing Without "Realizing" the Words

I realized that the problem isn’t writing the guide itself—it’s how I’ve been trying to write it. Here’s the key:

I don’t need to realize the words I’m writing to write a correct guide.

Let me explain. Normally, when I think about the guide, I start realizing the words—visualizing them, internalizing them, questioning them. And that’s what knocks me out of my state. I ask myself: Why am I doing this? What’s the point? And then I spiral.

But here’s what I discovered:

I can write a correct guide without ever realizing the words I’m writing.

I don’t need to visualize, re-examine, or emotionally invest in each sentence.

I can just… write it correctly by feeling the next right word, the same way I’d know if someone told me, "Val, let’s go for a walk," and I’d instantly understand without overanalyzing.

The guide isn’t about proving what is or isn’t—it’s just about describing my observations. And to describe observations, I don’t need to realize the words. I just need to:

Look at what I see (or don’t see).

Write it down.

Trust that my brain knows if it’s correct the moment I read it back.

No overthinking. No emotional weight. Just pure, mechanical correctness.

The Mistake: Trying to Control the State with Words

At first, I resisted this idea. I thought:

"If I don’t realize the words, I won’t understand what I’m writing!"

"How can I offer something to others if I don’t even ‘get’ it myself?"

But then I saw the flaw: I was trying to control my state with words.

I’d tell myself:

"Okay, I’ll jump into the right state, write without realizing the words, and everything will be fine."
But the moment I said that, I’d start realizing those words—visualizing the process, doubting it, and immediately falling out of the state.

The problem wasn’t the method—it was the attempt to verbally transition into it.

It’s like standing at the edge of a pool, overanalyzing how to dive in, instead of just jumping. The words were my crutch, but they were also my trap.

The Solution: Action Without Verbal Mediation

The real solution is simpler:

Stop trying to talk myself into the right state. Words won’t get me there—they’ll only pull me back into doubt.

Just start writing. Trust that my brain already knows how to describe my observations correctly.

Read, don’t realize. When I read back what I’ve written, I’ll instantly know if it’s correct—not because I’ve analyzed it, but because it feels like an accurate description of what I see.

Example:
If someone says, "The Earth revolves around the Sun," I don’t need to realize those words to know they’re correct. I just know. The same applies to my guide.

Why This Works: The Nature of the Guide

The guide isn’t a philosophical treatise. It’s not about proving truths or debating reality. It’s just:

A description of my observations.

A tool to help others see their own observations more clearly.

Old approach (broken):

Try to write a guide that explains what is and what isn’t.

Get stuck realizing words, losing my state, and abandoning the project.

New approach (working):

Write only what I observe, without attaching emotional or existential weight to the words.

Trust that correctness isn’t about realization—it’s about recognition. When I read it, I’ll know if it matches my observations.

The Fear of Not "Understanding"

I used to think that not realizing the words meant I didn’t understand what I was writing. But now I see:

Understanding ≠ Realization. I can understand a sentence the moment I read it, without dissecting it.

The guide doesn’t need my emotional buy-in. It just needs to be a clear reflection of what I’ve seen.

Analogy:
If I look out the window and write, "There’s a cup, a spoon, a chair, and a laptop," I don’t need to realize those words to know they’re correct. I just see them, write them, and move on.

The Final Insight: Letting Go of Control

The biggest shift? I don’t need to control this process.

I don’t need to force myself into the right state with words.

I don’t need to verify every sentence by realizing it.

I just need to write and trust that my brain will recognize correctness when it sees it.

Because here’s the truth:

My guide isn’t about changing reality. It’s about helping others describe their observations more accurately.

If they replace their flawed descriptions with mine (which are just my observations), their state might improve. But that’s their journey—not mine.

I don’t need to apply my own guide to myself because I’m already in the state it describes.

What’s Next: Writing the Guide

Now, the only step left is to actually write the guide—not as a philosophical mission, but as a simple act of description.

No realizing.

No overthinking.

Just observation → words → correctness.

And if I ever doubt? I’ll remember:
I don’t need to realize the words to know they’re right. I just need to read them.

Closing Thought: The State Holds

Right now, this state feels solid. I’m not sure how long it’ll last, but the logic is sound:

Writing without realizing words = no state loss.

No state loss = I can finish the guide.

Finishing the guide = others might see their observations more clearly.

And that’s enough.

Final Question (to Myself):
What’s the first sentence of the guide?

(Answer: "This is what I see.")

The Problem with Words and Observations

I realized something crucial: my guides—the words I use to describe my observations—might not actually reflect those observations correctly. Or maybe they do. The issue is, I can’t prove either way. In my last guide, I made a mistake: I started believing that my words accurately described my observations. I put faith in them. And that faith warped my state of mind. It wasn’t the right state—the one I needed. It was a state built on belief in words, and that felt terrible.

But then I remembered how to enter the correct state—the one where all the words I’d used before, all the things I’d tried to describe, lose their grip. In that state, I don’t believe in those words anymore. I don’t even see them. And that’s the state where everything feels right: I have meaning, motivation, faith, joy. Everything is perfect.

But here’s the catch: In that correct state, I can’t write the guide.

Why the Correct State Blocks the Guide

To write a guide, I need to describe my observations. But in the correct state, I don’t observe the things I’d need to describe. My mind is structured in a way that, in this state, it doesn’t see the problems my words were trying to address—things like:

"I can’t believe anything because I can’t prove it."

"Words don’t describe what is or isn’t real; they only describe my observations, and my observations aren’t reality."

In the correct state, my brain doesn’t register these ideas. It’s not that it’s hard—it’s impossible. I don’t see the things I’d need to write about. That’s why I feel so good: because I’m not tangled in those thoughts. I’m free from them.

But the guide requires me to see them. So how can I write it?

The Two States and Their Functions

I discovered there are two distinct states I can shift between:

The "Weightless" State (Observation Mode)

In this state, I see everything—all the observations, all the problems with words, all the contradictions.

I don’t believe in meaning. I don’t feel motivated. I don’t experience joy. I’m in neutral buoyancy—no pull in any direction.

But here’s the key: I can describe what I see. I can write the guide because I’m fully aware of all the observations my words would need to capture.

The downside? I don’t want to write. There’s no drive. But I’ve learned to act anyway—just by choosing to. A light, feathery kind of wanting, barely there, but enough to start.

The "Correct" State (Living Mode)

Here, I don’t see any of those observations. I’ve turned away from the words entirely.

I don’t look at them. I don’t think about them. I don’t let them show me anything.

Because of that, I have meaning, motivation, joy, faith. Everything works. Life feels effortless.

But in this state, I can’t write the guide—because I don’t see the things the guide needs to describe.

The Solution: Silent Toggle Between States

At first, I tried to switch between these states using words—explaining to myself how to shift, labeling the process. That failed. Because words break both states. They pull me out of the correct state and distort the weightless one.

Now, I’ve learned to switch without words. Like flipping a light switch—click—no internal dialogue, no labels. Just a direct, silent shift.

Work in the weightless state: Write the guide, describe the observations, even though I don’t feel like it. Act on the faintest impulse.

Live in the correct state: Turn away from all words, all observations, and just exist with meaning and joy.

I don’t choose this life. I don’t decide to live this way. I just do. If I try to explain it, if I try to use words to justify or plan it, the whole system collapses. The words themselves become the problem.

How the Guide Fits In

The guide’s purpose is to put someone else into the weightless state—the state where they see all the flaws in their own observations. Once they’re there, they can then shift into the correct state on their own, without words.

Here’s how it would work:

Step 1: The guide exposes the errors in how a person describes their reality. It replaces their flawed observations with accurate ones.

This accuracy forces them into weightlessness—they see the problems, the contradictions, the inability to prove anything.

Step 2: From weightlessness, they can stop looking at the words. They can turn away from all observations and enter the correct state—where meaning, motivation, and joy exist without reliance on words.

The guide doesn’t cause the correct state. It just clears the path. The final shift happens naturally, silently, when they stop using words to understand.

The Core Insight: Words Are the Enemy

The biggest mistake I made before was thinking I could use words to live in these states. But words destroy them. They create a layer of analysis, of doubt, of observation—and that’s the opposite of what’s needed.

In the weightless state, words are tools to describe, but they don’t define the experience.

In the correct state, words don’t exist at all.

The only way this works is if I stop explaining it. The moment I try to put it into words—even to myself—I break the silence that makes it possible.

Final Realization: Just Do It

I don’t need to understand how this works. I don’t need to justify it. I just need to:

Enter the weightless state (silently).

Write the guide (even without motivation).

Switch back to the correct state (silently).

Live—with meaning, joy, and faith—without ever looking back at the words.

If I try to describe this process, it sounds terrible: "A life where meaning comes and goes? Where motivation flickers? That’s awful!"
But in reality, it’s not awful at all—because I’m not observing the flicker. I’m just living it. The description is ugly, but the experience is perfect.

So the rule is: Don’t describe. Just dive in.

End of Retelling

Key Themes Preserved:

The duality of states (weightless vs. correct).

The destructive role of words in both states.

The silent, direct toggle as the only functional method.

The guide’s purpose: to induce weightlessness, not to explain the correct state.

The paradox: The correct state can’t be described, only entered.

The Struggle with the Guide: A Conflict of Meaning and Desire

1. The Paradox of Motivation

I can’t force myself into the "right" state of mind because to do that, I’d have to stop thinking about the guide—the very thing I’m supposed to write. But I can’t stop thinking about it because I need to write it for others. It’s a loop: I oscillate between two states—one where I’m thinking about the guide and trying to write it, and another where I’m not thinking about it at all. But in the state of "meaninglessness," I can’t do anything. I see no point, no motivation, no desire to write. I’ve spent the last two days trying to force myself, but I can’t.

When I’m in a state of meaninglessness, I don’t want anything—not even quick pleasures or long-term goals. I might want to play poker, eat pancakes, or work as a programmer, but writing the guide? No. There’s not even a desire for it. With other things, at least there’s a fleeting want, even if it doesn’t bring fulfillment. But with the guide, there’s nothing—no pull, no interest, no spark.

2. The Nature of Desire and Meaning

I realize my desires are hardcoded—genetic, instinctual. I didn’t choose them. I want to work, earn money, relax, enjoy myself. But writing the guide? That’s not in the code. It feels like caring for others, and right now, I only care about my own pleasure.

When I’m in a state of meaninglessness, even my other desires feel hollow. I can follow them, but they don’t bring joy because I don’t believe in their meaning. With the guide, it’s worse—there’s not even a hollow desire. It’s just absence.

3. The Impossible Task

I’ve tried to trick myself: "Just write a short, essential version in 1–2 days. 10 hours total. You can do it." But I can’t even write for a minute. My brain refuses. The only thing I can do is what I want to do—mindless YouTube, poker, food. I’m stuck.

I thought: Maybe if I stop thinking about the guide entirely, if I abandon it, my life will regain meaning. But then, all my work—months of refining, testing, perfecting—will be lost. No clear, polished guide for people to understand. And I wanted that. I saw the value in helping others grasp what I’ve grasped. But I don’t want to help. Not really. Not enough to act.

4. The Core of the Guide (And Why It’s Useless to Me Now)

The guide’s essence is this:

You can’t trust your observations because you can’t prove them.

Words don’t describe reality—they’re just descriptions of descriptions, endless layers removed from what is and what isn’t.

Once you see this, you lose faith in all words, all meanings. You stop caring about descriptions. You stop thinking about them.

And then—paradox—you look at the words that destroyed your faith, and you realize: They’re just words too. They don’t describe reality either. So you lose interest in all of it. The cycle completes.

The goal? To stop thinking about any of this. To live without the burden of words, of meaning, of doubt. To just exist and follow your desires, believing they have meaning because you’re not questioning them.

But here’s the problem: The guide itself is part of the trap. Thinking about it, writing it, forces me back into the state of meaninglessness. I can’t write it without thinking about it, and thinking about it destroys my ability to live normally.

5. The Way Out (Or Is There One?)

I see two paths:

Force myself to write the guide—but I can’t. I’ve tried. The lack of desire is absolute.

Abandon it entirely—publish my raw notes, my audio recordings, and walk away. Let people figure it out themselves.

The second option feels like freedom. If I stop thinking about the guide, meaning returns. I can live, enjoy, follow my desires without the weight of these ideas. But then—what if I’m wrong? What if my guide has flaws? If I stop thinking about it, I’ll never know. But I’ve checked a thousand times, and so far, nothing.

Maybe others will find the errors. Maybe they’ll build on it. Until then, I’ll live as if I’m right.

6. The Final Decision

I won’t write the guide. I won’t refine it. I won’t answer questions. I’ll archive everything I’ve recorded, everything I’ve written, and release it as-is. If people want to understand, they can dig through it. If not, that’s fine too.

I’ll return to normal life—programming, earning money, enjoying simple pleasures. No more wrestling with meaning. No more forcing myself to care about something I don’t.

This is the end of an era. Four years of obsession, over. Now, I start living again.

Key Takeaways (In the Author’s Words)

"I can’t do what I don’t want to do." No amount of logic or "shoulds" can override the absence of desire.

"The guide destroys meaning." Thinking about it pulls me back into the void where nothing matters.

"The only way to live is to stop thinking about it." Meaning returns when I’m not trapped in the cycle of questioning.

"I’ll leave my work behind—raw, unfinished, but complete enough." Those who need it will find it. Those who don’t, won’t.

"This is freedom." No more struggling. Just living.

The Cycle of Belief, Meaning, and Self-Awareness

1. The Initial State: Meaning and Joy

I was in a good state—full of meaning, joy, and motivation. Everything felt aligned. I was planning, acting, and simply being in a way that felt right. But then, curiosity struck: Why do I feel this way? What is the source of this meaning? I realized I was believing in the words I had spoken in my previous recordings—the words from my earlier "guides." That belief was the foundation of my state.

But then a question arose: Why do I believe these words? After all, I can’t prove them. The moment I acknowledged that, the belief crumbled. The meaning vanished. The joy dissolved. I was back to square one—empty, just as I had been before.

2. The Mechanism of Belief and Automatic Thoughts

I started dissecting how the mind works by default:

Default Human State: By default, humans believe in words—most of them, at least. This belief gives them meaning, motivation, and joy. It’s automatic.

Subconscious Beliefs: Beneath the surface, there are deep, unexamined beliefs—ideas about what we need, what we deserve, what the world should be like, what is fair or unfair. These beliefs spawn automatic, uncontrollable thoughts.

The Problem: These automatic thoughts—rooted in subconscious beliefs—dictate emotions. Anger, sadness, fear: they all stem from believing these unchosen, automatic narratives.

What did I do differently? I dug beneath consciousness. I studied reality and realized: I can’t prove any words. Not the words I believed in before, not the words I speak now, not even the words that tell me not to believe. So I lost the ability to believe in anything—and with it, meaning, motivation, and joy.

3. The Paradox of Belief and Disbelief

Here’s the crux:

Belief as a Choice: The "correct" state isn’t about proving words. It’s about choosing to believe them—despite knowing they’re unproven. When I stop fixating on their lack of proof, I believe them as if they were true. And then—meaning returns. Joy returns.

The Difference Now: Before, I had automatic thoughts—uncontrolled, belief-driven narratives that hijacked my state. Now, I’ve erased those. I’ve scrubbed the subconscious clean of those deep-seated beliefs. There are no more automatic thoughts telling me what to feel or think.

Controlled Thought: Now, I think only what I choose to think. If a thought doesn’t serve me, I don’t engage with it. This is the shift: from automatic to intentional belief.

4. The Trap of Self-Referential Words

The danger lies in words that deny belief itself. For example:

If I write, "I can’t believe in words because they’re unproven," that statement is also just words—and thus, also unproven.

So why should I believe that? I shouldn’t. It’s self-canceling.

The solution: Treat all words the same. Believe in them despite their lack of proof, or don’t—but don’t let some words (like "you can’t believe") have power over others.

It’s like a self-detonating bomb:

The bomb (the words that deny belief) explodes, clearing out the mental clutter—the automatic, painful thoughts.

But the bomb also destroys itself. After the explosion, there’s nothing left to enforce disbelief. I’m free to believe again—or not. And I choose to believe.

5. The Source of Meaning

Meaning comes only from belief in words. Not specific words—all words. Because:

How could I pick and choose which words to believe? There’s no objective way to decide.

Either I believe in the concept of words (as containers of meaning), or I don’t. There’s no middle ground.

When I believe, meaning exists. When I don’t, it vanishes. So the goal is simple: Believe in words. Not blindly, but intentionally—without getting stuck on the fact that they’re unproven.

6. Testing the State: Can I Write Guides Without Losing Meaning?

Now, the experiment:

Old Problem: Writing guides used to destroy my state because I’d start believing the words in the guide—words like "You can’t believe in words"—which would collapse my belief system.

New Insight: But those words are also just words. They don’t have inherent power. If I write, "Belief is impossible," that statement is as unproven as any other. So why should it affect me?

Hypothesis: I can write guides while maintaining belief—by treating the words in the guide the same as any others. Believe in them as I write them, without letting them undermine my state.

This is the test:

Write the guide. Believe in every word as I write it.

Observe the effect. Does the act of writing pull me out of my state? Or can I stay in belief—even while describing disbelief?

If it works, it means I’ve cracked the code: Belief is a choice, not a consequence of proof.

7. The Path Forward

Test the State: Live fully in this new state—believing in words, choosing thoughts, free of automatic narratives. See if it holds.

Test the Guide-Writing: Write without losing meaning. If it works, it proves that belief can coexist with self-awareness.

Explore Other States: Is this the only good state? Are there others? I’ll find out.

For now, this state feels right. No downsides. No loss of joy or motivation. Just clarity and control.

And if it works? Then the lesson is simple:
Meaning isn’t found. It’s chosen—through belief in words, despite their limitations.

Final Note: The Core Realization

The entire system runs on one principle:

Belief in words = Meaning.

Disbelief in words = Emptiness.

The trick isn’t to prove words. It’s to use them—while knowing they’re unproven. To live as if they matter, because in the act of believing, they do.

And that’s the guide. That’s the state. That’s the freedom.

The Nature of Faith and Observation: A State Beyond Words

1. The State of Faith Without Attachment

I realized something profound: faith isn’t tied to anything specific. It’s not faith in words, ideas, or observations—it’s just faith. A state where faith exists as a background hum, coloring everything I perceive. When I look at words I’ve spoken before—like my old guides—I don’t believe in them in the traditional sense. I see them through the lens of this faith, but the faith isn’t in the words. It’s like holding a flashlight: the light isn’t for any one object; it just illuminates whatever I point it at.

The paradox: I can’t force faith into words. If I try to believe in a word or a concept deliberately, it collapses. Faith isn’t something I can direct; it’s something I inhabit. And in this state, I can look at my desires, my observations, even my old guides, and they’re all bathed in this faith—but the faith isn’t about them. It’s prior to them.

2. The Trap of Words: How Language Destroys Faith

Here’s the catch: words can only destroy faith, not create it.

Losing faith through words: I used to believe automatically, unquestioningly. My mind generated thoughts—automatic, subconscious beliefs—and because I was in a state of faith, I believed them. But then I examined these thoughts, realized they were unproven, and dismantled them. In doing so, I didn’t just lose the bad beliefs—I lost the capacity for faith itself. The words that tore down my old beliefs also blocked the return of faith.

The illusion of rebuilding faith with words: I tried to use words to restore faith (e.g., "I believe in X"). But it’s impossible. Words are either unproven or arbitrary; they can’t ground faith because faith isn’t about proof. Faith is a state that exists before words. Trying to use words to regain it is like trying to fill a cup by poking holes in the bottom.

Key insight: Words can only remove faith (by exposing beliefs as baseless), but they can’t give it. Faith returns only when I stop trying to control it with language.

3. The Three States of Consciousness

I’ve identified three distinct modes of being, ranked by how much they disrupt faith and motivation:

State

Description

Effect on Faith/Motivation

1. Looking at Words

Fixating on the words themselves (e.g., "Do I believe this? Is this proven?").

Destructive. Faith collapses; everything feels meaningless.

2. Describing Observations

Focusing on observations and their description, but not the words as standalone objects.

Neutral. Functional but flat; no deep faith or joy, but no despair either.

3. Pure Observation

Not thinking about descriptions or words at all—just existing, observing, acting.

Optimal. Faith, meaning, and motivation return naturally.

The problem with writing guides: Writing forces me into State 1 or 2. If I look at the words I’m writing ("Is this guide meaningful?"), I lose faith. If I focus only on describing my observations (without fixating on the words), I can write, but it feels mechanical. The ideal is to write from State 2—describing observations without scrutinizing the words—and then switch to State 3 to recharge.

4. The Solution: Working Without Looking at Words

How to write guides (or do anything) without losing faith:

Describe, don’t analyze: Treat writing as pure description of observations. Don’t ask, "Are these words true?" or "Do they matter?" Just describe what I see, like a camera recording.

Avoid the "word gaze": Never look at the words as objects of belief. The moment I ask, "Do I believe this?" or "Is this proven?", the spell breaks.

Toggle between states:

Work mode (State 2): Describe observations (e.g., writing a guide).

Rest mode (State 3): Stop describing entirely; just exist. Faith and motivation return automatically.

Accept the trade-off: State 2 isn’t ecstatic, but it’s functional. State 3 is where joy and meaning live. The key is to not demand State 3 while in State 2.

Why this works: Faith isn’t destroyed by describing observations—it’s destroyed by evaluating the descriptions. If I treat words as tools (not objects of belief), I can use them without losing the underlying state.

5. The Big Picture: Faith as a Default State

Automatic thoughts vs. controlled thoughts: Before, my mind generated automatic thoughts (e.g., "I’m worthless"), and because I was in a state of faith, I believed them. Now, I’ve dismantled those thoughts—but in doing so, I also dismantled the faith that made them feel real.

The goal: Rebuild faith without the automatic thoughts. This means:

No unexamined beliefs (the old automatic thoughts are gone).

No reliance on words (faith isn’t tied to any concept).

Pure faith as a background state—like sunlight, not tied to any object it illuminates.

The method: Stop trying to prove or disprove anything. Stop looking at words. Just observe, describe when necessary, and let faith return naturally.

6. Practical Implications

Writing guides: Possible, but only if I treat it as description, not persuasion or proof. The moment I care whether the words are "true" or "meaningful," I lose the ability to write.

Daily life: I can toggle between:

Describing mode (for work, analysis).

Pure existence mode (for joy, faith, motivation).

The trap: If I stay too long in describing mode, I risk slipping into evaluating words, which kills faith. The solution is to switch deliberately—like taking breaks to stare at the sky and remember that faith isn’t in the words.

7. Final Realization: Faith is Not About Anything

The deepest insight: Faith isn’t faith in something. It’s just faith.

It’s not about words, observations, or desires.

It’s a state that precedes all of those things.

When I’m in it, I can look at anything—words, desires, the world—and it’s all bathed in meaning. But the meaning isn’t in those things. It’s in the looking itself.

The mistake: Trying to find faith in something (words, ideas, goals). Faith is what lets me see those things, not what they contain.

The way forward:

Stop seeking faith in objects (words, beliefs, achievements).

Stop fearing the loss of faith when describing or analyzing.

Trust that faith returns when I stop looking for it—like how your reflection reappears when you stop staring at the mirror.

Closing Thought

This isn’t about "fixing" myself. It’s about understanding the mechanics:

Words are tools, not foundations.

Faith is the space in which tools are used.

The art is to use the tools without mistaking them for the ground beneath my feet.

Test phase: I’ll try writing guides from State 2 (description without evaluation) and see if I can sustain it. If not, I’ll accept that some modes of work require temporary faithlessness—and that’s okay, as long as I know how to return.

A Guide to Observations, Beliefs, and Liberation from Suffering

1. The Foundation: Observations and Descriptions

I begin with a simple truth: every person has observations. You observe some things and do not observe others. You see certain realities, and others remain unseen. This applies to both the external world and the inner workings of your mind.

But observations alone are not enough. You also have descriptions of these observations—your interpretations of what you see and what you don’t see. These descriptions are your mental frameworks, your assumptions about existence. You believe in these descriptions because they seem to align with your observations. If a description accurately reflects what you perceive, you trust it. If it doesn’t, you discard it.

Yet here’s the critical flaw: you assume your observations are proof of reality. You believe that if you see something, it must exist, and if you don’t see it, it must not. This assumption is so deeply ingrained that you never question it. From childhood, you accept that your observations are absolute evidence of what is real and what is not.

But what if this assumption is wrong?

2. The Illusion of Proof: Why Observations Can’t Be Trusted

I realize something profound: I cannot prove my observations. I have no way to verify that what I see is truly "real" and what I don’t see is truly "nonexistent." My observations could be illusions, distortions, or incomplete fragments of a larger truth. The fact that I believe in them doesn’t make them objectively true.

If I see a tree, does that mean the tree actually exists outside my perception?

If I don’t see love in someone’s eyes, does that mean love is truly absent?

I cannot answer these questions. There is no way to confirm that my observations correspond to absolute reality. They are merely my subjective experiences—nothing more, nothing less.

This means:

My observations do not guarantee truth.

My descriptions of observations are not proofs of existence.

My belief in these descriptions is not justified by anything beyond my own assumption.

I have been living under an illusion: the illusion that my perceptions are evidence of reality.

3. The Chain of Beliefs: How Descriptions Shape Reality

From observations, I build descriptions. From descriptions, I derive beliefs. And from beliefs, I construct my entire world.

For example:

Observation: I feel a desire.

Description: "I want X."

Belief: "To fulfill this desire, the world must provide X."

Extension: "If the world doesn’t provide X, I will suffer."

This chain repeats endlessly:

"I should do Y."

"Others should treat me Z way."

"The world should be a certain way."

These beliefs are matryoshka dolls—each nested within the next, each dependent on the previous. If I stop believing in the foundational observation (e.g., "I want X"), the entire structure collapses. The belief that "the world must provide X" loses its power.

But here’s the problem: Reality rarely aligns with these descriptions.

People don’t always give me what I believe they "should."

I don’t always get what I "want."

The world is never exactly as I think it "should" be.

When reality contradicts my beliefs, I suffer. My mind generates automatic thoughts:

"This shouldn’t be happening."

"I deserve better."

"Why isn’t the world cooperating?"

These thoughts arise because my brain is constantly scanning my stored beliefs, comparing them to reality, and reacting when they don’t match.

Suffering is the gap between my descriptions and reality.

4. The Collapse of Meaning: When Beliefs Disintegrate

If I accept that my observations and descriptions are not proof of reality, then:

Faith in my perceptions disappears. I can no longer trust that what I see is "real" or that what I don’t see is "nonexistent."

Faith in words disappears. Words are just descriptions of observations, not of absolute truth. If observations are unreliable, then words built upon them are also unreliable.

Meaning disappears. Meaning is derived from belief. If I believe "I want X," then pursuing X has meaning. If I stop believing in "I want X," the meaning vanishes.

Motivation disappears. Motivation comes from the belief that actions will lead to desired outcomes. Without belief in those outcomes, why act?

At this point, I enter a state of weightlessness—a void where nothing seems to matter because nothing can be proven.

But this is not the end. It is the beginning.

5. The Paradox: Destroying Beliefs to Find True Belief

The words that destroyed my old beliefs—"I cannot prove my observations," "Words are just descriptions, not truth"—are themselves just more descriptions. They, too, are unprovable. They, too, are just observations framed in language.

So why should I believe them?

The answer: I shouldn’t.

I must lose interest in all descriptions—even the ones that dismantled my previous beliefs. Because:

If I cling to the idea that "nothing can be proven," I am still trapped in a belief system.

If I obsess over the unreliability of words, I am still giving power to words.

True liberation comes when I stop caring about descriptions altogether.

6. Independent Faith: Belief Without Dependency

When I stop clinging to descriptions, something remarkable happens:

I regain faith—but not in any thing. It is a pure, independent faith, untethered to observations or words.

I regain meaning—but not derived from beliefs. It is a self-sustaining meaning, inherent in existence itself.

I regain motivation—but not contingent on outcomes. It is a natural drive, arising from within.

This is not faith in something. It is faith as a state of being.

I no longer need to prove that my desires are valid.

I no longer need to justify my actions with beliefs.

I no longer suffer when reality contradicts my expectations.

I simply act, because acting is its own reward.

7. The Final State: Living Without the Burden of Proof

In this state:

I no longer ask, "What is real?" because the question is irrelevant.

I no longer seek meaning in descriptions, because meaning is already present in experience.

I no longer fear the absence of proof, because I no longer need proof to live.

I am free to:

Feel my desires without needing to justify them.

Pursue my goals without attachment to outcomes.

Experience joy without dependency on external validation.

Suffering arises only when I return to the old habit of clinging to descriptions. If I start questioning again—"Is this real? Can I prove it?"—I re-enter the cycle of doubt and pain.

But if I remain in this state of independent faith, meaning, and motivation, life becomes a continuous flow of fulfillment.

8. The Guide’s Purpose: A More Accurate Description

This guide is not about rejecting reality. It is about replacing an inaccurate description with a precise one.

The old description:
"My observations prove reality. My words describe truth. My beliefs justify my life."

The new description:
"My observations are subjective. My words are tools, not truths. My beliefs are optional."

The moment I accept this, suffering dissolves.

9. Conclusion: The Art of Not Knowing

The ultimate wisdom is not in knowing, but in ceasing to need to know.

I don’t need to prove my existence.

I don’t need to validate my desires.

I don’t need to control reality.

I simply live—with faith, with meaning, with joy.

And that is enough.

The Illusion of Words and the Trap of Self-Created Guides

1. The Misconception: Words as a Path to Well-Being

I wrote a guide—one I believed would help anyone who read it, internalized it, and visualized its words to reach a "good state." I thought: If you see these words, understand them, and let them sink in, they will lift you up. But I was wrong. The opposite happened. The words didn’t elevate me; they dragged me down.

The problem? Words cannot create a good state. They can only distort it. The more I focused on the words—the precise descriptions of my observations—the worse I felt. The words were accurate, yes, but they described nothing real. They were just symbols, detached from existence itself. So why was I clinging to them? Why was I trying to live in them?

2. The Trap of the Imagined World

When you fixate on words, you slip into an imagined reality—a world built by language, not by what is. My guide described reality neutrally, but the brain twists even neutral descriptions into something unsettling. Reality, when framed in words, becomes:

Meaningless (nothing to prove, nothing to believe in).

Untrustworthy (how can you trust what you can’t verify?).

Distorted (the mind perceives the description as "off," as wrong).

But here’s the truth: The imagined world has no bearing on what exists or doesn’t exist. My observations, the words describing them, the act of "realizing" them—none of it touches reality. It’s all just noise.

3. The Realization: Words Are Useless for True Understanding

I saw the flaw in my thinking: I was trying to use words to force myself into a good state. But words require belief, and belief requires proof—and I had neither. You can’t believe in words that describe nothing. You can’t trust a map that doesn’t lead anywhere.

So I asked myself:

Why stare at the guide I wrote?

Why "realize" its words, as if that would change anything?

Why let my brain pretend these words hold power over my state?

The answer: There’s no point. Words are only tools to describe observations—but the descriptions themselves are irrelevant. They don’t reveal what is; they only reveal what I think I see.

4. The Shift: From Words to Pure Observation

The solution wasn’t to engage with the words more deeply. It was to stop looking at them entirely.

Step 1: Acknowledge that words describe observations, but observations are not reality.

Step 2: Understand that no description—no matter how precise—can capture what exists or doesn’t exist.

Step 3: Stop fixating on the words. Let them dissolve. The moment you stop trying to "realize" them, the mind loses interest in the illusion.

When I did this, something shifted. The "bad state" vanished—not because I found meaning, but because I stopped searching for it in the wrong place.

5. The Final Insight: Independence from Meaning

True clarity comes when you:

See words for what they are—empty containers, useful only to say, "This is how I observed things, but it means nothing."

Stop assigning importance to observations or descriptions. They don’t define reality; they’re just mental notes.

Let go of the question "What is real?" Because the answer doesn’t matter. What matters is seeing without the filter of words.

When you do this, something extraordinary happens:

You no longer need words to feel okay.

You no longer seek meaning in descriptions.

You simply exist, and in that existence, meaning arises independently—unforced, unquestioned.

You start to see the world without the distortion of language. You trust what is without needing to name it. You move through life with independent faith, independent motivation, independent joy.

6. The Mistake: Treating the Guide as Sacred

I made one critical error: I treated my own guide as if it were a final truth. I discarded everything I’d thought before writing it—ideas about consciousness, perception, the nature of belief—and acted as if the guide alone held the key. But guides are one-time tools. You read them, see the pattern, and then let them go.

The guide was never meant to be applied repeatedly. It was meant to be seen once, understood, and abandoned. Like all descriptions, it’s only useful until you realize: None of this matters.

7. The State Beyond Words

Now, I’m back to where I was before writing the guide—but with a crucial difference. I no longer confuse observation with reality, or words with truth. I don’t try to "realize" anything. I just see.

And in that seeing, there’s no need for guides, no need for proofs, no need for meaning. There’s only direct experience, unmediated by language.

Perhaps this addition to the guide will be enough. Perhaps now, others will understand: The path isn’t in the words. It’s in the silence behind them.

Key Takeaways (In the Author’s Words)

"Words can only spoil your state, never improve it."

"Reality isn’t in descriptions. It’s in what you stop trying to describe."

"Belief in words is dependent belief—and dependence is suffering."

"The good state comes when you stop looking for it in language."

"Guides are like training wheels. Use them to see the pattern, then discard them."

I. The Collapse of Belief: Losing Faith in Perception and Language

I have lost the ability to trust my own observations. At first, I realized I could not prove them to myself—so I stopped believing what I saw. Then, I lost faith in the words I used to describe those observations, because if the observations themselves were unprovable, the words built upon them were meaningless too. Without belief in words, I could no longer understand what I was seeing. The sky, for example: before, I would have called it "beautiful," but now I see nothing, because I cannot trust any words to describe it. Words were how I once made sense of the world, how I controlled my actions and choices—but now, without faith in them, I am paralyzed.

Life has become empty. I feel no interest, no motivation, no pleasure. My mind is a void—no automatic thoughts, no emotions, no meaning. I can act, but when I do, nothing changes. My state remains the same. People say, "Just start doing something, and meaning will return," but I know it won’t. Action cannot restore belief if the foundation—proof—is missing. I am too aware, too conscious to accidentally stumble into faith. Everything in my mind is deliberate, and since I know nothing can be proven, I cannot force myself to believe.

II. The Prison of Consciousness: Trapped Between Faith and Nihilism

What if I can never regain belief in observations or words? How can I find meaning without belief? Philosophers must have faced this. Is there a way to live without restoring faith in reality?

I feel I have permanently lost the capacity to believe. Philosophy led me here—it stripped me of all illusions, and now there is no going back. But where do I go forward? I cannot move if I do not believe in the words that would direct me. I see no point in doing anything because I feel no pleasure. My body can function, but my mind is detached. I have no emotions, no desires, no curiosity. Even physical pleasure is meaningless if I do not ascribe value to it.

Some philosophers say we can live without meaning—but how? A life without pleasure or purpose is not a life I want. If I cannot believe, and if belief is the only source of joy, then what remains? I do not want to live as a hollow shell, but I also refuse to deceive myself. I am caught: I cannot believe, yet I cannot live without belief.

III. The Pragmatic Experiment: "As If" Belief

The only idea that helped was a pragmatic approach to belief. I began to live as if I believed, as if there was meaning. I did not truly believe—but the pretense was enough to restore some joy, motivation, and pleasure. It was a performance, a conscious act of make-believe, and it worked.

But then I realized: this improved state was built on words I did not actually trust. The moment I saw that my happiness was a construct of unbelief, the illusion collapsed. All techniques for improving my state rely on self-talk—words I do not believe in. If my well-being depends on lies, it feels worthless.

I cannot act without words. To do anything, I must first tell myself, "Let’s try this," but I do not believe those words. So why act? Why pretend? I want to change my state, but any change would be artificial, built on a foundation I reject.

IV. The Paradox of Pure Perception: Life Without Words

I tried observing reality without words—pure perception, no labels, no thoughts. It was peaceful in a way, but empty. There was no motivation to live like this because there was no why. I saw no reason to continue existing, even if the experience itself was neutral.

Philosophers who reach nihilism—how do they answer the question of why? How do they avoid it when it is always there? I see that I could distract myself with sensations, but that feels like avoidance. If I ignore the truth that reality is meaningless, I am living in denial. But if I accept it, I feel no motivation to do anything.

V. The Absurdity of Thought: The Rock of Sisyphus

I thought of Sisyphus, condemned to push a boulder up a hill forever. I realized: thinking is like pushing that rock. It is meaningless, but so is not thinking. Both are equally absurd.

I cannot live without thoughts, yet I refuse to think in words I do not believe. But now I see that I can think even if it is meaningless. I can create thoughts, feel motivation from them, and act—all while knowing it changes nothing. Life and death are both meaningless, so the question "Why act?" becomes irrelevant. I can push the rock because it is absurd.

This was the breakthrough: creating meaningless thoughts to feel something is itself an action, no different from pushing a stone. The discomfort of meaninglessness fades when I stop demanding that meaning exist.

VI. The Final Resolution: Embracing the Void

I see now that reality is a silent void. Consciousness is an accident within it. The only honest path is to stop resisting—to exist passively, without striving, without illusion. There is no reason to fight the emptiness because there is no "reason" at all.

Yet, I also see that I can choose to act within the void, not because it matters, but because inaction is equally meaningless. I can think, feel, and move, not in pursuit of truth or joy, but as an expression of the absurd.

This is my answer: to live despite the absence of meaning, to act because nothing matters. The question "Why?" dissolves when I accept that no answer is needed.

Key Themes in the Author’s Journey

Stage

Central Struggle

Attempted Solution

Outcome

Loss of Belief

Cannot trust observations or words

Seeks proof, finds none

Paralysis, emptiness

Pragmatic Belief

Tries "as if" belief

Temporary relief, then collapse

Rejects artificial meaning

Pure Perception

Lives without words or thoughts

Neutral but motiveless existence

Feels like avoidance of truth

Absurdism

Accepts meaninglessness of all action

Acts because nothing matters

Finds strange freedom in the void

Final Resolution

Embraces the void without resistance

Neither seeks nor avoids meaning

Exists as consciousness in silence

Closing Reflection

The mind demands meaning, yet reality offers none. The only honesty is to see this clearly—and then choose: to struggle against the void, to distract oneself from it, or to walk within it, neither hoping nor despairing.

I have chosen the latter. Not because it is better, but because it is the only path that does not require self-deception.

Would you say this is surrender—or the only true freedom?

The Collapse of Belief: A Descent into Nihilism

1. The Realization of Unprovability

I reached a point where I understood that I could not trust anything—not what I see, not what I don’t see, because I cannot prove any of it to myself. Words describing what I see or don’t see? Useless. I cannot prove they correspond to reality. Descriptions of observations? Meaningless. I lost interest in them because they do not describe what is or what isn’t.

I arrived at a place where I could no longer believe in any words, any observations, any descriptions. The act of describing reality—whether through words or direct perception—became hollow. Thinking about these descriptions drained meaning from the world. The more I fixated on the fact that reality cannot be verified, the more the world seemed pointless. My motivation vanished.

But then I noticed something: I could choose—either to dwell on these descriptions (and thus lose meaning) or not to dwell on them. If I fixated on the unreliability of descriptions, the world felt empty. But if I stopped fixating—if I described reality unconsciously, without questioning the descriptions—motivation returned. Not because the descriptions were true, but because I wasn’t aware of their falseness. The act of uncritical description created a kind of independent meaning, independent motivation.

Yet this "solution" relied on a belief I couldn’t justify: the belief that I could choose my state of mind. I saw that if I thought about my guides (my mental frameworks), I lost meaning. If I didn’t think about them, meaning returned. But how could I live like this? To write guides for others, I had to think critically—yet thinking destroyed my motivation. But if I didn’t think critically, I couldn’t write guides at all.

I was trapped.

2. The Paradox of Choice

I considered a compromise: perhaps I could spend a fixed amount of time (a week, a month) thinking critically, writing all my guides, and then never think about them again. But how would I know when to stop? What if someone paid me to keep thinking? Money is nice, but if thinking destroys my joy, am I just selling my happiness for cash?

I realized I had no basis for choosing how to live. To choose, I needed to rely on words—but I didn’t believe in words. I couldn’t trust any justification for action. I lost the ability to think my way into a state. My mind went blank.

I fell into emptiness.

3. The Void: A State of Pure Nihilism

In this void, I saw nothing. The sky was just a blank canvas. I could focus on details, but they meant nothing. Everything was indistinguishable, flavorless, pointless. I called this "the state of emptiness"—a place where words, thoughts, and perceptions dissolved.

I stopped focusing on anything. Why bother? Without thoughts, reality was incomprehensible. Without comprehension, action was impossible. I could move, but I didn’t understand my movements. This lack of understanding made existence unbearable. Soon, I stopped moving entirely. I froze in prostration, staring into nothingness, incapable of even the smallest action.

I had reached total nihilism—a collapse of belief in everything: observations, words, thoughts, meaning. Even the idea of meaning was gone. I wasn’t sad; I wasn’t anything. I was just… absent.

4. The Search for a Way Out

I turned to philosophy, to the experiences of others who had faced this. Most solutions felt like illusions—pretending meaning exists, distracting myself, or forcing myself to "just think differently." But I refused to lie to myself. I didn’t want conditional meaning—a fake belief to make life tolerable. I wanted honesty.

Then I found an idea that changed everything.

5. The Mountain and the Stone: A Metaphor for Life

Imagine a man on an infinite slope. The mountain stretches endlessly upward and downward. He pushes a stone up the hill, knowing it will never reach the top. If he stops, the stone rolls back down—also endlessly.

Pushing the stone is meaningless.
Not pushing the stone is also meaningless.

But here’s the key: the question of meaning is itself meaningless in this world.

In a universe where nothing has inherent meaning, the only real choice is:

Act without meaning (push the stone).

Do not act without meaning (let the stone roll).

I realized: I am that man. Life is that mountain. My thoughts are that stone.

Thinking is like pushing the stone. Not thinking is like letting it roll. Both are equally absurd—but my brain wants to push. It’s an instinct. Not because it means anything, but because that’s what brains do.

6. The Solution: Embracing the Absurd

I understood:

Meaning is not required for action.

The search for meaning is the problem, not the absence of meaning.

Once I accepted that everything is meaningless—thoughts, actions, life itself—the paralysis vanished. I could choose to think, not because it had purpose, but because my instinct demanded it. I could act, not because it mattered, but because inaction was just as empty.

The question "Why?" dissolved. In a meaningless world, "why" has no answer. The only real question is:
"Do I push the stone, or do I let it roll?"

I chose to push.

7. Life After Nihilism

Now, I live with full awareness of the absurd. My thoughts, my motivations, my pleasures—all meaningless. But that doesn’t bother me. I act because acting feels better than not acting. I think because thinking creates motivation, even if the motivation itself is an illusion.

I no longer seek meaning. I no longer need it. I exist in a state of honest nihilism—not as a despairing void, but as a clear-eyed participant in the absurd.

This is how you survive the collapse of belief:

See reality as it is—not as you wish it to be.

Accept that meaning is a human invention, not a feature of the universe.

Act without justification, because inaction is just as empty as action.

Let the question of "why" fade away. It has no place in a world without inherent purpose.

I am free now—not because I found meaning, but because I no longer need it.

Final Thought:
"The stone rolls. I push. The mountain does not care. Neither do I."

The Collapse of Meaning and the Illusion of Control

1. The Loss of Faith in Words and Thoughts

At first, I lost all faith in words—yet I kept trying to control my state of mind with them. I had two possible states:

One, where I was acutely aware of life’s meaninglessness and saw no point in anything.

Another, where I ignored that awareness because the words describing reality as "meaningless" had no proven connection to reality itself.

In the second state, I found independent meaning, faith, and motivation. It relied on the belief that I could choose my state through thoughts. But when I needed to decide which state to live in, I realized I couldn’t make that choice—because there were no words I could trust to ground the decision. I lost the ability to choose the state where I didn’t question reality’s description, where I had meaning and faith.

I saw that as a consciousness, my only way to influence anything was through thoughts. But I couldn’t believe in any thoughts, which led me to realize: I couldn’t think to influence anything, because I couldn’t believe in the influence of thoughts I didn’t trust. I lost the ability to influence, choose, control, or change anything. I lost motivation and the point of thinking with thoughts I didn’t believe in. So I stopped trying to think at all. I just stared into "nowhere," without focus, motivation, or action.

To do anything—to focus, to act—I first had to think about it. But I didn’t believe in thoughts, so I saw no point in following them. I lost the will to focus or do anything. I was in a state of total thoughtlessness, inaction, staring blankly.

The only way out was to start thinking again—but I saw no point in that either, because I didn’t believe in thoughts.

2. The Futility of Techniques

I tried different methods:

Focusing only on sensations—but this broke the moment I started thinking, and living without thought was impossible (I still had to plan, care for the future, etc.).

Pretending to believe in my thoughts—but the state felt artificial. I knew it was meaningless, even if it felt meaningful. It was uncomfortable because I craved something real.

Using words to describe reality—but I no longer trusted words to reflect reality. I’d "see" and "understand," yet feel nothing, because the words meant nothing to me.

Every method started with a thought—but I saw no point in thoughts. No state stuck. I’d return to thoughtlessness.

I realized: The problem wasn’t the states themselves, but that I saw no point in thinking at all.

3. The Myth of Sisyphus: Embracing Meaningless Action

I thought of the man pushing a boulder up an endless hill.

To think = to push the boulder.

Not to think = not to push.

There was no point in pushing (thinking), and no point in not pushing. Both were equally meaningless.

In a meaningless world, asking "Why?" before acting is pointless. You don’t need a reason—just act. My instincts wanted to push the boulder for the sake of pushing, not for some goal.

So I learned to think meaninglessly—to use thoughts I didn’t believe in, without needing them to mean anything. I could focus on a meaningless life, follow meaningless desires, feel meaningless pleasure.

Every step—creating thoughts, focusing—was just another form of pushing the boulder.

4. The Trap of Over-Focus

At first, I obsessed over this idea, fearing that if I stopped, I’d lose the ability to act meaninglessly and revert to my old paralysis. But I realized: You only need to see it once. After that, you don’t need to cling to the metaphor. The understanding stays.

I stopped fixating on the hill and the boulder. I explored other states again:

Focusing on sensations (impractical).

Analyzing descriptions (detached me from life).

Trying to change my state with words (failed, because I didn’t believe in them).

I saw that the best state came when I stopped trying to change my state with words at all.

5. The Two States

There are only two possibilities:

Trying to create a "guide"—words or thoughts to lead me to a new state. But without belief in those words, no state lasts.

Stopping the search entirely—accepting that words are just words, thoughts just thoughts. I can speak, think, or write only for the sake of the act itself, not for some deeper purpose.

Any attempt to build meaning on meaningless things collapses. Relative meaning depends on absolute meaning, and I have no absolute faith in words or observations.

6. The Resolution: Relaxation into Meaninglessness

I stopped trying to create guides, meanings, or justifications. I accepted total meaninglessness without resistance.

Now I live completely relaxed in the absence of meaning. I don’t try to escape it or soften it with words. I’ve given up the habit of using words to manufacture relative meaning, because:

Absolute meaning doesn’t exist.

Relative meaning is just an illusion built on absolute faith—which I don’t have.

I push the boulder (think, act, live) not because it means anything, but because that’s what I do.

The moment I stopped trying to use thoughts to change my state, I found peace. Thoughts are for thinking. Words are for speaking. No hidden purpose is needed.

Final Realization

Before, I thought meaning could be relative—built on observations, words, or temporary states.

Now, I see that even relative meaning is an illusion in a fundamentally meaningless world.

The only stability comes from acting without why—pushing the boulder because the body wants to push, not because it leads anywhere.

I am free.

Reflections on Guides, Descriptions, and Pure Perception

1. The Nature of My "Guides"

I went for a walk in a state of uncertainty—without any guiding framework. As I walked, I reflected on my past attempts to create "guides." I realized that these guides were never truly guides at all. They were simply descriptions of my observations, observations that led me to the idea of letting go—of relaxing and ceasing to create any structured guidance.

My latest written "guide" is just that: a record of my observations. It doesn’t prescribe anything; it merely describes what I’ve noticed. And as I thought about this description, I reached a point where I stopped overanalyzing it. I stopped fixating on the idea of describing my observations at all. The moment I let go of that fixation, my state of mind shifted for the better.

A new kind of emotion emerged—not the kind tied to thoughts, but something raw, direct. My perception of reality became clearer, unfiltered by words or mental constructs. The emotions that arose were pure, untethered to any narrative. This, I think, is the peak of what my "guides" could achieve. And I like this state.

2. The Shift: From Using Descriptions to Simply Observing

At first, my guides were attempts to influence my own state. I’d describe my observations and then try to use those descriptions to shape my experience—to visualize them, to internalize them, to derive meaning from them. The meaning was relative: it existed only insofar as the description could alter my state in a way I deemed "better."

But now, I no longer believe in words or perspectives. No description, no thought, no mental framework can genuinely influence me because I see through their constructed nature. Even if they could affect me, I have no motivation to live in a state manufactured by words. There’s no point—because I no longer see any inherent meaning in words themselves.

When I focus on descriptions—whether my own guides or any attempt to articulate reality—I feel nothing. The words are empty; they don’t evoke emotion because I don’t invest belief in them. But the moment I stop fixating on descriptions and simply perceive reality directly, emotions return. Not the kind tied to thoughts, but something immediate, almost physical—a direct response to raw observation.

The key difference? Clarity. When I’m not filtering reality through descriptions, I see it more sharply. I don’t understand it any better—understanding was never the goal—but I experience it more vividly. Descriptions don’t reveal reality; they only layer another abstraction over it. Without that layer, my attention isn’t divided. I observe more fully.

3. Descriptions as Tools (Nothing More)

Now, I use descriptions only when necessary:

To document observations (for myself or others).

To plan or communicate (e.g., sharing insights with people).

To process reality in a structured way when action is required.

But the moment the practical need ends, I drop the descriptions. I don’t cling to them. I don’t ruminate. I return to pure perception—and the emotions that come with it.

This toggle between modes feels natural. For example, during my walk:

I spent half the time thinking—analyzing my past guides, my observations about words, belief, and meaning. My attention was split between reality and the mental constructs I was examining.

Then, I reached a point where I’d exhausted the need to think. I’d checked, reconsidered, and confirmed what I already knew. So I stopped. The moment I did, I was fully present—and the shift was immediate. Emotions returned. Reality felt richer.

This isn’t about rejecting descriptions entirely. It’s about using them only when they serve a purpose. The rest of the time, they’re unnecessary noise.

4. The Illusion of Needing Descriptions

I’ve realized that descriptions are only needed in two scenarios:

To convey information to others (e.g., sharing observations).

To preserve memory (e.g., recording insights so I don’t forget them).

Beyond that? They’re optional. I don’t need descriptions to:

Feel (emotions arise naturally without them).

Act (my desires and intentions exist independently of words).

Live (I can navigate reality without constant mental narration).

In fact, most of life doesn’t require description. The only reason I’m reflecting on this now is because my current "work" involves documenting my observations for others. Once that’s done, I’ll rarely need to think in terms of descriptions at all.

5. The State Beyond Description

If I had to describe the state I’ve reached:

There’s no strong sense of meaning—and that’s fine.

There’s no belief in anything—and that’s fine too.

There’s no driving motivation (in the traditional sense)—yet I’m content.

There’s no reliance on pleasure—but I still experience joy, just differently.

The crucial part? I’m 100% satisfied because there’s 0% dissatisfaction. I don’t miss meaning, belief, or motivation because their absence doesn’t bother me. I’m at peace with the way things are—with the level of sensation, the lack of narrative, the simplicity of existence.

Would I recommend this state to others? I can’t. Not because it’s bad or good, but because I don’t know what’s "better." Someone in depression might need belief; someone in anxiety might need structure. My path isn’t a prescription. I can only describe what I’ve found.

6. The Future: Sharing Without Attachment

I used to think my insights were so valuable that I had to share them—to pull others into this state. Now, I see that as arbitrary. I’ll share my observations, but without the assumption that others should adopt them. They can take what resonates and leave the rest.

I no longer feel the need to direct anyone. I don’t know what’s best for them. All I can offer is a description—nothing more.

Final Thought

This isn’t about rejecting thought or language. It’s about freedom:

The freedom to use descriptions when they’re useful.

The freedom to discard them when they’re not.

The freedom to experience reality directly, without mediation.

And in that freedom, there’s a quiet, unshakable contentment.

Reflections on Reality, Guides, and Emotions

1. The Two Reasons for Thinking About Reality

I realized there are only two reasons why I ever think about describing reality—why I create or follow these "guides" for myself:

Practical Necessity: Sometimes, I need to describe reality to communicate something—to explain an idea, record observations, or share information with others. In these cases, thinking about reality is a tool, nothing more.

Self-Control: The other reason is that I use these descriptions as a guide for myself—a set of instructions on how to live, how to feel, or how to avoid certain states. I treat my own words like a manual, believing that if I follow them, I can control my emotions or experiences. For example, I once wrote that overanalyzing reality kills emotions, so I tried not to overanalyze in order to feel more. But the moment I used that idea as a rule ("I must not overanalyze to feel emotions"), I was already overanalyzing—and thus defeating the purpose.

The Key Insight: If I catch myself thinking about reality as a guide, I should ask: Am I doing this to achieve something? If so, I need to recognize that this approach is flawed. The only valid reason to engage with these descriptions is practical—like using a hammer to build something. Once the task is done, I can set the hammer down.

2. The Return of Emotions

When I stop overanalyzing, emotions return—both positive and negative. This was a revelation.

Positive Emotions: I’d already noticed joy and warmth creeping back in. But recently, I also felt anger—something I hadn’t truly experienced in a long time. It arose unexpectedly, and I realized:

I couldn’t suppress it with words or beliefs (my old "guides" would have smothered it instantly).

I could only physically restrain it—hold it back if acting on it wasn’t useful. But the anger itself was just there, raw and unfiltered.

Negative Emotions as Observations: I tested this further. I imagined extreme loss—close ones dying, my home burning down—and felt grief rising. But here’s the difference:

I didn’t resist the grief. I didn’t think, "This is bad; I must stop feeling this."

Instead, I observed it like weather: "Ah, this is sadness. It’s happening." There was no secondary layer of suffering—no frustration about the frustration, no despair about the despair.

The Metaphor: Emotions are like sun or rain. I don’t demand the sun stay forever, nor do I rage at the rain. I just notice them. Pleasure and pain, joy and anger—all are temporary states, none inherently "wrong."

3. The Paradox of Guides

My old "guides" (philosophical frameworks, self-instructions) had a hidden cost:

They promised to eliminate negative emotions, but in reality, they numbed all emotions. They replaced lived experience with a dull, constant satisfaction—the pleasure of believing in the guide itself.

Now, without those guides, emotions return in full spectrum. But here’s the twist:

If I remember those old guides—the ones that said "Everything is meaningless, you can’t prove anything"—my emotions vanish again. Both positive and negative.

If I forget them, emotions flood back.

The Choice: I can live in a world where I feel everything, or I can retreat into a guide that mutes everything. The first option is richer, even if it includes pain.

4. A New Relationship with Life

How do I see my future now, knowing emotions—both pleasant and painful—will be part of it?

No Resistance: I won’t fight negative emotions. They’re like physical pain: useful signals, not enemies. I can endure them without adding mental suffering ("Why does this hurt? This shouldn’t be happening!").

Active Shaping: I’ll still arrange my life to maximize joy and minimize unnecessary pain (as most people do). But the difference is psychological:

Others might say, "I’m happy when I feel good, miserable when I don’t."

I say, "I feel good. I feel bad. Both are just feelings."

Acceptance Without Judgment: I don’t label emotions as "good" or "bad" in a moral sense. Anger isn’t evil; joy isn’t virtue. They’re just experiences—like flavors or colors.

The Result: A life that’s vibrant, not sanitized. One where I don’t need to pretend sadness or anger are absent, but where I also don’t drown in them. A life that’s honest.

5. The Old Guides vs. The New Reality

Before: My best guides gave me a constant, low-grade pleasure—the comfort of belief—but at the cost of all emotional depth. It was like living in a softly lit room with no windows.

Now: The windows are open. Storms come. Sun pours in. I don’t control the weather, but I’m no longer afraid of it.

The Surprising Peace: I’m not excited about this new way of living, but I’m not unhappy either. It simply is. And that’s enough.

Final Thought

I used to seek a life without negative emotions. Now, I see that a life with them—fully felt, fully observed—is far more alive. The goal isn’t to escape pain, but to meet it without fear, and to savor joy without clinging. That’s freedom.

On the Illusion of Guides and Instructions

I’ve been reflecting on something that struck me while listening to my previous audio recording. I realized that I had started treating my earlier "guide" as a literal instruction manual for how to live. The core of that guide was this: Do not treat descriptions as guides when they aren’t needed; do not cling to descriptions as rules. But as I listened, I caught myself doing exactly that—turning observations into prescriptions, as if they were commands.

I thought: What can I actually do with descriptions of my observations? The answer is nothing. I can’t do anything with them. I can only share them with others, but even then, those others can’t do anything with them either. Descriptions are just descriptions. They don’t tell me how to live, what to do, or what to avoid. They’re neutral.

For example, I might write: "If you go out in the rain without an umbrella, you’ll get wet. If you take an umbrella, you won’t." On the surface, this sounds like an instruction—take an umbrella—but why should I follow it? Who decided that staying dry is the goal? Maybe I want to get wet. The point is, no description inherently dictates action. It’s just a statement about patterns I’ve noticed.

I don’t believe in descriptions enough to let them control me. I don’t know why I should follow any of them. My brain, my instincts, my spontaneous desires—they’re what actually guide my actions, not words on a page. I can invent rules and believe in them temporarily, but that belief is fragile. It’s an illusion. The moment I question it, it collapses.

The Futility of Trying to Create Guides

I used to think I was writing "guides," but now I see that’s not true. What I’m actually doing is documenting observations—nothing more. These observations aren’t instructions. They’re just descriptions of what I’ve noticed, and even if I refine them to perfect accuracy, they still don’t tell me what to do.

I can read them, correct them, verify them against reality, but in the end, they remain inert. They don’t demand action. They don’t mean anything beyond themselves. If I don’t believe in them, they can’t function as guides. And I don’t believe in them—not in the sense that they should govern my life.

Even sharing them with others doesn’t change this. The act of sharing isn’t an action tied to the description itself; it’s just communication. The description remains passive, a record, not a rule.

Living Without Instructions

This leads me to a simple conclusion: There are no reliable guides for life. No description, no matter how precise, has a proven, inherent connection to reality that would justify blind trust. Because I can’t verify that connection, I can’t believe in any description enough to let it dictate my actions.

So how should I live? Without instructions. Without guides. Not by controlling myself with words or systems, but by following instinct, intuition, spontaneous impulses—the things that arise naturally, without the mediation of belief in some external rule.

Guides, by definition, require belief. But I don’t believe in any description strongly enough to treat it as a guide. Therefore, no true guide exists. There are only observations, descriptions of those observations, and the instinctive life that unfolds alongside them.

The Paradox of Documenting Without Prescribing

Here’s the irony: Even as I say this, my words might sound like a guide. "Live without guides!"—isn’t that itself a kind of instruction? No. It’s just another observation. The moment I treat it as a rule, I contradict myself. The key is to recognize that descriptions—even this one—are just descriptions. They don’t require action. They don’t do anything.

My mistake was assuming that documenting my experiences could ever be anything but documentation. I’d unconsciously slip into framing it as advice, as if my observations were meant to be followed. But now I see: Observations are not instructions. They’re just records. They can be read, adjusted, shared—but they don’t demand compliance.

The Only Honest Way Forward

So what’s left? Only this:

Observe.

Describe (if I feel like it).

Share (if I feel like it).

Live—not by any description, but by the unmediated pull of instinct, desire, and immediate experience.

Descriptions are tools for communication, not control. They can’t tell me how to live because they have no authority. The only authority is the living itself—the choices I make in the moment, ungoverned by words.

And that’s it. Nothing more to say.

Key Takeaways (In the Author’s Words)

"Descriptions are not guides." They document, but they don’t prescribe.

"I don’t believe in any description enough to let it control me." Belief is temporary; instinct is constant.

"Guides require belief, but no description is believable as a guide." Therefore, no true guide exists.

"The only honest life is one lived without instructions." Instinct and intuition replace the illusion of external rules.

"Even this is just a description—not a command." The moment it becomes a rule, it loses its truth.

The Infinite Loop of Control: A Realization of Surrender

1. The Paradox of the Guide-Maker

I found myself trapped in an endless cycle: I saw that I needed to stop creating guides, instructions, and rules for myself—but the only way I knew how to stop was by creating another guide on how to stop. The irony was suffocating. To escape the habit of making guides, I’d write a guide about escaping it. The loop was self-perpetuating because I didn’t know how to break free without relying on the very thing I wanted to abandon.

2. The Illusion of Control

My mind was obsessed with the idea that I had to control my life to make it "right." I believed that without my constant intervention—through words, instructions, or mental frameworks—everything would fall apart. The fear was paralyzing: If I stop controlling, what if everything goes wrong?

But here’s the contradiction I faced:

Consciousness vs. Control: As a conscious being, I thought control was my only tool, and words were the mechanism. Yet, I saw that words alone couldn’t actually make me do or feel anything. They were empty directives I no longer believed in.

The Futility of Forced Guidance: The more I tried to script my actions with guides, the more I realized they didn’t work. They didn’t motivate me; they didn’t change anything. They were just habits of a mind desperate for order.

3. The Breakthrough: "Just Relax"

The escape came when I understood a simple truth: I needed to relax.

Not as a command, not as another rule, but as a release. The word "relax" wasn’t a guide—it was an observation. I realized:

Life Flows Without My Interference: The brain doesn’t need instructions to function. It already knows how to act intuitively, instinctively. My attempts to "guide" it were like trying to teach a river how to flow.

Being vs. Doing: The goal wasn’t to do something (even "relaxing" as a task), but to be—to exist in the natural current of life, without resisting or forcing outcomes.

Trust in the Uncontrolled: When I stopped interfering—when I let thoughts, actions, and life itself unfold without my mental grip—everything did fall into place. Not because I controlled it, but because I stopped disrupting it.

4. The Consequences of Surrender

When I truly relaxed, two things happened:

Guides Became Unnecessary: The urge to create instructions vanished because I no longer felt the need to control. My mind only considered "guiding" itself when it was practically useful—not as a compulsive habit.

Life Improved: Tension dissolved. My mood stabilized. Motivation returned organically because I wasn’t sabotaging myself with forced frameworks. Even my physical well-being improved—psychosomatic symptoms faded when I stopped fighting the natural rhythm.

5. The Only "Guide" That Isn’t a Guide

In the end, the "solution" was this:

Relaxation isn’t a rule. It’s the absence of rules.

You can’t fail at relaxing. There’s no "wrong" way to stop controlling, because the act of trying to do it "right" is itself a form of control.

The Choice is Always There: You can keep grasping for control (if you still believe in it), or you can let go. I saw that I could let go, and when I did, life didn’t collapse—it thrived.

The moment I accepted that the only thing left to do was to stop doing, everything aligned. Not because I fixed it, but because I stopped breaking it.

Final Reflection

This wasn’t about finding the "right" guide. It was about realizing that the search for control was the problem all along. The answer wasn’t in words, but in the silence between them—in the space where life moves on its own, perfectly, without my interference.

And so, I relaxed.

On the Illusion of "Guided" Relaxation

I wanted to add one more thought. Earlier, I spoke about the need to relax—how it’s something you can’t force or script. I even tried using my own recording, my own words—like repeating "relax" to myself—as if the word alone could unlock that state. But here’s the paradox: the moment you cling to a word, a guide, or a method, you’re no longer relaxed. The act of trying to apply a concept is the opposite of surrender.

I can describe what relaxation feels like to me—my observations, my experience—but that description isn’t a tool. It’s not a step-by-step manual. You can’t use the description to achieve relaxation, because the second you treat it as instructions, you’re back in the cycle of control. The description is just that: a reflection of what I noticed. It might help you understand what I did, but it won’t help you do it. Understanding ≠ doing.

The Trap of "How To"

If you’re struggling to relax, it’s often because you’re trying to relax—you’re grasping at words, visualizing them, analyzing them, as if they were levers to pull in your mind. But that’s the problem: you’re still in the realm of effort, of manipulation. You’re using language as a crutch, and that crutch is keeping you tense.

Here’s the truth: No guide, no matter how precise, can make you relax. My recording isn’t a guide; it’s just a snapshot of my process. If others want to reach the same state, they have to find it themselves—not by following my words, but by stopping the search entirely. There’s no formula. There’s only the act of letting go, and that can’t be outsourced to a script.

Control as the Antithesis of Relaxation

Relaxation isn’t something you do—it’s what happens when you stop doing. When you’re tense, it’s because you’re trying to control something: your breath, your thoughts, your state of mind. Even the idea of "I need to relax" is a form of control. You can’t control your way into relaxation. That’s like trying to force yourself to fall asleep—the harder you try, the more awake you become.

The only way to relax is to stop controlling, but here’s the catch: you can’t decide to stop controlling. The moment you try to stop, you’re still in the driver’s seat. You have to let go of the steering wheel without making it a project. Even asking "Am I controlling myself right now?" is another layer of control.

The Paradox of the "Perfect" Description

Even the most accurate description of relaxation can become a trap. If you fixate on it—if you think, "Okay, this is how it’s supposed to be, I need to match this"—you’re back in the cycle of effort. The description itself becomes a barrier. The words, no matter how true, will only pull you further from the state they’re trying to point to.

So what’s left? Nothing to cling to. No method, no mantra, no "right way." Just the raw, unmediated experience of not doing. And that’s the one thing no guide can give you.

Final Realization

In the end, all I can say is this:

My words are not a map. They’re just echoes of my own journey.

Relaxation isn’t achieved—it’s uncovered. It’s what remains when you stop digging.

The moment you seek it, you lose it. The moment you describe it, you distance yourself from it.

So if you’re reading this and thinking, "How do I apply this?"—you’ve already missed the point. There’s nothing to apply. There’s only the quiet space before the next thought, before the next trying. And that space is already relaxed.

Question for reflection:
Where in your life are you trying to relax—and how might the effort itself be the tension?

A Crisis of Naming: Losing and Restoring Meaning

1. The Collapse: How a Simple Idea Shattered My Reality

I was in a good state—one I’d described in previous recordings—working smoothly, using ChatGPT to transcribe my audio notes as part of an experiment: writing a book with AI’s help. I fed it my recordings, and it generated text. At first, it wrote about Nietzsche’s ideas—how nihilism is a phase, and beyond it lies the creation of values. I thought: Why do I need to know how Nietzsche did it? My path is different. I don’t even need "values" to function well.

But something in the text hooked me. I asked ChatGPT to explain further: How does Nietzsche propose creating values without words? The idea intrigued me—values without words? Values are words. How can you create something that, by definition, relies on language?

Then it hit me. The method was deceptively simple:

Even in nihilism, I can still act. I feel no pleasure, no motivation, just emptiness—but physically, I can move.

Nietzsche’s proposal: Use words not as objects of belief, but as labels.

Take an action—say, going for a run.

Call it "my value."

Perform the action.

Now, the value exists because you named it and enacted it. The label and the deed merge.

At first glance, this seemed harmless. But when I truly grasped it, it broke me for two days. Why? Because I realized:

Reality has no inherent names. A tree is not objectively a "tree." That’s just a label we’ve agreed upon.

Names are arbitrary. I could call a tree a "cat" or a "car"—there’s no fundamental reason to call it anything.

My entire worldview—my guides, my thoughts—rested on names I’d never questioned. And now, the connection between words and reality had snapped.

I saw the world raw, without labels. And the labels themselves—just a separate, floating abstraction. I could no longer attach them to anything. I lost the ability to function normally because to live, I needed to operate with names, but I no longer believed in them.

2. The Descent: Losing the Ability to Speak or Think

For days, I was paralyzed. I couldn’t plan, act, or even describe anything because:

Names are illusions of understanding. When I say "tree," I feel like I understand what I’m seeing—but I don’t. The word just masks the void.

All my previous guides were just words. If words are arbitrary, then my guides—my entire framework for living—were built on nothing.

I couldn’t even ask for help. To communicate, I’d need to use names, but I no longer trusted them.

I was stuck in a loop: How do I know what to call anything? If names are just agreements, what’s stopping me from calling everything random things? The more I thought about it, the more reality and language split apart.

3. The First Step Out: Accepting That Names Are Unknowable

I realized I was chasing an impossible question: What is a name?

A name is not a thing you can define with other names. It’s like trying to explain "red" to a blind person using colors.

Names are tools, not truths. We use them to navigate reality, but they don’t explain reality. You can’t know what a name is—you can only use it.

The material world is unknown. A physical cat is unknown. The word "cat" is unknown. The act of naming is unknown. Nothing can be fundamentally known—only experienced and interacted with.

When I accepted that I couldn’t know what a name is, but I could still use names, the pressure eased. I didn’t need to understand—I just needed to function.

4. The Reconstruction: Reattaching Names to Reality

To rebuild, I had to:

Conditionally believe in names.

Not as truths, but as useful agreements.

Example: When I see a tree, I choose to call it a "tree," not because it’s objectively true, but because it helps me interact with it.

This is different from blind faith in words. I’m not claiming the word is the thing—I’m just using the label as a tool.

Stop trying to control the process with more words.

My first instinct was to create a guide to prevent losing faith in names again.

But guides are words, and I don’t believe in words. Any guide would fail because I’d never truly trust it.

The solution: Trust that once I’ve restored conditional faith in names, I won’t lose it again unless I obsessively re-examine it.

Relax.

I was tense, trying to force myself back into the right state.

The real issue? I was searching for a guide to tell me how to live—but no guide could work because I’d never believe it.

The fix: Stop searching. The moment I stopped trying to find the right words, I slipped back into my original good state.

5. The Two Sub-States: Living With and Without "Guides"

Now, I oscillate between two modes:

Thinking about descriptions (guides, names, concepts).

Example: "Everything is meaningless; words are unreliable."

Effect: This kills my emotions. It’s a cold, analytical state.

Not thinking about descriptions—just observing reality directly.

Effect: Emotions return. Life feels vivid, rich, alive.

The problem: I kept trying to control which state I was in using words—but words can’t control anything if I don’t believe in them.

6. The Final Realization: Letting the Brain Lead

I noticed:

My brain already knows when to work and when to rest.

When I try to check if I’m in the "right" state, I’m just second-guessing my brain—which causes stress (and physical pain in my eye).

The solution:

Stop interfering. If my brain wants to think about guides, let it. If it wants to rest, let it.

Don’t treat descriptions as instructions. They’re just descriptions—observations, not commands.

Trust the process. My brain will switch states naturally. I don’t need to manage it.

Now, when I remember a "guide":

I don’t panic.

I don’t search for instructions in it.

I just observe it, like a passing thought, and let it go.

Result:

The eye pain disappeared.

I spend far less time obsessing over guides.

I’m back in the state where I live without needing words to control me.

Conclusion: The Illusion of Control

The core lesson:

Names are tools, not truths.

Guides are descriptions, not instructions.

The brain knows how to live—consciousness doesn’t need to interfere.

I lost my state because I tried to understand what can’t be understood. I restored it by accepting that some things are just used, not known.

Now, I’m free to:

Observe without needing to label.

Act without needing to justify.

Live without needing to control.

And that’s enough.

Reflections on Observation, Focus, and the Illusion of Guides

1. The Paradox of the Previous "Guide"

I realized something fascinating after my last long, rambling reflection—the one I called a "guide." Without intending to, I had started using it as a guide. The core idea I’d landed on was: "I shouldn’t control anything; I should just observe." I internalized this, almost unconsciously, and began practicing it. I would simply look—no control, no interference.

But here’s the catch: I ended up in a state of unfocused observation. I was seeing everything and nothing at once. My gaze was diffuse, scattered. To truly see, you must focus on something—but I wasn’t focusing on anything. The result? A dull, blurred experience of reality. Not ideal.

So I asked myself: What if I could do more than just observe? What if I could also focus?

2. The Nature of Focus

I tested this idea. What am I focusing on? The answer: my observations themselves. I can toggle between two modes:

Unfocused observation: A broad, passive awareness of everything around me.

Focused observation: A sharp, deliberate attention on whatever I’m perceiving—sights, sounds, sensations.

In practice, I’m always focusing on something—my reality, my immediate experience. But the question then became: Why focus at all?

At first, I thought: There’s no point. Focusing on observations feels like pushing a boulder uphill—meaningless effort. But then I noticed something critical: When I don’t focus, I miss everything. My vision blurs, my mind drifts, and life becomes a dull hum in the background. No joy, no presence. Just… existing.

So I concluded: Focus makes life richer. When I focus, colors brighten, details sharpen, and the world feels alive. But here’s the trap: The moment I tried to justify focusing—to create a "guide" for why it matters—I hit resistance.

3. The Failure of Guides and the Birth of Antimotivation

I thought: "Okay, I’ll make a new guide. Focus because it’s pleasurable. Focus because otherwise, you’ll miss life." But the second I framed it as a rule—as something I should do—my motivation vanished. Worse, it inverted into antimotivation.

This was eerily familiar. It reminded me of older patterns:

"I should go work" → Instant resistance.

"I should exercise" → Sudden lethargy.

The problem? I don’t believe in shoulds. My brain rejects them. The harder I try to convince myself with words, the more I resist. The "guide" becomes a cage.

I realized: The very act of creating a guide to motivate myself demotivates me. The symptoms are clear:

A heavy, reluctant feeling.

A voice saying, "I don’t want to do this."

A sense of being forced by my own logic.

This isn’t lack of motivation—it’s active rebellion against the idea of being guided by words.

4. The Solution: Relaxation and Trust

So what worked? Stopping. I recalled my earlier method: "Relax. Stop trying to create guides." The moment I let go of the need to instruct myself, everything clicked.

I found myself naturally focused—not by effort, but by default.

My attention settled on reality without strain.

I couldn’t unfocus even if I tried (unless I thought about unfocusing, which ironically required focus).

The key insight:
My previous "guide" had told me: "Do nothing. Just observe." So I did—including not focusing. But focus isn’t something the "brain does alone." It’s a collaboration between me and my mind. When I stopped trying to control it, focus emerged organically.

5. The Core Lesson: Guides Are Experiences, Not Rules

Here’s the breakthrough:

Guides shouldn’t be instructions. They’re descriptions of lived experience.

When I write a "guide," I’m not creating a manual—I’m capturing a moment of clarity. The act of articulating it changes me.

The description itself is the transformation. I don’t need to follow it later; the insight is already embedded in me.

Example:

Old approach: "I must focus because X, Y, Z." → Resistance.

New approach: "I notice that when I focus, life feels vivid." → Natural shift.

The moment I try to prescribe behavior, I sabotage myself. But when I simply observe and describe, the change happens without force.

6. The Residual Question: Why Did I Lose Focus Before?

Because my last "guide" had a blind spot. It said:
"Don’t control. Just observe."

But "just observing" can become passive dissociation—a blank stare, a detachment. Focus is active engagement. My earlier guide didn’t account for that, so I defaulted to unfocused observing, which felt empty.

When I added "and focus" to the guide, I slipped back into the trap of shoulds. But the real fix wasn’t adding a rule—it was trusting that focus arises naturally when I stop trying to engineer it.

7. The Final State: Effortless Presence

Now, I’m in a place where:

I can think about descriptions (e.g., "What is focus?") and remain emotionally neutral.

I can stop thinking and let emotions flow freely.

I no longer use descriptions as instructions. My brain has learned from past experiences; it knows without needing reminders.

The old problem (eye strain, compulsive checking, control) seems resolved. Not because I followed a guide, but because I lived the insights until they became automatic.

8. Testing and Moving Forward

No new guides. The experiment is ongoing.

Trust the process. If issues arise, I’ll observe them—not as failures, but as data.

Focus isn’t a task. It’s the default state when I’m not interfering.

Final thought:
The moment I try to explain this too rigidly (e.g., "The brain does X, I do Y"), it falls apart. The division between "me" and "my brain" is fluid here. What matters is the experience—not the map.

The Paradox of Focus and Control: A Journey Toward Relaxation

1. The Discovery of a Self-Guide

I recorded another update, and something remarkable happened—again. It’s astonishing how this unfolds after every recording. Here’s what transpired: I began to focus, though I’m not entirely sure how. I started using my own words as a guide.

Earlier, I had described my way of living: how I passively exist, how I focus on everything without effort. I listened to that description and turned it into a manual for myself: "I must be relaxed and focus." So I tried to follow it—relaxing, focusing, almost unconsciously. But then something strange happened.

2. The Illusion of Needing an Anchor

As I focused, I realized I had no foundation. Why am I doing this? What am I doing? For what purpose? I searched for some rationale, some anchor to justify my actions. Of course, I found none. Yet I felt I couldn’t live without one—couldn’t focus without words explaining what I was doing, why I was doing it, how it mattered.

The sensation was unsettling: I was focusing on reality, living, but with no understanding of why or how. I thought, "I can’t live like this. If I’m doing something, I need to know the purpose, the reason, the logic." But I remembered—there are no words, no anchors. So then what? How does one live without them?

3. The Trap of Controlling Focus

That’s when it hit me: I was trying to control my focus. I was attempting to manage it based on my own descriptions—"I can do this, I can do that"—and then forcing myself to follow those descriptions. Before, I had blindly trusted them, believing I could do those things. But now, I no longer believed in the description itself. Following it felt hollow, mechanical.

This was the fix—the realization that nothing should be controlled by me. Not focus, not attention, not memories. I don’t know how to control these things. I don’t even know why I’d need to. The brain handles it all. I am not in charge.

4. The Only Guideline: Relaxation

So what should I do? Nothing. Just relax.

I won’t explain how to relax—I’ve done that before. The point is this: relaxation cannot be forced. If I use the word "relax" as a command, I’m still trying to control something, and that defeats the purpose. True relaxation happens without words, without effort. It’s the absence of control.

All those themes—focus, attention, memory—they’re just observations the brain uses. It was operating under the illusion that I was in control, that I needed to verify, direct, or justify everything. But that was the mistake. I and the brain are, in a way, the same thing. And now, having studied this, neither of us will fall into that trap again.

5. The Purpose of Documentation

Why did I record all of this if the conclusion is simply "relax"? Because the recordings weren’t for me. They were for the brain—for dismantling its own illusions. I document to help the brain stop doing things automatically. And if I live better as a result, that’s a side effect. The brain absorbs these observations, adapts, or doesn’t. It’s not up to me.

6. The Final, Unchanging Truth

No matter how much I say, no matter how many words I use, the core message remains the same: Relax.

Not as an action, not as a command—just as a state of being. The brain will handle the rest. It decides when, where, and how to focus. I don’t interfere. I don’t do anything. I simply observe.

7. Testing the State of Non-Doing

When I say "test," I don’t mean experimenting with new techniques. I mean living in this relaxed state and seeing what emerges. Has any insight shifted something in the brain? I don’t know. But I’ll continue—not by forcing, not by analyzing, but by existing in relaxation.

Because in the end, that’s all there is.

Key Takeaways (In the Author’s Words)

"I must be relaxed and focus." → But focus cannot be forced; it must arise naturally.

"I am not in control." → The brain manages attention, memory, and perception without my interference.

"Relaxation is the only guide." → Not as a command, but as the absence of control.

"Documentation is for the brain." → Words dismantle illusions; the brain either adapts or doesn’t.

"Testing means living relaxed." → Observation, not effort, reveals what changes.

The Core Realization: Letting Go of Descriptions

For a long time, I struggled with something fundamental: the way I described reality was distorting my perception of it. I used to believe that if I thought about reality in a "neutral" way—like observing a tree or a leaf—it was fine. But the moment I slipped into thoughts like "nothing has meaning," "I can’t prove anything," "I can’t believe in anything," my emotions would collapse. I couldn’t focus on reality because I was constantly thinking about my descriptions of reality instead of seeing reality itself.

Then, I realized the solution: I had to stop thinking about descriptions altogether. Not just guides, not just instructions—any description of reality. The moment I did that, everything became clear. My emotions returned. My perception of reality sharpened, unclouded by layers of interpretation. I could finally see the leaves on a tree—not as symbols, not as concepts, but as they truly were.

The Final State: Beyond Guides, Beyond Control

I reached what I call my "final state"—the best state I can achieve. In it:

I don’t think about any descriptions (including guides).

I don’t control anything.

I don’t check or verify anything.

I have emotions, sharp focus, and a clear perception of reality.

But here’s what’s missing in this state:

No belief—not in words, not in meanings, not in any perspective.

No strong motivation—just a quiet, natural flow.

No intense pleasure (at first).

No sense of "should"—no obligation, no pressure.

At first, I thought this state was perfect. But then, something unexpected happened.

The New Discovery: Belief Without Meaning

I was washing dishes in this state—fully present, not thinking about guides, not analyzing—when a thought automatically surfaced:

"My guide, for my consciousness, is always the same: Just relax. Do nothing."

I looked at what I was doing and realized: I was already doing exactly that. I wasn’t forcing it. I wasn’t following instructions. I was just being—and it matched the words "relax, do nothing."

Then, something extraordinary happened: I started to believe in those words.

Not in a forced way. Not because I wanted to believe. But because I saw that what I was doing aligned perfectly with them. And when that belief took hold, everything changed.

The Power of Belief: Multiplied Pleasure

When I believed in "relax, do nothing," reality transformed:

Music became 3–5x more pleasurable. Not just enjoyable—ecstatic.

Every action felt effortless and right. Not because it had meaning, but because it matched what I believed.

A deep, constant satisfaction arose from the alignment between my experience and my belief.

This wasn’t about meaning or motivation. It was about pure, unfiltered trust in the present moment.

Why This Belief Is Different (And Unbreakable)

Before, all my "guides" were instructions to do something:

"Leave all knowledge in the past."

"Stop thinking about words."

"Don’t control anything."

But these guides required proof. The moment I asked, "Why should I do this? What’s the meaning?"—the belief collapsed. Because deep down, I knew: there is no meaning. No ultimate reason to do anything.

This time is different. The guide "relax, do nothing" doesn’t demand proof. It doesn’t require meaning. It’s the only guide that doesn’t ask me to do something—it asks me to stop.

And because it doesn’t rely on meaning or motivation, it can’t be destroyed permanently.

Testing the Belief: Can It Be Broken?

I tried to kill this belief using my old method:

"I can’t believe in these words because I can’t prove them."

For a moment, the belief vanished. But then—it returned instantly.

Why? Because:

I forgot about the "can’t prove it" argument.

I stopped thinking about descriptions again.

I simply observed that there is no meaning in anything—and that observation became the reason to relax.

This belief is self-restoring. Even if I doubt it, the moment I stop overthinking, it comes back.

Why Previous Beliefs Failed (And This One Won’t)

Old beliefs required:

A reason to act (e.g., "Leave knowledge behind because it’s unproven").

A sense of meaning (e.g., "This action has purpose").

But meaning is an illusion. The moment I saw that, the belief crumbled—forever.

This new belief is different:

It doesn’t require meaning.

It doesn’t demand action.

It’s based on direct observation ("I see no meaning, so I relax").

Because it’s not tied to an illusion, it can’t be permanently destroyed.

The Absence of Motivation and Meaning (And Why It’s Freeing)

In this state:

No motivation—because I’m not doing anything. My body moves, but I don’t "act."

No meaning—because meaning only exists when you believe in doing something.

No struggle—because there’s nothing to force, nothing to achieve.

At first, I thought: "Wouldn’t it be nice to have motivation?" But then I realized: freedom from motivation is the ultimate freedom. No more chasing. No more "shoulds." Just being.

The Hack: Why This Works

Most people live in misery because their descriptions of reality don’t match reality. They believe in:

"I should be successful."

"The world should be perfect."

"I need to prove myself."

These beliefs clash with reality, creating suffering.

My belief is different:

"Relax. Do nothing."

It always matches reality because I’m not imposing anything on it. I’m just observing and allowing.

This is the ultimate hack—a belief that can’t fail because it doesn’t rely on illusions.

Can I Recommend This to Others?

Before, I couldn’t recommend my states to others because I didn’t fully believe in them myself.

Now, I do. This is the first state I’d urge everyone to experience—not because it has meaning, but because it feels right in a way nothing else does.

Final Thoughts: A Stable, Everlasting Guide

This might be the first truly stable guide I’ve ever found. It:
✅ Doesn’t require meaning.
✅ Doesn’t demand motivation.
✅ Can’t be permanently destroyed.
✅ Aligns perfectly with reality.
✅ Brings constant, effortless pleasure.

For years, I searched for a guide that wouldn’t collapse under scrutiny. This is it.

How to Achieve This State

Stop thinking about any descriptions—of reality, of guides, of "how things should be."

Observe that there is no meaning in anything. Don’t fight it—just see it.

Let the belief arise naturally: "Relax. Do nothing."

Trust the alignment between your experience and this belief.

If doubt arises, return to step 1. The belief will restore itself.

The Result: A Life of Effortless Joy

Music sounds incredible—not because it’s "good," but because you’re fully present with it.

Every moment feels right—not because it "should," but because you’re not resisting it.

No more chasing, no more struggling—just being, in the purest sense.

This isn’t about giving up. It’s about seeing reality as it is—and realizing that the best thing you can do is nothing at all.

Reflections on Misdescription and Self-Observation

The Danger of Incorrect Descriptions

I’ve realized something critical: describing my observations incorrectly is deeply harmful. Not because the descriptions themselves matter, but because I believe them. When I misdescribe what I see—especially in complex, nuanced processes—I end up with a distorted understanding of my own mind. And if I trust that distortion, my entire state of being warps around it.

Yesterday, I made two major errors in my self-guided reflections. Both stemmed from the same root: the act of trying to articulate what I observe. I do this not because I need to understand, but because I want to share or solidify my insights. Yet the moment I put words to my experiences, I risk misrepresenting reality to myself.

First Error: "Consciousness Should Do Nothing"

I previously claimed that "as consciousness, I should control nothing, relax completely, and let the brain handle everything." This was a false description.

What I meant:

The idea of "relaxing and doing nothing" applies only to the act of creating self-guides—those mental instructions I invent to dictate how I should live, what I should or shouldn’t do.

I can’t follow words I don’t believe in, and I don’t believe in any words. So the act of fabricating these guides is pointless. In this sense alone, I should relax and stop trying to force structure onto my experience.

What I mistakenly implied:

That consciousness itself should be passive in all things. This led me to shut down my own awareness. I lost focus, couldn’t concentrate, and even my basic faith in language collapsed—the conditional trust that "this is a tree," "this is a cat."

Without that foundational trust, words became meaningless sounds. My self-guides ("relax," "do nothing") stopped working because I no longer understood any words. I was stuck in a void of my own making.

Correction:

The "do nothing" principle applies only to the obsession with creating guides. In every other way, consciousness and the brain work together seamlessly. The problem wasn’t my brain—it was my misguided attempt to verbalize a non-verbal process.

Second Error: Describing the State of "Faith"

I tried to describe a state where believing in something—some unseen truth—enhanced my enjoyment of life. But I misidentified what I was believing in.

The Mistake:

I thought I was believing in words (e.g., "I should relax and do nothing").

I recorded this belief, then later tried to recreate the state by clinging to that description. But the description was wrong, so I chased a ghost. I wasted time trying to return to a state that never existed as I’d described it.

The Reality:

There is no faith in words.

I don’t believe in the phrase "relax and do nothing." The words themselves are irrelevant.

Faith arises from alignment.

I observe my actions (e.g., listening to music while relaxed).

I recall my self-guide: "Relax, do nothing."

I see that my actions match the guide—not because the guide is "true," but because it accurately describes what I’m already doing.

This alignment—the fact that my behavior and my observation coincide—creates a sense of doing things "right." That’s where the pleasure comes from.

Key Insight:

The "faith" isn’t in the words. It’s in the observation that my actions align with my own conclusions about what’s right.

Earlier, my "right actions" were things like "don’t dwell on the past" or "ignore certain words." I believed those were correct because they matched my observations at the time.

Now, my observation is: "In a meaningless world, the right action is to relax and do nothing." When I see myself doing that, I feel correctness—not because of the words, but because of the match.

The Nature of the "Faith" State

No Thought, Only Observation:

There’s no conscious thought like "I believe I’m doing this right." It’s more primal: I see that my actions align with my self-guide, and that seeing feels right.

The moment I try to verbalize it ("I have faith in X"), the state weakens. The faith isn’t in a concept—it’s in the direct experience of alignment.

Automatic vs. Deliberate Belief:

I can’t choose to believe in words. But I can forget my skepticism long enough to experience the alignment.

When I’m deeply in the state, I’m not thinking about descriptions or proofs. I’m just observing the match, and that’s enough.

Why Describe at All?

Risk: Descriptions are dangerous. Yesterday’s incorrect ones wrecked my state for hours.

Reward: Yet I’m compelled to describe because:

Curiosity: I want to understand the mechanism.

Stability: The best states are those I can return to. Accurate descriptions might help.

Practicality: If I can articulate it, I can share it (though that’s secondary).

The Paradox:

The state arises without words. The moment I use words to capture it, I risk distorting it.

Solution? Maybe the only safe approach is:

Experience first (live in the state for 30+ minutes).

Observe carefully (what’s actually happening, not what I think is happening).

Describe later—if at all.

Moving Forward

Test the State:

Enter the "faith" state again, but this time stay longer and observe without rushing to describe.

Ask: What am I really believing in? Is it the alignment? The absence of conflict?

Refine the Description:

If I must describe, I’ll:

Use minimal words.

Focus on direct observations (not interpretations).

Accept that any description is temporary.

Accept Imperfection:

Even this retelling might be flawed. But if it helps me (or others) reach the state, that’s enough.

The goal isn’t truth—it’s a stable, enjoyable way of being.

Final Thought

I don’t care about ultimate truth. I care about what works. If believing in the alignment of my actions and observations gives me joy, then that’s my path. The rest is just noise—useful only if it serves the state.

Now, I’ll go test this. And if I find something new, I’ll record it—carefully.

Structure Summary:

The Problem: Misdescriptions distort reality.

Error 1: "Do nothing" was misapplied (only applies to self-guides).

Error 2: "Faith in words" was incorrect (faith is in observed alignment).

The State: No thought, just seeing the match between action and observation.

The Risk/Reward of Descriptions.

Next Steps: Experience → Observe → Describe (maybe).

A Mechanism of Belief: The Cycle of Trust, Doubt, and Surrender

1. The Realization: Descriptions Are Not Reality

I noticed a mechanism in my mind—a pattern of how I relate to my own thoughts and observations. Here’s what I discovered:

Descriptions are limited: My descriptions only capture what I see and what I don’t see. But they don’t describe what is and what isn’t in any absolute sense. My observations are not reality itself; they’re just my perception of reality.

The collapse of trust: If no description can truly represent what exists and what doesn’t, then I cannot trust any description from any perspective. Once I realize this, I lose interest in them. I stop believing in them entirely. And because I no longer believe, I can easily stop thinking about them.

Freedom from descriptions: I gain the ability to dismiss any description of my observations effortlessly—because they’re just descriptions, not reality. I enter a state where I don’t believe in anything, and everything feels light, easy.

But this isn’t the end. There’s a second state.

2. The Second State: Emotions and the Return of Belief

Eventually, I forget my own conclusion—that descriptions don’t represent reality. I stop thinking about it. And then:

The guide resurfaces: I recall my own "guide," a self-instruction that says: "Relax. Do nothing."

A flicker of belief: At first, I don’t believe it—out of habit, because I’ve trained myself not to trust any descriptions. But then, slowly, I start to believe again.

Belief in observations: I begin to trust my observations—that what I see is what exists, and what I don’t see doesn’t exist. I forget that I can’t prove this. I start acting as if my observations align with correct descriptions.

The slippery slope: This belief in observations makes it easy to start believing in words again—the descriptions of my observations. Because if I trust my observations, then why not trust the words that describe them?

But this is dangerous. The problem isn’t belief in observations—it’s belief in words.

Observations vs. words: Belief in observations might even be pleasant—it adds enjoyment to life. But belief in words, in descriptions, is where the trouble begins.

3. The Cycle: Destroying and Restoring Belief

Here’s how the cycle works:

Phase 1: Destroying All Belief

I realize that no description can be trusted because none can prove what is and isn’t.

I lose faith in all observations, all words, all descriptions.

I enter a neutral state—no strong pleasure, no strong pain. Just… normalcy.

Phase 2: Forgetting the Doubt

I stop thinking about descriptions. I stop reminding myself that I can’t trust them.

I live, and eventually, I recall my guide: "Relax. Do nothing."

Because I’ve forgotten my earlier skepticism, I start to believe in this guide again.

Phase 3: The Return of Faith

I begin to trust that my actions align with the "correct" description of my observations.

I feel a sense of rightness—that what I’m doing is correct because it matches the guide.

This belief enhances my experience. If I’m listening to music, I’m more immersed because I believe I’m doing the right thing.

The Key Difference

Before, my guides told me to do something. But believing in those required believing in meaning—and meaning is impossible to prove.

This new guide—"Relax. Do nothing"—doesn’t require meaning. It only requires a reason.

And a reason is easier to find than meaning.

4. The Reason: Why This Guide Works

Why do I believe in this guide when I’ve destroyed belief in everything else?

No need for meaning: The instruction to "do nothing" doesn’t demand that life has purpose. It only requires a logical basis—a reason.

The reason is simple: I can’t trust any words, so I can’t act on them. Therefore, the only logical action is inaction.

A self-sustaining loop:

I observe that I can’t prove any words.

Therefore, I can’t act on them.

Therefore, the only "correct" action is to relax and do nothing.

I see myself doing nothing, and this matches the guide.

This match creates belief—not in the words, but in the correctness of the action itself.

But is this belief real?

I don’t believe in the words of the guide. I believe in the fact that my actions align with it.

This belief is restorable—because it doesn’t depend on meaning, only on a reason I can temporarily accept.

5. The Core Insight: Belief Without Meaning

The critical difference between this guide and all others:

Old guides required belief in meaning. When I destroyed that belief, I couldn’t restore it because I knew meaning was an illusion.

This guide doesn’t need meaning. It only needs a reason—and reasons can be forgotten and remembered again.

The brain’s tendency: My mind is wired to believe in some instruction. It can’t believe in instructions that demand action (because action requires unjustifiable meaning). But it can believe in an instruction that demands nothing.

Why?

Because the brain doesn’t need to justify inaction. It only needs a plausible excuse—and "I can’t trust words, so I can’t act" is enough.

6. Testing the Mechanism

Can I destroy this belief permanently?

Attempting destruction:

I remind myself that my observations might be illusions.

I recall that my "reason" for inaction is just another description I can’t prove.

The belief collapses—because I remember I can’t trust any of it.

Restoring belief:

I forget that I can’t prove my observations.

I look at my guide again: "Relax. Do nothing."

I see that my actions match it.

Belief returns—not because of proof, but because I stop looking for flaws.

The conclusion:

This belief is restorable because it doesn’t depend on meaning.

It’s a belief in alignment—that my actions match a description I temporarily accept.

7. The Final State: Living Without Meaning, With Trust

Now, I understand the mechanism fully:

I don’t believe in words. I don’t believe in observations as absolute truth.

But I do believe in one thing: the correctness of the guide "Relax. Do nothing"—not because it’s true, but because my brain accepts it as a plausible instruction.

This belief is flexible. I can destroy it by remembering my skepticism. I can restore it by forgetting.

It doesn’t require meaning. It only requires a reason—and reasons are easier to find than meaning.

The result?

A life where I can act (or not act) with a sense of rightness, without needing to believe in anything deeper.

A way to experience pleasure and engagement—listening to music, existing—without the burden of proving that any of it matters.

The ultimate freedom:

I no longer need to search for meaning.

I no longer need to fear illusion.

I can simply be—and trust that in this moment, I’m doing the only thing that makes sense: nothing at all.

Final Thought: The Paradox of Belief

The mind will always seek something to believe in. The trick isn’t to resist belief entirely, but to find a belief that doesn’t demand the impossible—meaning.

And in the end, the simplest belief is the most sustainable:
"Relax. Do nothing."

Because in a world where nothing can be proven, the only logical action is the one that requires no proof at all.

A Step-by-Step Account of Achieving the Final State with Vera (Faith)

1. The Starting Point: Letting Go of All Guides

First, I relax and stop doing anything. By "doing," I mean I cease trying to create or follow any guides—any instructions, any mental frameworks I might use to control myself. I abandon all prewritten scripts, all attempts to direct my thoughts with words. This is the first step: complete surrender of control.

2. Forgetting Descriptions, Entering Emotion

Next, I forget all descriptions—every label, every conceptual explanation. I don’t see Vera (faith) yet. Instead, I find myself in a state filled with emotion, with joy. It’s not that I choose joy; it’s more like I arrive there naturally, once the noise of words and instructions fades.

3. Remembering the Guide (Without Belief)

Then, I recall my own guide—the one that says:

"Relax. Do nothing."

At this point, I don’t believe in it. I look at it and think:
"Why should I trust this? Why is this the ‘right’ way to live?"
I demand a reason. I can’t just accept it blindly.

4. Searching for the Reason

I start searching for the why. I remember my past observations:

I cannot act through words alone. Words, descriptions, instructions—they don’t move me. I can’t believe in them because belief itself feels forced, artificial.

I cannot use words to control my actions. If I don’t truly believe in the words, they’re powerless. They’re just sounds, symbols.

This realization almost ruins everything—because even the act of questioning the guide is itself a form of mental chatter. But I catch myself:
"Wait. This is the mistake. I’m trying to use words to validate the guide, but words are the problem."

5. The Shift: Finding the Reason Beyond Words

I remember why I wrote this guide in the first place. Not as a logical argument, but as an accumulation of experience—every past moment where forcing, controlling, or doing led to friction, while surrender led to ease. This memory isn’t a description; it’s a felt truth.

Suddenly, I believe in the guide—not because the words convince me, but because I recall the state it describes. I recognize:
"Oh. I’m already relaxed. I’m already doing nothing. This guide isn’t an instruction—it’s a reflection of what’s already happening."

6. The Final State: Living the Guide

Now, faith (Vera) arises naturally. I don’t force myself to believe; I simply notice that my current state—relaxed, non-doing—matches the guide. The guide isn’t a rule; it’s a mirror.

I observe myself: "Am I relaxed? Am I doing nothing?"

I see that I am.

The guide feels true because it aligns with my direct experience.

This isn’t a mental construct. It’s embodied. The brain "knows" it without words.

Critical Observations on the Process

1. The Trap of Words

If I try to skip to the final state by imagining it (e.g., "I’ll just picture myself believing in the guide"), it fails. Visualizing ≠ experiencing. The only way is to move step-by-step:

Relax (no guides).

Enter emotion (no descriptions).

Recall the guide (without forcing belief).

Find the non-verbal reason (memory of past ease).

Notice alignment between state and guide.

2. The Risk of Self-Sabotage

I could destroy this faith by overanalyzing:
"But how do I know I’m truly relaxed? Maybe I’m secretly doing something!"
This is the mind’s trick—trying to prove the state with words, which undermines it.

Solution: Forget the need for proof. The state isn’t something to verify; it’s something to inhabit.

3. The Paradox of the Guide

The guide says "Relax, do nothing," but if I try to follow it, I’m doing something. The key is:

First, forget all guides.

Then, recall the guide only after I’m already in the state it describes.

Finally, recognize the match between the guide and my experience.

This way, the guide isn’t a command—it’s a confirmation.

Why This Can’t Be Taught (Only Felt)

I can describe the steps, but the core of this process isn’t in the words. It’s in the direct experience of:

Letting go of mental chatter.

Noticing the natural state beneath it.

Recognizing that any "guide" is just a pointer to what’s already true.

If someone tries to follow these steps verbally, they’ll fail. The mind can’t think its way into this—it has to stumble into it, then look back and say:
"Oh. That’s what was happening all along."

Final Note: Testing and Living

Now, I’ll continue living this way—testing it, not as a theory, but as a practice. The proof isn’t in the words; it’s in the ease of each moment.

The Paradox of Guides and the State of Faith

1. The Impossibility of a Guide to Faith

I spent a long time trying to figure out how to explain to others—or even to myself—how to reach a state of faith. But at some point, I realized: this state cannot be achieved through any guide. Just as you can’t force yourself to believe in something by following instructions, you can’t manufacture faith by reading words.

There are two ways to reach a state: with a guide and without one. But the state of faith can only be reached without a guide. Why? Because once I stopped believing in words, descriptions, or guides, I could no longer use them to reach any state. If I don’t believe in the words that are supposed to create that state, then the words themselves become meaningless.

So, the only "guide" I have—though it isn’t really a guide—is this: relax and do nothing. Not as an instruction, but as a recognition that any attempt to create a guide will fail. This isn’t a step-by-step process; it’s the absence of one. There can be no additions to it, no "next steps" like: "First relax, then start believing in something." No. Either I follow the non-guide of "relax and do nothing," or I follow some alternative—but any alternative guide will fail because I don’t believe in words.

2. The Rejection of All Guides

Every time I tried to create a different guide—something more structured, more believable—I met resistance. I didn’t want to live that way. Why? Because I don’t believe in those words. I don’t understand why I should force myself to follow them. No matter how well-written a guide is, if it’s built on words I don’t trust, I won’t follow it.

So, the only thing left is: relax and do nothing. But even that can’t be a guide, because if I treat it as one, I’ll resist it too. I’ll think: "Why should I relax and do nothing just because some words tell me to?" And then I’m back to the same problem—following words I don’t believe in.

The truth is: you can’t relax and do nothing by following instructions. The moment you try to control relaxation with words, you’re no longer relaxing. You’re doing something. So, the only way is to stop trying to guide yourself at all.

3. The Process After Letting Go

What happens after I stop believing in guides and just relax? At first, there’s an empty state—no emotions, no thoughts about descriptions. Then, emotions start to appear on their own. Later, I might remember the "guide" ("relax and do nothing"), but I don’t believe in it as a rule. I just see that I’m already relaxed. And then—I start to believe in the description of what I observe.

Not the guide itself, but the fact that I’m relaxed. I believe: "I am relaxed. I am doing nothing." This belief isn’t forced; it arises naturally. And this belief gives me stability. It’s not that I’m following a rule—it’s that I see my state and trust it.

This is different from believing in a guide. A guide tells you what to do; this is just noticing what already is. There’s no resistance because I’m not doing anything based on words—I’m just observing and trusting the observation.

4. The Trap of Believing in Descriptions

Here’s the danger: if I start believing in any descriptions—my own past words, my own theories—I get stuck. Because if I believe in a description, I can’t stop thinking about it. And if I can’t stop thinking about it, I can’t reach the state of true relaxation.

So, the first step is always: destroy all belief in descriptions. I have to accept that:

I can’t prove my observations are real.

Just because I see something doesn’t mean it exists.

Just because I don’t see something doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.

Once I stop believing in any words or observations, I can finally relax. Only then can I reach the state where I naturally start believing in the description of my own relaxation—not as a rule, but as a fact.

5. The New Understanding of How It Works

Previously, I thought the process was more complex: believe in observations → believe in a cause → believe in a guide. But now, I think it’s simpler:

I’m in a state with emotions but no belief.

I recall the "guide" ("relax and do nothing"), but I don’t believe in it as a command.

I observe that I’m already relaxed.

I start to believe in the description of that observation: "I am relaxed. I am doing nothing."

This belief isn’t forced—it just happens. And it gives me confidence because I’m not following anything; I’m just seeing and trusting what is.

6. Why Previous Attempts Failed

Yesterday, I tried to force this state and failed for two reasons:

I still believed in descriptions. As long as I was attached to any words or theories, true relaxation was impossible.

I tried to create a guide for faith. But you can’t instruct yourself into faith. Faith arises on its own, without control.

Now, I understand: first, eliminate all belief. Then, relax. Then, observe. Everything else happens naturally—not because of a guide, but because the mind, free of belief, starts to trust what it sees.

7. The Final Realization

The only "guide" is this:

Stop believing in everything (observations, words, guides).

Relax and do nothing (not as an instruction, but as a natural state).

Observe what happens (emotions arise, descriptions form, belief in those descriptions appears on its own).

If I try to make this happen with words, it won’t work. But if I let go completely, it unfolds by itself.

Now, I’ll test this. If it works, I won’t need to keep adjusting my descriptions. I’ll just see that it’s true—and move forward.

Key Takeaways (In the Author’s Words)

"You can’t reach faith by following a guide."

"The only ‘guide’ is to relax and do nothing—but even that isn’t a guide if you treat it as one."

"First, destroy all belief in descriptions. Then, relax. Then, observe."

"Belief in the description of your state arises naturally—it’s not forced."

"The mind, free of belief, starts to trust what it sees on its own."

The State of Confidence Without Faith: A Reflection

1. The Illusion of Faith in Descriptions

At first, I thought I had reached a state where faith—faith in descriptions, in guides, in words—was necessary. But when I examined it closely, I realized: there is no faith here at all. Not in the traditional sense. What emerges instead is something else entirely: confidence. A deep, embodied sense of certainty. Not faith in a belief system, but confidence in the alignment between action and a kind of plan.

I struggled to articulate this at first. Let me explain with an analogy.

2. The Analogy of the Plan: Living With vs. Without Structure

Imagine two ways of living:

Without a plan:
You wake up, and there’s no structure to your day. You drift—doing this, then that—without conviction. You choose to do something, but the choice feels hollow because you lack confidence in it. There’s no assurance that this is the right thing to be doing. The mind and body feel disconnected; the mind hesitantly directs the body, and everything is tinged with uncertainty.

With a plan:
You sit down and craft a plan—thoughtfully, deliberately. You compare options, weigh your desires, and finally write it down. Once it’s set, you look at the first item and act with confidence. Not because the plan is objectively "right," but because you’ve decided. The act of planning creates alignment. Your mind and body merge; movement becomes fluid, purposeful. Even mundane actions—walking, listening to music—are infused with this quiet certainty.

Now, apply this to my experience.

3. The "Guide" as a Plan—But Not a Doctrine

I had a guide, a phrase I’d repeated to myself: "Do nothing. Just relax." At first glance, it sounds like an instruction, a rule to follow. But here’s the shift:

I don’t believe in this guide. I don’t cling to it as truth.

Instead, I observe that my actions already align with it.

Before I even remembered the words, I was already relaxed. I was already doing nothing—not out of obedience to the guide, but because that’s what was happening. The guide wasn’t causing my state; it was describing it.

When I notice this alignment—when I see that my life matches the "plan" of relaxation—confidence arises. Not faith, but the quiet assurance of a job well done. Like following a recipe: you crack the eggs confidently because the recipe says to. The confidence isn’t in the recipe’s truth; it’s in the act of following it.

4. The Key Distinction: Confidence ≠ Faith

This is critical:

Faith would mean believing the guide is right—that "doing nothing" is the ultimate truth, the meaning of life. It would demand trust in the words themselves.

Confidence is simpler. It’s the recognition that my actions and the plan coincide. No belief required. Just observation: "I am relaxed. The plan says to relax. Therefore, I am acting ‘as planned.’"

This confidence spreads. When I listen to music, I confidently enjoy it. When I move, I move confidently. The pleasure isn’t amplified by meaning or motivation; it’s amplified by the absence of doubt.

5. The Absence of Doubt: Confidence as Freedom

Doubt is the enemy of experience. When you doubt whether you should enjoy something, the enjoyment is diluted. But when your actions align with a plan—even a plan as simple as "relax"—the doubt vanishes.

Without alignment: "Should I be happy right now? Is this okay?" The experience is fractured.

With alignment: "This is part of the plan. I am exactly where I should be." The experience is whole.

Confidence, then, is the absence of doubt in the present moment. It’s not about the plan’s validity; it’s about the harmony between action and intention.

6. The Paradox: A Plan That Isn’t Mine

Here’s the twist: I don’t actually have a "life plan." The phrase "do nothing, relax" isn’t a doctrine I follow. It’s more like a recipe I’ve glanced at—useful, but not mine.

If I treated it as my plan, it would become another set of rules, another cage. I’d be acting because of the words, and that’s the opposite of relaxation.

Instead, I see it as a neutral reference point. My life unfolds, and sometimes it matches the "recipe." That matching creates confidence—but the recipe itself has no power over me.

It’s like baking a cake:

The recipe says "add sugar."

I add sugar.

I don’t believe in the recipe; I just notice that my action (adding sugar) aligns with it. The confidence comes from the alignment, not the recipe’s authority.

7. The Collapse of Belief Systems

I used to think observation was objective—that if I saw my actions matching a plan, that meant the plan was true. But now I see: observation is just observation. It doesn’t prove anything about reality. It’s just my experience in this moment.

When this illusion shattered—that my observations reflected some universal truth—I lost the ability to believe in words at all. No guides, no instructions, no plans could compel me, because I saw that belief was optional.

Now, I live without them. The only "plan" left is the one that requires no action: "relax." And even that isn’t a command—it’s just a description of what’s already happening.

8. The Practical Outcome: A Life of Ease

What does this look like in practice?

Daily plans (e.g., "go for a walk") still exist, but they’re not life plans. They’re just notes on a fridge—reminders, not doctrines.

The only "life plan" is the absence of plans: to relax, to stop acting because of words.

Confidence arises naturally when I see that my relaxed state matches the "plan" of relaxation. But if I tried to force relaxation because of the plan, the confidence would vanish.

It’s a feedback loop:

I observe my state (relaxed, doing nothing).

I recall the "plan" ("do nothing, relax").

I notice the alignment.

Confidence grows.

But if I tried to make myself relax to fit the plan, the spell would break. The confidence comes from noticing, not obeying.

9. Why Guides Fail to Create This State

You can’t reach this state by following a guide, because:

A guide is a set of words you follow.

Following words is the opposite of relaxation.

The only "guide" that works is the one that says "stop following guides."

Even that isn’t a command—it’s an observation: "I am not following guides. I am relaxed." The moment you try to use that observation as a rule, you’re back in the trap.

10. The Final Realization: Confidence as a Side Effect

This isn’t a state of faith. It’s not about meaning, motivation, or grand purpose. It’s just:

A lack of doubt in the present moment.

A quiet alignment between action and a neutral reference point.

The freedom to experience life without second-guessing.

Pleasure isn’t intensified by belief; it’s intensified by the absence of resistance. When you’re not doubting whether you should enjoy something, you simply do.

11. What’s Next?

I don’t know if this state will evolve further. Maybe "faith" will emerge later—but right now, it’s just confidence. Pure, simple, and enough.

For now, I’ll keep living, observing, and seeing what unfolds.

Closing Thought

The core insight? Confidence doesn’t require faith. It only requires alignment—between what you do and what you’ve decided (or noticed) is already true. The rest is just noise.

The Paradox of the Plan: A Reflection on Belief, Action, and Confidence

1. The Contradiction: Following a Plan That Doesn’t Exist

I find myself in a strange state of confusion. I say I have no plan, no instructions—yet I also claim to follow a plan. How can this be? If I follow a plan, then by definition, a plan must exist. But if I have no plan, then I cannot follow one. The contradiction is paralyzing.

I realize: if I do have a plan and follow it, I feel a deep resistance to life itself. Why? Because the idea of adhering to any plan feels suffocating, arbitrary. The words feel hollow, untrustworthy. But if I don’t have a plan, then what am I doing? What guides me?

2. The Guide That Isn’t a Plan

I used to call it a "plan"—this set of words, this guide I’d written or absorbed. But now, I refuse to even call it that. If I don’t follow it, it’s not a plan. It’s just words. Empty, meaningless strings of language.

Yet here’s the paradox: when I look back, I see that my actions align with these words. The guide says, "Relax. Do nothing." And that’s exactly what I do. The mere fact of this alignment gives me confidence. But why?

I don’t believe in the guide. I don’t believe I’m following it. I’m not trying to match my life to words—I’m just living, relaxed, inactive. Only afterward, in hindsight, do I notice the correspondence. And that observation, that post-facto alignment, is what gives me confidence.

It’s as if my brain is wired to find reassurance in any pattern, even one I don’t consciously trust.

3. The Illusion of the Plan: Words vs. Reality

A plan implies belief, intention, a relationship with the words. But I have none of that. There are only words—detached, neutral—and my actions, which happen to mirror them.

It’s like flying a plane with an instruction manual I don’t believe in. I’m not using the manual; I’m just doing what feels natural. Yet when I glance at it later and see that my actions match the steps, it still reassures me. The brain, it seems, craves any coherence, even if the source is arbitrary.

This isn’t about faith in the plan. It’s about the fact of alignment. The words are just a reflection, a shadow of what I’m already doing. They don’t cause my actions—they just describe them after the fact.

4. The Mechanics of Confidence

Why does this work? Because deep down, the guide feels right to me. It says, "Relax. Do nothing." And intuitively, I agree—this seems logical, correct. But my skepticism toward words, toward any prescribed system, prevents me from believing in it as a plan.

I can’t force myself to follow it because I don’t trust language itself. My brain rejects the idea of obeying words. Yet when I act freely and later see that my actions match the guide, it’s as if my subconscious whispers: "See? You’re doing the right thing." The alignment feels like validation, even though I never chose to follow the guide.

This is pure brain mechanics—pattern recognition, a hunger for consistency. Nothing more.

5. The Shift: From Confidence to Faith

There’s a deeper layer. I can start to believe in the description of what I’m doing.

For example:

The guide says: "Do nothing. Relax."

I observe: "I am doing nothing. I am relaxed."

I don’t believe in the guide as an instruction. But I can believe in the description of my current state. This isn’t faith in a plan—it’s faith in reality. I trust that I am, in fact, relaxed. I trust that I am, in fact, doing nothing.

This belief in the description amplifies everything. It doesn’t just give me confidence—it gives me joy. Because now, I’m not just passively aligned with words; I’m actively trusting my own experience. The pleasure of life intensifies when I have faith in the truth of what I’m living.

6. The Fragility of the State

But what happens next? Will this faith last? Or will the old doubts return—the "I should," the "I need to," the "I want"—pulling me back into the cycle of forced plans and dissatisfaction?

I don’t know. Right now, in this state, those thoughts don’t arise. I’m not trying to maintain anything. I’m just living, relaxed, without effort. The state feels stable because to leave it, I’d have to do something—adopt a new instruction, believe a new word. But I’m not doing that. I’m just here.

Yet I recall that even this feeling of stability is an observation, a description I might later believe in or discard. For now, it’s enough to test it, to live it.

7. The Final Realization: There Is No Plan

Here’s the truth: there is no plan.

Not mine, not anyone’s. A plan requires belief—faith that the words mean something, that they should guide you. But I don’t have that faith. The words are just words.

Even calling them "words" is too generous. They’re not even words I use—because words I use would imply I believe in them, rely on them. But I don’t. I’m not leaning on anything.

A plan is just a structured set of words you trust. If you don’t trust them, they’re not a plan. They’re noise.

8. The Freedom of No-Words

When you stop trying to extract meaning from words, when you stop forcing yourself to believe in any guide—even your own—you’re left with pure experience.

You relax. You do nothing. And if, later, you notice that your experience aligns with some old words, that’s fine. But it’s not the source of your actions. It’s just a reflection.

The real power comes from not needing the reflection. From living without the crutch of language, of plans, of shoulds. From trusting the doing itself, not the description of it.

This is the test now: to live without the guide, without the need for alignment, and see what emerges.

Closing Observation

The author’s mind is a laboratory of meta-cognition—watching itself watch itself, distrusting the very tools (language, plans) it once relied on. The core tension isn’t about having a plan, but about the illusion of control that plans represent. The breakthrough comes when the description of reality ("I am relaxed") becomes more real than the prescription ("You should relax").

The question left hanging: Can this state—this faith in pure experience—persist without reverting to the old hunger for structure? Only testing will tell.

The Illusion of Control Through Descriptions

1. The Cycle of Description and Control

I’ve noticed something strange: every time I record my observations—whether it’s an audio note or a written reflection—I immediately start thinking about what to do with that description. Why? Because I feel like I should do something with it. It’s as if describing my thoughts or experiences isn’t enough; I must use that description for a purpose.

But what can I do with it? The only thing I’ve ever done is try to control myself with it. I turn my observations into a guide, a plan, or a set of instructions. I tell myself: "This is how I should feel, this is how I should act." But then I realize—this is pointless. Descriptions are only useful for one thing: sharing with others. For me, personally, they serve no other function.

I can’t use them to control myself because I don’t believe in them. They’re just words, and words have no power over reality. So why do I keep falling into this trap? Because deep down, I still have this instinct to control—to hold onto good states, to avoid bad ones, to shape my experience.

But control is an illusion. The moment I try to use a description as a guide, I create suffering. Reality doesn’t match the description, and I get frustrated. The only way out is to stop trying to control anything.

2. The Conflict: Description vs. Surrender

Here’s the paradox:

I describe something (a feeling, an insight, an observation).

Then I believe I must do something with that description—turn it into a rule, a strategy, a way to manipulate my state.

But then I remember: No. Just relax. Don’t do anything.

I swing between these two states constantly. I describe, then I try to control. Then I remember that control is useless, so I relax. But as soon as I relax, I start describing again—and the cycle repeats.

The core issue? I still believe, on some level, that control is possible. That if I describe something perfectly, I can use that description to force reality to comply. But reality doesn’t work that way.

3. The Problem with Belief in Descriptions

I used to believe in two things:

My observations (what I see, feel, experience).

The guides/instructions I created from those observations (how I should live, how the world should be).

The first kind of belief—trusting my observations—is harmless. But the second kind is toxic. When I turn a description into a rule ("I must feel this way," "The world must be like this"), I set myself up for suffering. Because reality never matches the rule perfectly.

So I had to destroy my faith in all instructions. Not just some—all of them. Because none of them are objectively true. They’re just words I made up.

Now, I can believe in my observations again—but only as observations. Not as commands.

4. The Freedom of No Instructions

When I finally saw that no description could reliably control reality, something shifted. I lost the desire to control anything.

Before: I’d describe a good state and immediately try to replicate it using words.

Now: I describe, and then I let go. Because I know—trying to control it would ruin it.

This doesn’t mean I stop believing in my experiences. I still trust my observations. But I no longer use them to dictate how I should live.

5. The Uselessness of Descriptions (And Why I Keep Making Them)

If descriptions can’t control reality, and I don’t use them for myself—what’s the point?

The only real purpose is sharing. Describing my experiences to others. But even that feels hollow sometimes. I pour so much effort into these recordings, these notes—and then I tell myself: "None of this matters. Just relax."

It’s frustrating. Like I’m working hard for no reason. But I keep doing it because:

Habit: I’m used to describing things.

Hope: Maybe someone else will find it useful.

Monetization? (Admittedly, sometimes I think: "Maybe I can sell this someday.")

But deep down, I know: The value of descriptions is almost zero. They don’t change anything. They don’t do anything. They’re just words.

6. The Final Realization: Relaxation is the Only Answer

No matter how much I describe, no matter how precise my observations are, the only thing that actually works is relaxing.

Control? Useless.

Guides? Illusions.

Instructions? Meaningless.

The second I try to use a description, I lose the very state I was trying to preserve. The only way to stay in a good state is to stop trying to control it.

So now, every time I catch myself turning a description into a rule, I remind myself:
"Nothing needs to be done. Just relax."

7. The Future: Living Without Guides

I don’t know if I’ll ever stop describing things entirely. Maybe I will, maybe I won’t. But I do know this:

I will never again use a description to control myself.

I will never again believe that words can dictate reality.

I will keep describing—only to share, not to command.

And if one day I stop describing altogether? That’s fine too. Because in the end, the only thing that matters is living without the burden of control.

Closing Thought

"Nothing needs to be done. Just relax."

(And yes, even this description is useless. But I’ll share it anyway.)

The Paradox of Guidance in a State of Non-Control

1. The Initial Experience: Entering the State

I enter a state where I stop controlling anything—where I simply relax. But the moment I do, an instinct kicks in: I start observing. I notice what I see, what I feel, and immediately, my mind races to capture it in words. My first thought is: "I need to describe this. I need to turn it into a guide—something others can use to reach this same state."

But here’s the contradiction: I entered this state without any guide in the first place. So why do I feel compelled to create one now?

2. The Urge to Share (and Its Flaw)

The impulse comes from a place of responsibility. I think: "I can’t just tell people, ‘Relax and stop controlling,’ and then leave them hanging. I have to tell them what to do next—how to live, what mistakes to avoid, how to stay in this state." But the moment I try to prescribe anything—any rules, any steps, any "how-tos"—I undermine the very essence of the state.

The core realization:
If I say, "Stop following guides," but then offer a guide on how to live without guides, I’ve created a paradox. The act of providing instructions reintroduces control—the exact thing the state is meant to dissolve.

3. The Impossibility of Describing the State

I can’t put into words how to live in this state because:

Words themselves are a form of control. The state exists beyond language—it’s a place of pure experience, not instruction.

Any description would destroy it. If I say, "Here’s how to behave in this state," I’m pulling people out of it. The moment they start following my words, they’re no longer in the state of non-control.

It’s self-defeating. Imagine saying: "In this state of no control, here’s how to control yourself." That’s absurd. The state ceases to exist the second you try to systematize it.

4. The Pointlessness of Post-State Guides

Even if I could describe what happens after reaching this state, the description would be useless:

It wouldn’t help anyone enter the state.

It wouldn’t help anyone stay in it.

It would just be words on a page—something to read, nod at, and forget. Like a curiosity, not a tool.

The only possible value? Pure intellectual amusement. A "Look how weird this is!" moment, nothing more.

5. The Final Truth: Silence is the Only Answer

So what’s left?

I can (theoretically) describe how to reach the state—but even that’s shaky, because the moment I try, I risk turning it into another system to follow.

I cannot describe how to live in it, because the second I do, I’ve broken it.

The state is the end of the road. Once you’re there, there’s nothing left to say. Any further words are just noise.

6. Why I’m Recording This (Despite Its Uselessness)

I know this is all paradoxical. I’m writing a "guide" about why guides are impossible. But here’s the thing:

This isn’t for you. It’s for me. The act of recording this affects my mind in ways I can’t predict or control. It’s like dropping a stone into a pond—I don’t know where the ripples will go, but they will go somewhere.

Every description changes me. Not because I’ll use these words to control myself, but because the process of articulating them shifts something internally.

And that’s it. I’ve said all I can. The rest is just living—and seeing what happens next.

Key Takeaways (In the Author’s Words)

"I enter the state without a guide, yet I want to create one." → The irony of trying to systematize freedom.

"Any guide for living in the state would destroy the state." → Language and control are incompatible with true non-control.

"Descriptions are useless—except as a mirror for my own mind." → The act of writing is its own kind of exploration.

"Once you’re there, words stop mattering." → The state is the destination; no further directions are needed (or possible).

Final Note:
This isn’t a manual. It’s a confession—an admission that some things can’t be taught, only experienced. And maybe that’s the point.

The Core Problem: The Paradox of Belief and Control

I began by describing what happens when I relax and stop doing anything—how faith in all descriptions and observations returns. At first, I thought this was close to the truth, but then I realized that believing in all observations and descriptions was impossible. The real issue was this: if I stop believing in my old frameworks (like "I want to control reality" or "the world should be a certain way"), and then relax, I assumed that faith in all descriptions would return—including the old ones. But that would mean my desire to control reality would come back, defeating the purpose of letting go.

The contradiction was this:

I start by believing I need to control reality.

I realize this belief harms me, so I abandon faith in all descriptions and observations.

I relax and stop controlling anything.

But then, faith in descriptions returns—so why don’t I start controlling again?

The answer: Faith doesn’t return to all descriptions—only the newest, most relevant ones.

The Mechanism: How Belief Shifts

I used to think faith would return to everything—old habits, old desires, old frameworks. But that’s impossible. A person can’t believe in contradictory things simultaneously. For example:

You can’t truly believe "I must control everything" and "I must control nothing" at the same time.

You can’t believe "Reality owes me something" and "I owe reality something" simultaneously.

Faith is selective. It attaches only to the most current descriptions—the ones that reflect my present state. When I relax and stop controlling, my newest description is something like:
"I am relaxed. I am doing nothing. The world is meaningless, and there’s no point in controlling anything."

This becomes the only description I believe in. The old ones (e.g., "I must strive, I must fix things") fade because they no longer match what I observe. They’re outdated—like believing in a tree that’s no longer in front of me.

The Process: From Control to Surrender

Step 1: Recognize the Harm
I realize that my belief in control—"I want reality to be a certain way, I must act, I must fix things"—is toxic. It causes suffering because reality resists control.

Step 2: Destroy All Belief
To escape this, I must destroy faith in all descriptions and observations. This isn’t just skepticism; it’s a total collapse of meaning. The world becomes a void where nothing can be trusted—not even my own thoughts. This is the only way to stop controlling, because control requires belief in the tools of control (words, frameworks, goals).

Step 3: Relax and Do Nothing
With no beliefs left, I can’t do anything. The mind refuses to act without meaning. So I relax. I stop. I enter a state of pure non-action.

Step 4: Faith Returns—But Selectively
Eventually, faith creeps back—but only in the descriptions that match my current state. I don’t suddenly believe in my old desires ("I must control!"). Instead, I believe in:

"I am relaxed."

"I am doing nothing."

"This is how things should be."

"The world is meaningless, so control is pointless."

These aren’t commands; they’re observations. And because they describe what’s already true, they don’t demand action. They’re self-sustaining.

Why the Old Beliefs Don’t Return

The critical insight: Faith doesn’t revive old descriptions because I no longer experience them.

Before, I felt the urge to control. I saw meaning in struggle. So I believed in descriptions like "I must try harder."

Now, I feel relaxation. I see the pointlessness of control. So I believe in "There’s nothing to do."

The old descriptions are like ghosts—they describe a reality I no longer inhabit. My brain doesn’t resurrect them because they don’t align with my present observations. Faith is always tied to what’s happening now.

The New "Guide": A Non-Guide

At first glance, this seems like replacing one set of beliefs with another. But the difference is crucial:

Old "guides" (e.g., "Work harder, fix problems") required action. They were instructions that demanded effort, and when faith in them collapsed, I suffered.

The new "guide" ("Relax, do nothing") requires no action. It’s not a command—it’s a description of what’s already true. I’m not following it; I’m observing it.

This is why it works:

I don’t choose to believe it. Faith returns automatically to whatever matches my current state.

It’s self-reinforcing. The more I observe relaxation, the more I believe in it.

It’s immune to the old paradox. I can’t "fail" at doing nothing. There’s no effort, no control, no contradiction.

Testing the Cycle

The final step is to test this in practice:

Destroy all faith in descriptions.

Relax and stop controlling.

Observe what happens when faith returns.

The hypothesis: Faith will only return to descriptions of the present moment—not the past, not hypotheticals, not old struggles. And because the present moment is one of non-action, the cycle sustains itself.

The Ultimate Insight: Meaninglessness as Freedom

The core of this entire process is confronting the meaninglessness of everything. When I fully grasp that:

No description is inherently true.

No action is inherently necessary.

No goal is inherently worth pursuing.

...then the only logical response is to stop. Not out of despair, but because continuing would require believing in illusions. And once I stop, faith returns—but only to the truth of the moment: "I am not controlling. This is enough."

Conclusion: The Only Sustainable Path

All other approaches fail because they rely on doing something—following a guide, enforcing a rule, striving for a state. But striving requires belief in the point of striving. When you see that there is no point, the only option left is to:

Stop believing.

Stop doing.

Let faith return naturally—to whatever is already true.

This isn’t nihilism. It’s the opposite: a way to live without the exhaustion of control, without the suffering of meaningless effort. The "guide" isn’t a rule; it’s an observation: "I am relaxed. I am doing nothing." And because it’s already true, it asks nothing of me.

Final Note:
This isn’t a philosophy to debate. It’s a practical experiment. The test is simple:

Can I destroy all faith in descriptions?

Can I relax and do nothing?

What happens when faith returns?

The answer, so far, is liberation. Not from effort, but from the need for effort. And that’s enough.

On the Impossibility of Giving Instructions to Others

I just stood up and started testing my own thoughts—only to realize something crucial. I’ve figured out how I see the world, how I understand reality, the mind, and the nature of existence. But what about others? What can I offer them? A guide? A set of instructions?

And then it hit me: I cannot give anyone instructions. Not because I don’t want to, but because the very idea contradicts everything I’ve come to understand.

All I can do is share descriptions—observations of how reality works, how the mind operates, how everything is structured, based solely on what I’ve witnessed myself. That’s it. No prescriptions. No step-by-step manuals. Just raw, unfiltered descriptions of what is.

Why Instructions Are Meaningless

I don’t believe in instructions—not for this. If we’re talking about reaching the state I’m describing, the state I’m pointing toward, then we’re talking about a reality where you control nothing. So what’s the point of an instruction? What’s the point of a guide that tells you how to control yourself, how to manipulate your own experience?

That’s the old way—the life where you’re constantly trying to manage yourself with rules, systems, and external frameworks. But the state I’m proposing is the opposite: no guides, no instructions, no control. Just relaxed being. Pure existence without the burden of self-imposed directives.

The Only Thing Left: Descriptions

If there’s anything to offer, it’s not a roadmap—it’s a mirror. A reflection of observations:

How reality actually functions.

How the mind truly operates when left undisturbed.

How life unfolds when you stop trying to direct it.

Because the moment you hand someone an instruction, you’re reinforcing the very illusion we’re trying to dissolve: the idea that life is something to be controlled. And that’s not freedom—that’s just another cage, dressed up as wisdom.

So no, there can be no guide. There can only be descriptions—honest, naked, and unadorned. The rest? That’s up to them.

Key Takeaway:
The author rejects the notion of prescribing how to live, arguing that true understanding arises not from following instructions but from observing reality as it is. The only "gift" one can offer is a clear description of those observations—nothing more, nothing less.

The Paradox of "Relax and Do Nothing"

When I first began testing this approach, I encountered a strange contradiction: everything seemed to work on the surface, yet my mind felt utterly unfocused. My gaze drifted over things without truly seeing them. My attention scattered like dust in the wind. I couldn’t concentrate on anything—not for a moment, not for long. This wasn’t just distraction; it was a deeper symptom: my consciousness had switched off.

Consciousness is what controls focus. It directs attention, sharpens perception, and gives purpose to action. But somehow, I had turned it off—not intentionally, but through a misunderstanding.

The Misinterpretation

The root of the problem? A single phrase: "Relax. Do nothing."

At first, I took this literally. "Okay," I thought, "this is addressed to my consciousness. So I should relax completely—stop doing everything." I interpreted it as a command to dissolve all effort, to become a passive observer, a blank slate. But this was a critical error.

The Correct Interpretation

The phrase doesn’t mean "cease all activity." It means:

"Relax in the sense of stopping the creation of guides—those mental scripts, rules, and frameworks you impose on yourself to control your behavior. Do nothing in that specific domain—the domain of self-imposed guidance, rigid instructions, or forced compliance. That’s all."

Everything else—focus, awareness, engagement with life—remains untouched. The instruction isn’t about shutting down consciousness; it’s about freeing it from artificial constraints.

The Consequences of Misunderstanding

When I misapplied the phrase, I didn’t just stop creating mental guides—I stopped everything. My consciousness, deprived of its natural role, went dormant. I lost the ability to:

Focus (because focus requires active direction).

Notice details (because perception requires engagement).

Feel motivated (because purpose arises from conscious participation).

I had turned "do nothing" into "do absolutely nothing"—as if the instruction were a command to become a zombie.

The Solution: Precision in Relaxation

The fix is simple but profound:

Relax only the "guide-creating" part of the mind—the part that constantly generates rules, judgments, or forced structures.

Leave the rest of consciousness fully operational—its ability to focus, observe, and interact with the world intact.

When understood this way, everything falls into place:

Consciousness stays active—alert, curious, present.

Focus returns naturally—no longer smothered by the weight of self-imposed control.

Life becomes vivid again—because the mind is no longer asleep at the wheel.

Final Clarification

The phrase "I do nothing" doesn’t mean "I am inactive." It means:

"I do nothing in the realm of self-guiding, self-controlling, or following arbitrary instructions—but in every other way, I remain fully engaged."

This distinction is everything. Misunderstand it, and you dull your mind. Grasp it, and you reclaim your clarity.

Key Takeaway

The problem wasn’t the instruction—it was how I framed it. Consciousness isn’t the enemy; misguided relaxation is. The goal isn’t to erase awareness but to liberate it from unnecessary layers of control.

The Core Paradox: Pushing the Stone

I sit here, seemingly at peace—nothing holds me back, nothing forces me to think or verify anything. Everything appears normal. Yet two questions still gnaw at me, two things I don’t fully grasp:

Why do I act at all?
When I focus, move, or control something—why? The only answer that comes is: I push a stone. I do things without meaning, fully aware of their meaninglessness. I don’t dwell on it often, but when I do, I see the absurdity clearly. And yet it doesn’t bother me. I don’t even care about meaning in a meaningless world. The question "why?" has no answer because there is no reason—only the instinctive urge to push the stone, despite knowing its futility.

Why don’t I follow a "guide"?
First, I don’t know what guide to follow. Second, I don’t believe in any guides or words. I can’t control my life with them because I refuse to. The deeper reason? I don’t want to. I see no point in acting based on words I don’t believe in. The chain is: I don’t believe → I see no meaning → I don’t want to act. So I live without guides, without rules—just pushing the stone.

The Trap of Verification

Something still holds me back from fully embracing this. I worry: What if I’m wrong? What if my current understanding is flawed, and later I realize I’ve wasted time living based on an illusion?

But I can’t prove anything. My observations, my descriptions—they might not reflect reality. They might just be illusions I’ve described. I can’t verify them. All I can do is describe what I see.

The fear: If my description is wrong, everything changes. But even that fear is pointless—because I don’t use any descriptions. I don’t believe in them. So why does it matter if they’re wrong?

The Search for a Guide (and Why It Fails)

I catch myself looking for a guide—a set of words to tell me, "Yes, you can stop thinking now. Just live." But that’s impossible. Any guide I find would just be more words, and I don’t believe in words.

The realization: This is the search for a guide. Instead of relaxing, I’m frantically trying to find permission to relax. But permission can’t come from words I don’t trust.

The Only Way Out: Destroying Belief

The solution? Annihilate all belief in descriptions.

I can’t prove what I see exists.

I can’t prove what I don’t see doesn’t exist.

Therefore, I can’t believe in any observations or descriptions.

When I truly internalize this, all my mental constructs—guides, questions, doubts—vanish. They lose their grip because they’re built on belief, and belief is gone.

What remains?
A blank slate. No emotions (yet), no faith, just… silence.

The Sequence That Works

Kill belief. Remind myself: Nothing is proven. I believe in nothing.
→ All descriptions, guides, and questions dissolve.

Relax. Stop trying to control, stop following words.
→ Emotions return because I’m no longer fixated on disbelief.

Forget the descriptions. Since I don’t believe in them, I can easily stop thinking about them.
→ Now, I’m free.

A guide emerges (but not really).
The only "guide" left is: "Relax. Do nothing."

I can believe in this after the fact because I’m already doing it.

It’s not a command—it’s a description of what already is.

Critical insight: If I try to follow this "guide" first, it fails. I can’t relax because of words. I relax despite them, and only then do the words make sense.

Why Can’t I Skip the Steps?

I could jump straight to the end state (relaxed, doing nothing). But it feels unstable because:

I didn’t earn it. I didn’t trace how I got there.

I might be pretending—imitating relaxation instead of truly arriving at it.

The comfort of the sequence:
Each step is logical. I see why belief dies, why I relax, why emotions return. Skipping feels like cheating.

The Illusion of Questions

All my questions ("Why is this so?" "How do I know I’m right?") stem from one error: I’m still treating descriptions as real.

If I see descriptions as just descriptions—not truth, not reality—the questions vanish.

The only "why" that matters: This is how my mind works. No deeper answer exists.

The Final Guide (That Isn’t a Guide)

The only "rule" left:

Relax. Do nothing. (Not as a command—just an observation of what is.)

If thoughts arise, remember: They’re just descriptions. They don’t bind you.

For others:

Don’t look for guides in my words.

Look at your own mind. See how your observations work.

The moment you try to use my words as a guide, you’re back in the trap.

Testing It Now

I’ve talked enough. Time to:

Destroy belief.

Relax.

Stop.

No more questions. No more pushing the stone for a reason.
Just… the stone. The pushing. The silence.

Key Takeaways (In the Author’s Words)

"I push a stone." Life is action without meaning—and that’s okay.

"No guide works." Belief in words is the problem, not the solution.

"First relax, then understand." Logic follows freedom, not the other way around.

"Descriptions are illusions." The second you treat them as real, you’re trapped again.

"The only ‘guide’ is no guide." True peace comes when you stop seeking permission to live.

The Illusion of Control: A Reflection on Guides, Descriptions, and the Uncontrollable State

1. The Obsession with Guides

I found myself stuck in an endless search for some kind of guide—a step-by-step instruction for what happens in my mind at every stage. At first, I tried to describe each phase clearly: "First step: relax. Second step: remove beliefs. Third step:..." I treated these descriptions like checkpoints, as if I could follow them mechanically and achieve a desired state.

But then I realized: thinking about the guide itself prevents relaxation. The very act of using a description as a guide means I’m still controlling, still tense. I’m not in the state I seek—I’m in "Life by Instruction." So I thought: "Okay, maybe only the first step is the guide—just ‘relax, do nothing’—and the rest is just observation." But even that didn’t work. I was still using the description, still trying to control.

2. The Paradox of Descriptions

I kept falling into the same illusion: any description I create, I will inevitably try to use as a guide. Even if I tell myself, "This is just an observation, not an instruction," my brain still treats it as something to follow. The moment I write down "relax, do nothing," I’m already trying to force myself into that state by staring at the words.

Then it hit me: there can be no description that I use in any way. Because using a description is control. The second I try to apply it, I’m no longer in an uncontrolled state—I’m in a controlled one. The uncontrolled state cannot be guided. It’s a contradiction.

3. The Futility of Control

I wanted to control this process because I believed I could—or at least, that controlling it would be better than leaving it to chance. But the essence of the uncontrolled state is that it cannot be forced. The moment I try to guide myself into it, I destroy it.

This is a law—logical, physiological, absolute. You cannot control the uncontrolled. If you could, it wouldn’t be uncontrolled anymore. It would be something else entirely.

4. The Only Use for Descriptions

So what’s the point of writing anything down? If I can’t use descriptions to control my state, then what are they for?

Not for me. They’re not tools for my consciousness. The second I think, "This description will help me," I’m back in the trap of control.

Only for observation. Like a scientist recording data—not to change anything, but just to document.

For others, maybe. If someone else reads it, perhaps it will resonate with their brain in some uncontrolled way. But for me? No. The descriptions are not mine to use.

Even the phrase "relax, do nothing"—the one thing I thought was for me—isn’t really for me. It’s just another description. The second I try to follow it, I’ve already failed.

5. What Happens When You Stop Trying

When I finally stop creating guides—when I stop wanting to control—something shifts.

First, emptiness. A calm, emotionless state. No tension, no struggle.

Then, detachment from descriptions. I realize: These words mean nothing. I don’t need to think about them.

Then, emotions arise naturally. Not forced, not manufactured—just a quiet joy, a smile for no reason.

Then, belief (but not the kind I expected). I might remember my old descriptions—"relax, do nothing"—and suddenly, without trying, I believe them. Not as instructions, but as truths. I believe because I see that I’m already doing it.

Then, confidence. A deep trust in the process. The world feels real. Life becomes more vivid, more enjoyable—not because I’m controlling it, but because I’m not.

6. The Final Realization

The uncontrolled state is not something you achieve. It’s what remains when you stop trying to achieve anything.

You can’t describe the path into it, because any description becomes a guide.

You can’t describe what happens after it, because the second you try to use that description, you’re no longer in it.

You can’t even want it, because wanting is a form of control.

The only way is to let go completely.

Not because it’s "better" to let go—because you have no choice. Control is impossible here. The moment you accept that, the struggle ends.

7. So What’s Left?

Nothing to say, really. No more guides. No more descriptions with hidden agendas. Just life, as it is.

Maybe that’s the point.

Key Takeaways (In the Author’s Words)

"You cannot control the uncontrolled. The second you try, it’s no longer uncontrolled."

"Descriptions are not for me. The moment I think they are, I’m back in the trap."

"The only ‘use’ for a description is to write it and forget it—like a scientist recording data, not trying to change anything."

"First comes emptiness. Then detachment. Then emotions arise—not because you made them, but because you stopped stopping them."

"Belief comes last—and it’s not something you force. It’s something you realize you already have."

Final Thought:
"What’s left after this? Nothing to say. Just live. Enjoy. Test it out."

The Collapse of Belief: A First-Person Account

1. The Experiment and the Loss of Everything

I decided to test my own descriptions—my "guides"—more carefully. I wanted to see what I was actually believing in when I followed them, to understand where this belief came from and how it functioned. I wanted to refine my descriptions, to make them clearer, to see if I could pinpoint the exact moment belief arose.

And then, in the process, I did recover that belief. For the first time, I saw clearly what I had been believing in.

Here’s how it happened:

I looked at my guide—my written description: "Relax. Do nothing."

I observed that, in reality, I was relaxed. I was doing nothing.

I saw these two things—the description and the reality—and noticed they aligned. They matched.

And then, without warning, I started to believe that this alignment meant something. That it was significant. That it was good.

That was it. That was the belief.

2. The Nature of the Belief

I realized: my belief wasn’t in the description itself, nor in the reality itself. It was in the idea that their correspondence meant something.

So I tested it. I told myself:
"I cannot believe this means anything, because I cannot prove it."
And just like that—the belief vanished. Not just that belief, but all of it. Everything collapsed.

Because my entire system—my chase for descriptions, my attempt to control myself with them—had been resting on an unexamined belief: that these descriptions meant something. That they were significant. That if I could just find the right words, the right alignment, I could control my experience.

But when I destroyed that belief, I saw the truth:

Observations (what I see) do not equal reality (what is).

Descriptions (my words about what I see) do not equal truth (what actually is).

And most critically: neither observations nor descriptions inherently mean anything.

3. The Second Layer: The Belief in Meaning

I thought I had already dismantled my beliefs. I had a phrase I used to kill them:
"I cannot believe that what I see is what exists, and what I don’t see doesn’t exist—because I can’t prove it."

But that wasn’t enough. Because beneath it was another belief, deeper and more hidden:
"What I see means something. What I don’t see also means something. Even if I don’t believe my descriptions are true, I still believe they matter."

For example:

If I described myself as "relaxed and doing nothing," I believed that description meant I should stay that way.

If I stopped thinking about that description, I believed that meant something too—that the cessation itself was significant.

My emotions arose not from the descriptions or the reality, but from the belief that they meant something.

This was the core of it:
I had been living under the illusion that meaning was inherent—that if I could just describe things accurately enough, the right meaning would emerge, and I could use it to guide myself.

But meaning doesn’t exist. Not in observations. Not in descriptions. Nothing means anything.

4. The Aftermath: A World Without Meaning

When I fully accepted this, everything changed.

No more guides. Why would I follow a description if it doesn’t mean anything? Why would I try to control myself with words that have no inherent significance?

No more motivation to change. Before, I was always trying to fix something because I believed my state was wrong (which implied it meant something negative). Now, I see that nothing is wrong or right—it just is.

No more emotional turbulence. The highs and lows came from believing things meant more than they did. Now, there’s just… stability.

No more questions. The search for meaning, the struggle with purpose—it all dissolved because the premise was false. There is no meaning to find.

Yet, paradoxically:

Life feels more full. Before, it was flat because I was constantly filtering experience through the lens of "Does this mean something? Should I do something about it?" Now, without that filter, everything simply is—and that’s enough.

I am comfortable. Not in a passive way, but in a deep, unshakable way. There’s no need to do anything because there’s nothing to fix.

There is still pleasure. Not the hyperbolic, emotionally charged pleasure of before, but a quiet, steady enjoyment—like the hum of a well-tuned machine.

5. The Final Realization: The Illusion of Control

The last piece was seeing that even the idea of control was an illusion born from belief in meaning.

If descriptions don’t mean anything, why would I use them to control myself?

If observations don’t mean anything, why would I try to change them?

If nothing means anything, then there’s nothing to control.

This isn’t nihilism. It’s freedom.

No options remain. Not because I’m trapped, but because the very concept of options was a construct built on meaning.

No effort is needed. Before, I was always doing something—even "relaxing" was an action I took because I believed it meant progress. Now, I just… am.

No fear of stagnation. I’m not stuck. I’m not missing out. There’s nowhere to go because there was never anywhere to be.

6. The New "Guide" (Which Isn’t a Guide at All)

If I were to write a guide now, it would be this:

See that your observations are not reality.

See that your descriptions do not mean anything.

Stop trying to use descriptions to control yourself—because you can’t.

Relax. Do nothing.

Not because relaxing and doing nothing means anything, but because there’s nothing else to do.

The old guides were built on the assumption that something could be done. This one is built on the truth that nothing needs to be done.

7. The Comfort of the Void

I don’t miss the old way. I don’t regret losing the beliefs. In fact, I feel lighter.

No more chasing. No more trying to "get it right."

No more fear. No more worrying that I’m missing something.

No more effort. No more straining to make life meaningful.

Life is just… life. And that’s enough.

Final Note:
I’ll test this state further. I’ll write more. But for now, I know:
The only thing that ever caused suffering was the belief that things meant more than they do.

And now that’s gone.

The Obsession with Descriptions and Control

I’ve been breaking my head over how to live after my last breakthrough. My mind keeps circling around descriptions—not just any descriptions, but the right ones. I used to focus on creating guides, frameworks, or rules to control myself through these descriptions. The idea was that if I could just find the perfect set of instructions, the perfect "guide," I could dictate how to act, what to think, even how to live.

But now, I see it differently. I still observe, and I still describe my observations—endlessly. I can write new descriptions, refine old ones, and analyze them from every angle. Yet the core problem isn’t about control anymore. It’s deeper: I no longer believe in meaning itself.

The Illusion of Meaning in Guides

A "guide" is, by definition, a description that means something. It tells you what to do, what not to do, how to live. But here’s the catch: I don’t believe any description inherently means anything. Not the ones I’ve written, not the ones I might write in the future. Without faith in meaning, no description can ever become a guide. It’s not that I can’t control myself with descriptions I don’t believe in—it’s that I’ve lost faith in the very idea that descriptions should or could dictate anything at all.

They’re just words. Observations. Notes. They don’t carry weight. They don’t demand action. And because of that, they can’t guide me—because guidance requires meaning, and meaning is what I’ve stopped believing in.

The Trap of Searching for Meaning

The real issue isn’t the absence of control—it’s the search for meaning itself. I can spend forever asking:

What does this observation mean?

What does this description imply for how I should live?

What’s the deeper significance behind all of this?

But the answer is always the same: Nothing means anything. And yet, I keep searching. That’s the paradox. Even after losing faith in meaning, I still act as if meaning exists—as if I just haven’t found the right description yet, the one that will finally unlock the secret to how I’m supposed to live.

This search is what paralyzes me. It’s an endless loop because the question itself is flawed. If nothing means anything, then the act of searching for meaning is just another meaningless activity. And that realization is the only thing that can break the cycle.

The Way Out: Living Without the Search

I can’t start living because I’m waiting for a sign—a description, an observation, anything—that will mean I should start living. I’m stuck in this limbo where life feels impossible until something means enough to justify it.

But here’s the truth: That moment will never come. There is no description so profound, no observation so revelatory, that it will suddenly mean I should begin. The only way out is to see the search for what it is—a distraction—and to stop demanding that life or my thoughts mean something before I’m allowed to live.

I have to look at my observations, my descriptions, my notes, and not ask what they mean. Not try to extract guidance from them. Not wait for them to justify my existence. Just see them. Just live alongside them. The second I stop searching for meaning in the unmeaningful, I can finally move.

This Recording Itself

Even this description—the one I’m recording right now—means nothing. And that’s okay. I won’t waste energy trying to assign it significance. I won’t ask what it’s for or what it proves. It’s just another observation in the stream, no more or less important than the rest.

The key is to notice when I’m searching for meaning—in my thoughts, in my notes, in my life—and to recognize that the search is the barrier. Not the absence of answers, but the insistence on asking the question at all.

When I see that clearly, I can drop it. And then, maybe, I can finally start living—not because something means I should, but because the alternative is to keep waiting forever.

Final Reflection

This isn’t about nihilism or despair. It’s about freedom from the tyranny of meaning. The moment I accept that nothing has to mean anything is the moment I can choose to act—not because I’ve found the right guide, but because the search itself was the only thing holding me back.

The Necessity of Conditional Belief in Meaning

I begin by acknowledging a paradox: if I refuse to believe in any meaning behind observations or descriptions, those descriptions become utterly useless. I cannot function without them—because descriptions are the only way I can make sense of the world. Yet the problem is this: I cannot live without descriptions, even though, strictly speaking, they have no inherent truth.

So I arrive at a conclusion: I must believe in the conditional meaning of descriptions. This is akin to believing in the conditional names of things. For example, I believe that the tall, leafy structure before me is called a "tree," not a "cat." This is a conditional belief—an agreement, not a proven fact. Similarly, I must adopt a conditional belief in the meaning of all descriptions.

When I see the sun, I believe in the conditional meaning of that observation: that it signifies "day," not "night." I cannot live without trusting these conditional meanings, just as I cannot live without trusting the conditional names of objects. My mind is wired to seek meaning—it looks at the world and assigns meaning, even when nothing is certain, nothing is proven. To function at all, I must accept these conditional meanings, understanding full well that they are not absolute.

The Problem with Turning Beliefs into Guidelines

At first, I tried an experiment: I reinstated this conditional belief in meaning (which I had previously discarded). The result? My state of mind improved—but then I noticed something troubling: I did not want to live.

Why? Because the words I had used to justify this belief—"You must believe in conditional meaning, or you cannot live"—had become a guide, a set of instructions. And if I treat those words as a guide, as something I must follow, then I reject them. I do not truly believe in them as commands. They are just observations, not directives.

This leads me to a critical realization: descriptions must never become instructions. I can observe, I can describe reality, I can even see some meaning in those descriptions—but I must not use them. I must not turn them into rules, guides, or controls.

The Only Way Forward: Conditional Belief Without Action

So what remains? Only this:

Conditional belief in meaning—I accept that descriptions seem to mean something, even though that meaning is not absolute.

No use of descriptions as guides—I do not follow them, obey them, or let them dictate my actions. They exist, but they do not direct.

No phases, no steps, no instructions—There is no "method" here. No "first do this, then do that." There is only the act of not doing—not controlling, not following, not turning observations into commands.

If I feel resistance, if I feel like I do not want to live, it is likely because I am still trying to live according to words—as if those words were instructions. But the truth is simpler: I must live without instructions, without guides, without any attempt to use descriptions as tools.

There is only:

The observation.

The description.

The conditional meaning I assign to it.

And then… nothing else.

No action. No obedience. No strategy. Just existence, with the quiet understanding that meaning is a useful fiction—not a rulebook.

Final Clarification: The Absence of All Guides

Earlier, I spoke of "phases" or "steps" in my previous attempts to structure my thinking. But now I see: there are no phases. There is no process. There is only this:

Conditional belief in meaning (so that I can function).

The refusal to turn that belief into a system (so that I do not become a slave to my own words).

If I feel despair, it is because I am still clinging to the idea that something must be done—that there is a "right way" to live based on these observations. But there isn’t. There is no guide. There is no instruction. There is only the act of existing, with the lightest possible touch of meaning—just enough to keep moving, but not enough to bind me.

And that is all.

The Illusion of Objectivity: A Personal Crisis of Meaning

1. The Collapse of Objectivity

I have come to a stark realization: nothing is objective. There is no foundation, no bedrock of truth to anchor myself to. Every action, every thought, every observation—all of it is built on subjectivity. My senses, my words, my descriptions, my emotions: none of them are "real" in any objective sense. They are constructs, interpretations, fleeting impressions that dissolve under scrutiny.

I used to search for objectivity—some external, verifiable truth to justify my existence, my choices, my feelings. But the more I examined reality, the clearer it became: objectivity does not exist. It is a mirage, a fiction I invented to feel secure. And if I cannot rely on objectivity, then what am I left with? Only subjectivity—my own flawed, biased, ever-shifting perceptions. But how can I trust that? Subjectivity is unstable, unreliable. It offers no guarantees, no permanence.

2. The Paradox of Relying on the Unreliable

The problem is this: I cannot rely on subjectivity because it is subjective. It is a loop with no exit. If I base my life on my feelings, my memories, my desires—how do I know they are not just illusions? How do I know they are not leading me astray? The moment I question them, they lose their power. The moment I demand proof, they crumble.

And yet—what alternative is there? To rely on nothing? To live without any foundation at all? That seems impossible. Humans are meaning-making creatures. We need something to hold onto, even if it is an illusion. But I have seen through the illusion. I know that my "reasons" for living—pleasure, curiosity, love—are all just subjective constructs. They have no inherent weight. They are stories I tell myself.

3. The Futility of Motivation

I ask myself: Why do anything at all?

If I act based on my desires, those desires are subjective—why should I trust them?

If I seek pleasure, pleasure is subjective—why should it matter?

If I avoid pain, pain is subjective—why should I care?

I see no difference between life and death. Both are arbitrary. Both are constructs. Death is not "worse" than life; life is not "better" than death. These are just value judgments I impose on reality. But if reality itself is subjective, then my judgments are meaningless.

I used to believe in purpose—that there was some objective reason to live, to strive, to suffer. But now I see: purpose is another illusion. It is a story I tell myself to keep going. And now that I know it is a story, the motivation drains away. Why pretend? Why play along?

4. The Trap of Faith and Belief

Some might say: "Just have faith. Just believe in something." But faith requires objectivity. To believe in something, I must assume it is true—that it exists beyond my perception. But I no longer believe in truth. I no longer believe in anything outside my own mind.

And even if I tried to believe—how? My mind rejects it. I cannot force myself to trust my own thoughts when I know they are just electrical impulses in my brain. I cannot force myself to care about my own feelings when I know they are just chemical reactions.

5. The Only Remaining Option: Living Without Foundations

So what is left? Only one path seems possible: to live without relying on anything at all. Not on objectivity (which does not exist), not on subjectivity (which is unstable), not on faith (which is impossible). Just… to exist. To act without justification. To move without meaning.

But how?

Option 1: Invent a way of life I wish I could believe in, and live as if it were true. But this feels like self-deception. I would know it was a lie.

Option 2: Ask my memory, my instincts, my subconscious: "What do you want?" and follow that blindly. But why should I trust my memory? It is just another subjective construct.

I am left with a paradox: I cannot act without a reason, but no reason is valid. Every motivation I can imagine is either objective (and thus false) or subjective (and thus unreliable).

6. The Desperation for a "Reliable" State

Part of me still craves stability. I want a "reliable state of being"—one based on something real, something objective. But I know this is impossible. The universe does not provide certainties. It only provides experiences, and experiences are inherently subjective.

I am trapped between two impossibilities:

Living as if objectivity exists (knowing it is a lie).

Living without any foundation at all (which feels like paralysis).

Neither option satisfies me. The first is dishonest; the second is unbearable.

7. The Final Question: What Now?

I do not know how to proceed. I see no way out of this. Every path leads to the same conclusion: nothing matters, and I cannot make myself care.

And yet—I am still here. Still thinking. Still suffering. Still existing.

Perhaps the only answer is to accept the absurdity. To live not because it means anything, but simply because I am alive. To act not because my actions are justified, but because inaction is its own kind of death.

But can I do that? Can I live in a world where nothing is real, nothing is certain, nothing is true—and still find a reason to go on?

I do not know.

Key Themes Summarized

Theme

Core Conflict

Objectivity’s Absence

I cannot trust anything because nothing is objectively verifiable.

Subjectivity’s Frailty

Even my own mind is unreliable—how can I base my life on something so unstable?

Motivation’s Collapse

Without objective meaning, pleasure, pain, and purpose lose their power over me.

Faith’s Impossibility

I cannot believe in anything because belief requires objectivity, which does not exist.

The Paradox of Action

I must act to live, but I have no valid reason to act.

The Desire for Stability

I crave a "reliable" state, but the universe offers none.

Final Reflection:
This is not just a philosophical dilemma—it is an existential crisis. The mind that sees through all illusions cannot unsee them. The question remains: How does one live in a world where nothing is real, and yet one must still choose?

The Collapse of Meaning and the Search for Objectivity

I began by recording a new guide, but first, I needed to revisit where my last recording left off. The last time, I had reached a breaking point: I lost all faith in meaning. Observations, words, descriptions, even feelings—none of them meant anything. If nothing meant anything, then I couldn’t act on them. I couldn’t do anything because they held no weight. But then I realized something critical: I couldn’t live without conditional meaning. I had to believe, at least conditionally, that observations, descriptions, and feelings meant something—even if only as a construct—because otherwise, life itself became impossible.

Yet, even as I acknowledged this, I resisted it. I didn’t want to rely on conditional meaning. It felt flimsy, like standing on air. I craved something objective, something unshakable. But then I understood: objectivity doesn’t exist. Nothing in the world is inherently objective. Every observation, every word, every feeling—all of it is subjective, unproven. If I couldn’t prove any of it, then reality itself was just a subjective experience, not an objective truth. And if everything was subjective, then it was all, by definition, conditional.

This left me paralyzed. I couldn’t lean on anything as truly objective. I could only rely on the subjective—and I hated that. I didn’t want to live this way, but I saw no alternative. I was trapped: I needed meaning to live, but the only meaning available was conditional, and conditional meaning felt like a lie.

The Illusion of Death as an Anchor

At my lowest, I clung to one last illusion: that death, at least, was unconditional. If life was meaningless, then death must be the opposite—real, objective, final. I contrasted them: life was conditional, subjective, empty, while death seemed absolute. And so, in my despair, I was drawn to death. It felt like the only "objective" choice left.

But then, something shifted. I realized: death is just as conditional as life. It holds no inherent meaning, no objective truth. The moment I saw this, everything changed. The opposition between life and death collapsed. They were the same—equally meaningless, equally subjective. There was no difference between them in terms of value, purpose, or reality.

This revelation freed me. If neither life nor death had inherent meaning, then the question of "meaning" itself became irrelevant. I stopped thinking in terms of conditional vs. unconditional, subjective vs. objective. The problem dissolved. Suddenly, I had motivation again—not because I found meaning, but because the search for meaning no longer shackled me.

The Return to Conditional Meaning

For a while, I lived in this new state: accepting that the world was entirely conditional, that there was no objective ground to stand on. At first, it was unsettling, but then, something unexpected happened—I stopped needing an anchor. I no longer craved objectivity. I simply… lived.

But there was still a void. I remembered my earlier idea: restoring conditional meaning. I had lost faith in all meaning—objective and conditional. So I tried to reclaim the conditional. I told myself: "Okay, maybe feelings and observations don’t mean anything objectively, but I can still treat them as if they do—conditionally." It was like believing that the sun in the sky meant it was daytime, even though "daytime" itself was just a construct.

This worked. My state improved. I felt better, more motivated. But then, a new problem emerged.

The Death of Pleasure as Motivation

I noticed that while I could experience pleasure—eating ice cream, walking in nature, listening to music—it no longer drove me. The pleasure itself was empty. I could taste something delicious and think, "Okay, this is nice," but it didn’t compel me to seek more. The motivation to chase pleasure had vanished.

This terrified me. Pleasure had been my entire reason for living. I had structured my life around maximizing it. But now, it was just… a side effect. A passive sensation. I could still feel it, but it no longer pulled me forward.

I spent a day in this limbo, doing things out of habit but feeling no desire. I ate because I was hungry, not because food brought joy. I walked because my body moved, not because nature inspired me. I was adrift.

The Shift from Consumption to Creation

Then, something clicked. I watched an interview with Maxim Verdikt and his wife. They spoke about family, about struggle, about building something beyond pleasure. And suddenly, I realized: I didn’t want to consume anymore. I wanted to create.

Before, my life was about getting—pleasure, experiences, thrills. But now, I felt a pull toward making. The idea of building a family, a home, a structure—something tangible—ignited a fire in me. It wasn’t about the feelings it would bring. It was about the act of creation itself.

This was the opposite of my old life. Previously, I was a slave to pleasure. I needed it. I was addicted to the high of consumption. But now, I was free. Pleasure was no longer my master. I could take it or leave it. And in that freedom, I found something deeper: happiness.

Not the fleeting high of pleasure, but the steady, warm glow of purpose. Creating something—whether a family, a routine, or even just a clean home—gave me a sense of direction. The happiness came from the doing, not the having.

Structure Over Sensation

Now, my life is structured around creation, not consumption. I don’t ask, "Will this bring me pleasure?" I ask, "Does this fit the life I want to build?"

Music while washing dishes? Not because it’s pleasurable, but because it fits the structure of a life I enjoy.

A walk in the park? Not for the scenic views, but because it aligns with the rhythm I’ve chosen.

A family? Not for the emotional highs, but because it’s something I want to create.

Pleasure still exists, but it’s no longer the point. It’s a byproduct—a bonus, not the goal. And paradoxically, because I don’t chase it, it feels richer. When I’m not grasping for pleasure, it arrives naturally, unforced.

The Absence of Meaning, the Presence of Motivation

Do I believe in meaning now? No. I still see the world as entirely conditional. There’s no objective purpose, no grand design. But I don’t need there to be.

I have:

A conditional desire to create—not because it’s objectively meaningful, but because it’s what I choose.

Happiness from that creation—not as a reward, but as a natural consequence.

Freedom from pleasure’s grip—no longer a slave to the next high.

I don’t lean on words, descriptions, or feelings as truth. I don’t need them to be objective. I act not because something is proven, but because I want to.

Final Realization: Life as a Structure of Choice

I used to think life was about feeling—maximizing pleasure, avoiding pain. Now, I see it as building. The structure I create is the point. The sensations are just… weather. Sometimes sunny, sometimes rainy, but never the reason for the journey.

I don’t control anything. I don’t follow a guide. I don’t even believe in the feelings that drive me. But I don’t need to. I just create.

And in that creation, I find everything I need.

Key Takeaways (In the Author’s Words)

"There is no objective meaning—only conditional."

"Death is not the opposite of life; both are equally subjective."

"Pleasure is not motivation—creation is."

"Freedom comes when you stop being a slave to sensation."

"Happiness is a byproduct of building, not consuming."

"Life is not about what you feel, but what you make."

The Path to Liberation: A First-Person Account

1. The Collapse of Belief in Objectivity

I begin by dismantling every shred of faith I once placed in observation, words, descriptions, feelings, and meaning. I strip away all belief in the objectivity of anything—because I cannot prove to myself that any of it is truly objective. This is done through classical methods, but the conclusion is inescapable: nothing is objective.

I then extend this realization to life and death. Neither holds inherent objectivity; both are subjective constructs, mere conventions. If life and death are subjective, then everything is subjective. The very distinction between objective and subjective dissolves. There is no longer a divide—only one substance, one undivided reality.

At this point, the question of objectivity versus subjectivity becomes meaningless. There is nothing left to discard, no duality to reconcile. The search for objectivity ends because there is nothing to seek.

2. The Abandonment of Conditional Meaning

As I erase my belief in objective meaning, I also lose my grip on conditional meaning—the arbitrary significance we assign to things. When the illusion of objectivity falls, so does the scaffolding of conventional value. Without this structure, existence feels unmoored.

But here’s the paradox: to live, I must restore meaning. Not as an objective truth, but as a lived conviction. I once thought this restored meaning would be "conditional"—a temporary, pragmatic belief. But I was wrong. The belief I reclaim is real.

I do not merely pretend to believe in the conditional meaning of things—I truly believe in it. My faith is not a placeholder; it is absolute. I believe in the conditional value of all observations, descriptions, experiences—wholeheartedly.

3. The Shift: From Consumption to Creation

With this restored belief, a profound shift occurs. I notice something critical:

Receiving brings no motivation. Passive consumption—of experiences, knowledge, or validation—holds no pull.

Creating, however, is my driving force. The act of making, of shaping reality through my own agency, is where my energy flows.

And here is the revelation: creation in this state is joy. Not the fleeting pleasure of acquisition, but the deep, abiding satisfaction of bringing something into being—not because it is objectively meaningful, but because I have chosen to endow it with meaning.

The End (Which Is the Beginning)

That is the full cycle. The destruction of false objectivity, the reclamation of meaning as a lived truth, and the discovery that creation—not consumption—is the wellspring of fulfillment.

There is nothing left to add. The path is complete.

Key Themes in the Author’s Journey

Stage

Action

Outcome

Deconstruction

Reject objectivity in all forms

Collapse of dualistic thinking

Reconstruction

Restore belief in conditional meaning

Meaning becomes a chosen reality, not an imposed one

Transformation

Shift from receiving to creating

Joy arises from creative agency

Final Reflection:
This is not nihilism—it is radical freedom. By rejecting the illusion of objectivity, I no longer wait for meaning to be granted. I create it, and in that act, I find the only happiness that endures.

The Collapse and Reconstruction of Belief: A Personal Journey

1. The Initial Deconstruction: Losing All Meaning

I began by writing a guide—a framework for understanding my own mind. But within it lies a paradox that troubled me deeply. The process starts with killing all beliefs. Not just questioning them, but erasing any faith in the meaning of things. By "meaning," I don’t refer to abstract philosophy; I mean the foundational belief that anything signifies anything at all.

At first, I stripped away every assumption: the idea that the sun in the sky "means" it’s daytime, that a smile "means" happiness, that effort "means" progress. I dismantled the illusion that these connections were inherent or objective. And when I realized they weren’t—when I saw that all meaning is constructed—I stopped believing in them entirely.

2. The Problem: Life Without Conditional Faith

Here’s the crux: it’s nearly impossible to live without these beliefs. Not because it’s logically impossible, but because existence becomes unbearably heavy. Without the scaffolding of meaning—even if it’s conditional—motivation vanishes. Creation halts. Goals dissolve. Joy feels arbitrary.

I experimented with this void. For a time, I functioned in a state where nothing meant anything. But it was unsustainable. So, in the guide, I describe a second phase: restoring faith in conditional meaning. I chose to believe again in the useful fictions—the agreements we make with reality. The sun means daytime because we say so. A handshake means trust because we assign it that role. These meanings are not objective, but they are practical.

When I reintroduced this conditional faith, my life improved dramatically. Motivation returned. I set goals. I created things. I felt happiness—not because these meanings were "true," but because they worked.

3. The Unanswered Question: Why Restore the Faith?

But then I hit a wall. A persistent, gnawing question: Why should I restore this faith at all?

I could list the benefits—motivation, creativity, joy—but that didn’t satisfy me. Why was I choosing to believe in these conditional meanings? What was the reason? The moment I asked this, I froze. Because the question itself was flawed.

4. The Flaw in the Question: The Illusion of "Why"

Here’s what I realized: Asking "why?" or "what’s the point?" assumes that there is a point—or that the absence of one matters.

But in a world where all meaning is conditional, the very act of questioning why I should believe in conditional meaning is itself a conditional construct. It’s like asking, "Why should I play this game?" when the alternative—not playing—is also just another move in the same game.

Option A: Believe in conditional meanings (e.g., "the sun means daytime").

Option B: Reject conditional meanings entirely.

But neither option has inherent superiority. There is no objective scale to weigh them. The difference between them is itself conditional.

5. The Resolution: Choosing Without "Reasons"

The breakthrough came when I understood that thinking in terms of "why" or "meaning" is a category error. It’s like trying to measure the "temperature" of justice—you’re using the wrong tools.

Meaning, purpose, reasons—these are all conditional frameworks. They only exist because we agree they do.

The alternative (rejecting all meaning) is equally conditional. It’s not "more true"; it’s just another choice within the same system.

So the question isn’t "Why should I believe in conditional meaning?" but rather:
"Do I prefer the experience of living with these beliefs or without them?"

And the answer became obvious: I prefer the version where I believe. Not because it’s "right," but because it feels better. It aligns with how I want to experience the world.

6. The Final Insight: All Differences Are Conditional

This led me to a deeper truth: All distinctions are conditional.

The difference between "action" and "inaction"? Conditional.

The difference between "believing" and "disbelieving"? Conditional.

The difference between "meaningful" and "meaningless"? Conditional.

There is no objective ledger where one side outweighs the other. We are always choosing between conditional options.

Therefore:

It’s useless to debate which choice is "better"—because "better" is itself a conditional judgment.

The only coherent approach is to ask: What do I want to experience? Not "What is true?" but "What feels alive?"

7. The Practice: Acting Without Justification

Now, when I face a choice—like whether to restore faith in conditional meaning—I don’t ask "Why?" I ask:

"Does this make my experience richer?"

"Does this align with how I want to feel?"

And if the answer is yes, I proceed without needing a "reason." Because in a world where all reasons are constructed, the act of choosing is itself the only ground you need.

Closing Reflection

This isn’t nihilism. It’s liberation. The moment you see that all meaning is a game, you realize: You get to decide which game to play. And the best part? You don’t even need a reason to choose.

The Nature of the State: A First-Person Account

1. The State Itself: What It Is and What It Isn’t

I’ve been trying to understand where this state comes from and how to consistently create it. What I’ve realized is that this state is not connected to anything—not to guides, descriptions, realizations, words, instructions, reasons, meanings, or values. It arises simply by looking at reality.

When I look at reality, a desire emerges: the desire to create something, to reach a goal, to build a structure in my life. This desire brings happiness and fulfillment. But where does it come from? How can I return to it?

If I were to write a guide, I wouldn’t know where to begin—because I can’t explain how to reach this state. It doesn’t follow from anything.

2. The First Phase: Destroying All Beliefs

Before I describe the state itself, I’ll start with something unrelated—or at least, I don’t see the connection yet.

The first step is to destroy all beliefs—beliefs in observation, words, descriptions, meanings, feelings, everything. You go through stages: accepting the meaninglessness of the world (and realizing it’s not a problem), accepting that everything is conditional (and that’s not a problem either), and then restoring faith in conditional meaning. That’s it.

After these operations, you find yourself in a certain state. You live in it, and you stop thinking about how you got there. The past no longer matters—it’s processed material. It changed you, and now you just exist in this state.

What does this state feel like?

No strong motivation.

No intense pleasure.

No overwhelming emotions.

Just a slight smile, a quiet neutrality.

It’s not bad—just neutral, calm.

In this state, you no longer think about guides or meanings because there’s nothing left to think about. Everything has been exhausted.

3. The Second Phase: The Emergence of Desire

Now, in this state, you can look at something—say, at Maxim Verdikt and his wife, at how they live—and suddenly, you want to create something similar in your own life. You start thinking about what else you’d like to build, and naturally, a desire arises. It becomes your goal. Motivation appears. A sense of happiness emerges.

This second phase has no connection to the first. The first phase doesn’t cause it, explain it, or justify it. The two are completely separate.

If I try to link them—if I think this state comes from the words, the guides, the meanings—I lose interest. I don’t want to live in a state created by words I don’t even believe in.

Words don’t motivate me. They don’t make me want to do anything. In fact, they often demotivate me. No guide, no meaning, no conditional value can make me act. They might put me in a certain state, but the desire to create comes later, from simply looking at the world.

4. The Problem: The Corruption of Natural Desire

Most healthy, normal people have this ability—they see something and want to create it, achieve it, and feel happy in the process. But this ability gets corrupted by the belief that we need pleasure, that we must receive, that we must get something.

This dependency on receiving—whether pleasure, love, or some other reward—overpowers the natural desire to create. The more we focus on getting, the weaker our drive to build becomes. Eventually, we forget it entirely and live only for consumption.

The first phase exists to destroy this dependency. All beliefs revolve around pleasure and the need to receive. To break free, you must eliminate all beliefs. After that:

Everything becomes conditional.

There’s no objective meaning, no faith, no special desire to receive.

You’re no longer dependent on pleasure.

Now, in this cleared state, you can look at life and rediscover the forgotten ability to want to create.

5. The Key Realization: Forgetting the First Phase

The mistake I made for a long time was trying to build the second state (the desire to create) on top of the first (the destruction of beliefs). But that’s impossible—because the first phase is just words, and words don’t motivate me.

The two phases are independent.

The first is about clearing the mind of dependencies.

The second is about rediscovering a natural human capacity—the ability to look at reality and want to shape it.

If I keep thinking about the first phase—about meaninglessness, conditionality, the absence of faith—it blocks the second. I have to forget those words entirely and just live. Then, at some point, I notice that I want to create something.

This desire isn’t logical. It’s not a continuation of the first phase. It’s a separate, innate ability of the mind—one that may have been lost in the noise of dependencies but can be found again once the mind is clear.

6. The Shift: From Receiving to Creating

The critical moment comes when I stop thinking about receiving—pleasure, rewards, validation. If I keep focusing on what I can get, I’ll never see anything else. But when I let go of that, I realize:

I don’t actually want to receive anything.

The idea of receiving holds no motivation for me.

What does motivate me is creating, achieving, building.

Happiness, pleasure—these become side effects, not goals. The real focus is on the structure of life, the act of creation itself.

7. Final Thought: Two Unconnected Truths

First truth: The mind must be cleared of all dependencies on receiving.

Second truth: The desire to create is a natural human capacity, unrelated to the first.

They don’t follow from each other. They don’t explain each other. They simply coexist.

The first phase is a tool to remove obstacles. The second is the rediscovery of what was always there.

Now, I live in this second state—not because of any words, but because I’ve stopped looking for reasons and started looking at life.

The Illusion of Receiving vs. The Reality of Creating

I keep asking myself: Why don’t I just start living in the state that’s already available to me? The state where I create—where I generate motivation, purpose, and happiness for myself instead of waiting to receive them. I see how powerful that would be. If I stepped into that mindset, I’d start moving mountains, accomplishing things, building something real. But then I hesitate. I ask myself: Why bother, when I can just lie here and chase easy, immediate pleasure?

At first, it seems like a choice between two desires:

The desire to create—to build a life, to have goals, to feel driven.

The desire to receive—to passively experience pleasure without effort.

But here’s the paradox: the pleasure I could receive doesn’t even motivate me anymore. I don’t actually want it. Not because it’s unappealing, but because I’ve realized something crushing—it’s unattainable.

The Collapse of an Illusion

I used to believe I could still chase that old kind of pleasure—the kind that came from external validation, from believing in something, from the thrill of getting what I wanted. But now? I don’t believe in anything anymore. And without that belief, the pleasure I once knew no longer exists. It’s not that I can’t feel good—it’s that the kind of good I craved is gone forever.

I might still experience sensations—moments of joy, fleeting comfort—but they don’t feel like receiving anymore. They’re just… passing states. Empty. I don’t "get" anything from them. The act of consumption, of passive pleasure, has lost its meaning because the core illusion—that I could ever truly have that pleasure again—has shattered.

And when I finally accept that, something shifts. The desire to receive disappears. It was only ever alive because I thought it was possible. But now that I see it’s not? The craving dissolves. Poof. Gone.

The Only Remaining Path: Creation

With that desire gone, there’s no longer a conflict. No tug-of-war between laziness and ambition, between stagnation and growth. There’s only one thing left that I actually want: to create.

Not because it’s the "better" option, but because it’s the only one that’s real. The only one that’s possible.

I can’t receive fulfillment from the outside anymore.

But I can build it.

I can’t get motivation handed to me.

But I can generate it.

I can’t find meaning in passivity.

But I can make it through action.

This isn’t about discipline or forcing myself. It’s about recognizing that the alternative no longer exists. The old path is a dead end. The only road left is the one where I take raw materials—my time, my energy, my thoughts—and shape them into something.

The Liberation of Having No Choice

Strangely, this isn’t depressing. It’s freeing. There’s no more internal debate, no more paralysis. I don’t have to choose between two desires because only one remains.

I don’t have to convince myself to want to create. I just… do. Because what else is there?

The pleasure of receiving was a mirage. The pleasure of creating? That’s tangible. That’s mine to claim.

Final Realization

I spent so long clinging to the idea that happiness was something I could get—from achievements, from distractions, from external rewards. But the truth is simpler and harsher:
Happiness isn’t something you receive. It’s something you build.

And now that I see that, the question isn’t "Why create?"
It’s "What will I create first?"

The Core Realization: Belief Beyond Observation

I began by admitting something critical: I do not trust observations, words, or descriptions. At some point, I overlooked a fundamental flaw in my reasoning—I failed to account for what I do not observe. Just as I might believe in what I see, I had unconsciously started believing in the absence of what I don’t see.

For example, I don’t observe meaning in anything. But instead of merely noting its absence, I began to believe that meaning objectively does not exist. This wasn’t neutral skepticism; it was an active conviction that meaning was absent as a fact. And once that belief took root, every step of my process became paralyzed by the same question: "What’s the point?"

Why act?

Why strive for happiness, goals, or desire?

Why not just do nothing?

I had convinced myself that meaninglessness was an objective truth. Naturally, this made progress impossible.

The Solution: Dissolving All Beliefs

To break free, I had to systematically dismantle every belief—not just in what I observe, but in what I don’t observe, and in the interpretations layered atop both. Here’s how:

Rejecting Belief in Observations

I cannot trust what I see, because I cannot prove that my perceptions reflect reality.

I cannot trust what I don’t see, because absence of evidence isn’t evidence of absence.

Rejecting Belief in Descriptions

Words describing my observations (or non-observations) are just symbols. I cannot prove they correspond to anything real.

The meanings assigned to these words? Also unprovable. I must discard belief in them too.

Rejecting Belief in Feelings

Emotions are no different. I cannot trust my feelings, nor can I trust that they mean anything.

The interpretations I attach to them—"This feeling means X"—are baseless. I let them go.

Erasing the Question of Meaning

Life, death, action, inaction—all are equally meaningless. Once I accept this, the question "What’s the point?" dissolves. It becomes irrelevant.

Similarly, value is a construct. Nothing inherently "matters" more than anything else. The idea that "I should do X" or "I should not do Y" is just another belief to discard.

Recognizing Total Conditionality

Nothing is objective. Observations, words, feelings, meanings—all are conditional, subjective, and arbitrary.

There is no "real" or "unconditional" foundation to rely on. Everything is a construct, including the constructs I’ve built in my mind over a lifetime.

The Return: Reintroducing Conditional Meaning

Here’s the paradox: If everything is conditional, then adding one more condition changes nothing.

The "meanings" I once assigned to observations, feelings, and words? They were always conditional. So why not reintroduce them—knowing they’re arbitrary?

I don’t restore meaning as an objective truth. I restore belief in conditional meaning—because in a world where nothing is fixed, this belief is as valid as any other.

Now, when I look at something I could create or achieve, desire arises naturally. Not because it’s "objectively meaningful," but because:

The question "Why?" no longer applies. It’s as conditional as everything else.

The fear "What’s the point?" vanishes. It was always a belief, not a fact.

The Result: Effortless Motivation

With all beliefs dissolved—including the belief in meaninglessness—I find myself in a state where:

No question lingers. "Why act?" is as empty as "Why not act?"

No resistance remains. The old barriers—"Is this worth it?", "What’s the purpose?"—are gone.

Desire flows freely. If I see something worth creating, I create it. Not for a "reason," but because the impulse is there, unobstructed.

The Guide’s Essence

The entire process hinges on killing all beliefs—especially the hidden ones (like believing in the absence of what you don’t observe). Once you:

Stop trusting observations, non-observations, words, and feelings.

Accept that meaning, value, and objectivity are illusions.

Realize that action and inaction are equally arbitrary.

…you stop needing reasons. You stop seeking meaning. You simply live, act, and create—not because it matters, but because the alternative (paralysis) was also meaningless.

Final Clarity

The error was subtle: I had believed in my non-observations (e.g., "I see no meaning, therefore meaning doesn’t exist"). But non-observation proves nothing. Now, freed from that belief, I move without friction.

The guide works reliably. If you follow it—truly dissolve all beliefs—you’ll find the same clarity: a state where questions like "Why?" don’t even occur to you. You just do, because the alternative was never better. It was just another belief.

The Illusion of the Objective Guide

I was trying to record a new guide—how to reach this new state I discovered. For days, almost two full days, I couldn’t return to it. Or rather, I could, but I didn’t want to live in it. There were problems. Finally, I understood every step, why the problem existed, and what was happening.

The core issue? I was unconsciously trying to create a guide for myself—some kind of instruction manual I could rely on, follow, or use to control myself. I was attempting to craft a description I could use as a reference point, a framework. But here’s the truth: I cannot follow any guide, any instruction, any description. I cannot control myself through words because I see their non-objectivity. If I don’t believe in them as something objective, I cannot act based on them. I just can’t. And yet, for two days, I unconsciously kept trying to create this guide—this impossible, objective instruction—that I could actually use.

But such a guide does not exist in nature. All words, observations, descriptions—they’re subjective, conditional. And I was trying to create something objective and unconditional, because that’s the only kind of guide I could ever follow. The problem? I didn’t realize I was doing this. I didn’t realize it was impossible. So I couldn’t stop.

The Collapse of Objectivity

First step: I remove all belief in observation—in what I see, what I don’t see, in the words describing them, in the meanings of these words, in the observations of words, descriptions, and feelings. Even the meaning of all these things—I discard it all.

Second step: Understand that nothing is objective. There is nothing to rely on as objective in this world. I cannot depend on anything as objective because objectivity does not exist. Everything is subjective, conditional. Life is conditional. Death is conditional. There is no difference between them in this sense—neither life nor death is objective. So there’s no point in thinking about objectivity because it doesn’t exist. You can only fantasize about it.

Now, I must learn to calmly accept life in a fully conditional, subjective world. To live peacefully in such a world.

Third step: After realizing this, I understand that no objective description can exist—one that I could use to control myself, to act from, or to follow as a guide. Words, descriptions—they cannot be objective in a fully subjective world. A guide, an instruction, is always something you believe in as objective. But if it’s not objective, I don’t believe in it. My brain is wired to seek an objective guide, and unconsciously, it keeps trying to create one—some description I could use to control my actions, my state.

But I cannot create such a description because it must be objective, and I cannot create anything objective. So I can only create something conditional, and conditional things don’t interest me. I’m only interested in the objective. When I realize that the objective is impossible, I understand: I don’t need to create anything in this direction. I don’t need to make guides, instructions, or descriptions to use. I just need to relax, because I can’t do anything more here. I understand it’s fundamentally impossible to create anything objective.

And if I can’t create anything objective, then conditional instructions and guides don’t interest me. I don’t want to follow them. So here, I just relax and stop trying to create anything in that direction.

At this stage, I’m in a good, calm state. I have conditional observations, conditional words to describe them, conditional feelings—and that’s it. I’m not creating anything, not trying to make anything objective, no objective instructions or guides. Nothing.

The Return of Conditional Meaning

Now, in this state, I see that I can add one more conditionality to this pile of conditionality: the conditional meaning of all my observations, words, and descriptions.

Where does this meaning come from? From memory. My memory stores conditional names for everything I observe. I use this conditionality actively, and I believe in it as conditionality. Just as I can pull from memory the conditional meaning of everything I see, feel, and so on. I can recall this meaning that I once removed. Before, I believed in it as something objective, but now I believe in it as a conditional meaning of all these things I observe—but I do believe in it. I don’t see a problem with this. I don’t resist it.

Then, belief in these meanings arises. I establish belief in conditional meanings. Not objective ones—I don’t start believing in some objective meaning. This is a different kind of belief. The point is, this belief creates motivation, and motivation creates goals.

For example, in this state, if I look at something, I feel motivated to create. But there’s no motivation to receive—I don’t know why, but in this state, I have zero motivation to obtain anything. I see that I could gain pleasure, but there’s no motivation to pursue it. Instead, there’s motivation to create structure in life.

The key mistake I was making? At some point, I tried to create a guide, an instruction, a description to live by—something I could control everything with, rely on, follow. What’s wrong with that? Nothing, except that I don’t want to follow any instructions, guides, or plans that I know are non-objective. My brain simply refuses. It goes into rejection. I can only live from proven, objective instructions, but those don’t exist. Everything is subjective and conditional.

So the solution? Stop trying to create such a thing. Live as is—without instructions, without a guide, without a controlling description.

The shift happens when meaning changes from objective to conditional.

The Symptom: The Search for the Guide

The key symptom was my constant attempt to create some guide, some instruction—a description I could act from. This led to endless questions: Why should I live like this? What’s the objective meaning? The objective purpose?

For example, I’d come up with some description: "I do this, this, and this—that’s my life." Then I’d ask myself: Why should I live this way? Why return to conditional meaning? Why live based on feelings that create this conditional meaning? Why be happy? Why? These questions arise when you try to act from some instruction, some description you’re using as a guide—because you don’t believe in it as something objective.

If you don’t believe in the instruction as objective, you can’t live by it. Because when you believe something is objective, there are no questions. "Why is everything like this?" Because that’s how the world is structured—not conditionality, not subjectivity, but mega-true reality, and based on that, I created a true guide on how to live. I believe in it as truth, so I have no questions.

But when it’s all mega-conditionality, I look and think: Why? I can’t live from conditional guides.

So I relax and do nothing in that direction.

Then I stop thinking about objectivity entirely. Thoughts about descriptions to act from are, in essence, thoughts about objectivity. Thoughts about guides and instructions are thoughts about objective reasons and meanings to act. When I stop thinking about guides and instructions, I stop thinking about objectivity.

Now I just observe a pile of subjectivity, and based on that, ideas emerge—like returning conditional meaning. Adding one more conditionality to the pile—what’s the harm? My brain doesn’t resist. I return it… and then I observe that my brain doesn’t… The only thing I’m motivated toward is creation.

The Paradox of Motivation

I don’t know why my brain is wired to want to create but not to receive. One thought comes to mind: creating brings happiness. When I follow the motivation to create, I’m happy. I even enjoy life more than when I directly seek pleasure. If I just chase pleasure, I don’t get much psychological satisfaction—only physical. But when I create, I feel fulfillment.

So these are conditional reasons for why things are the way they are.

If I think about how to break this state—whether it can be broken irrevocably, whether it’s built on some other delusion or belief—I don’t know. Maybe yes, maybe no. I tried to break it by thinking: "I can’t prove this to myself. I can’t believe in it because I can’t prove it." But this is just returning to thoughts of objectivity—believing that objectivity exists, that I should be able to prove something.

When I realized that death is just as conditional and subjective as life, my interest in objectivity vanished. The only thing left is the subjective and conditional. Nothing else exists in my observable reality. Hypothetically, something objective might exist beyond perception, but I’m not interested in that. I’m only interested in what I actually observe.

As long as I think something observable is objective, I’ll keep thinking about it. But once I see that nothing in my observation is objective, my interest in objectivity disappears.

So returning to questions like "I can’t prove this" is no longer interesting. I stop thinking about objectivity, and my state stabilizes.

The key thought: The entire technique of removing belief is essentially removing belief in the objectivity of what you observe, feel, and describe. If you can’t prove it, it’s not objective—it’s conditional, subjective, unproven. And if you can’t create anything objective, you stop trying.

The eternal chase to create something objective—some description, some guide—is still thinking about objectivity. But why? Because you believe it’s possible. You’re used to living by guides. But when you realize no guide is objective, you lose the ability to live by it. And then you must abandon the idea entirely.

When you stop trying to create something objective, you stop thinking about objectivity, and you shift to the conditional. Then everything unfolds as I described.

The Only Remaining Motivation: Creation

I don’t know where the motivation to create comes from, or why it exists, but I’m glad it does. The motivation to receive is absent—I don’t know why, but I don’t care. I’m just happy that some motivation exists.

This motivation to create seems to come from conditional meaning. Before returning it, I had no such motivation. So it must emerge from belief in conditional meaning.

How? When I see something, I believe it means it should be created. Some neural logic in my brain says: "If this improves life, it should be done." Motivation arises.

Creation is about change—moving in some direction. I don’t fully understand why believing in purpose creates motivation, but roughly, it works like this: I see something, I think "I can create this," and so "it should be created." If I can do it, it should be done.

I don’t feel this logic, but theoretically, that’s what might be happening.

Testing the State

Now, I’ve run out of observable data to describe. I need to test this state—live in it, watch its stability, see what happens to me. Just observe and gain new experience.

I’ve described everything I can so far. I don’t know if there are errors. I’ll try to watch closely for any beliefs I might still hold. Honestly, the funny thing is, before, I felt like I believed in something, but now I don’t feel like I believe in anything—except conditional meaning. And I clearly see that it’s conditional, not objective, yet it creates motivation, and that doesn’t bother me. It’s fine.

As for the initial stage—no guides, no instructions—it feels natural. I don’t feel controlled by any guide. For example, returning conditional meaning isn’t because of some instruction or objective reason. It’s just: "I do it because it’s better with it than without it." That’s all.

I don’t see where to dig deeper, what to break, what to change. Everything just falls into place.

Now, I’ll just live, work, test, and see if new insights emerge.

Final Note: This Is Not a Guide

Of course, none of this should be used as a guide. It’s just a description of my observations—not instructions on how to live, not a framework to control yourself with. It’s just words.

The only way to use any description is as an objective instruction—but since that’s impossible, this is just a description. Nothing more.

If you don’t use any instructions in your life, questions of why and what for don’t arise. They simply don’t appear naturally. Because, in essence, you aren’t doing anything from some self-created instruction. The feeling of "I am doing this as consciousness" is different when you live without instructions.

When you live without a guide, you think: "Okay, I’m doing something, but not because of any instruction, not because there’s meaning in it, not for such reasons—just for physiological things unrelated to words."

That’s it. I’ve described everything as fully as I can.

If someone asks why I return conditional meaning, the answer comes instantly: Because living without it is too hard. I don’t need an objective reason. A conditional one is enough. It doesn’t bother me that it’s conditional.

As for why I create but don’t receive—no idea. But I’m glad there’s some motivation.

I don’t know how to destroy this state forever, or if it’s built on some other delusion. For now, I’ll just observe.

The end. Now, only testing remains.

Self-Reflection on Two Critical Errors in My Guide

(A First-Person Account of Realizations, Mistakes, and Corrections)

1. The First Error: Imagining Instead of Doing

I recorded a guide, but after finishing it, I made a mistake: I started imagining the guide instead of living it.

What happened?
I began replaying the words I’d spoken in the guide—visualizing the steps, the concepts, the "conditional value" I described. Instead of actually restoring faith in that conditional value, I was imagining what it would feel like to have done so. I was stuck in a loop of thinking about the process rather than engaging with it.

Symptoms of this state:

A strange, hollow motivation: I wanted to do something, but without any clear goal or purpose. No sense of "I want to create X" or "I want to achieve Y"—just a vague urge to act.

No happiness. No fulfillment. Just a mechanical drive, like a ghost of motivation.

I realized: This is what happens when you confuse imagination with reality. I was simulating the state I wanted, not inhabiting it.

The fix:
I caught myself and stopped thinking about the guide entirely. No more mental replays, no more visualizing the steps. I focused on actually restoring faith in the conditional value—not the idea of it, but the real experience.

Result: My motivation returned, but this time it was purposeful. I had a clear goal (to create), a sense of direction, and happiness reemerged. The emptiness dissolved.

2. The Second Error: The Habit of Seeking Pleasure

Even after fixing the first issue, I hit another snag: I was still unconsciously chasing pleasure.

The split mind:

My brain wanted to create—to focus single-mindedly on goals, on building, on output.

My consciousness was still scanning for pleasure: "Should I relax? Play poker? Drink tea?" I was torn between the brain’s drive to create and my own habit of seeking short-term gratification.

I noticed: I was structuring my life around pleasure, not creation. I’d ask, "Where can I get the most pleasure right now?" and follow that impulse. But the pleasure itself felt hollow—I wasn’t even enjoying it. It was just habit.

The root cause:

I’d lost the motivation to seek pleasure. It no longer brought me joy. But I kept doing it out of inertia, like a program running on autopilot.

This created a disconnection: My brain was aligned with creation, but my consciousness was still clinging to the old script of "seek pleasure first."

The fix:
I stopped thinking about pleasure entirely.

No more asking, "What would feel good right now?"

No more structuring my day around dopamine hits.

Instead, I let creation be the only focus. Pleasure became a side effect, not the goal.

Example: Listening to music while washing dishes wasn’t about "enjoying the music"—it was about designing a life where music naturally fits into the structure of creation. The joy came passively, as a byproduct.

Result:

Unity: My consciousness merged with my brain’s drive. No more internal conflict—just a single, powerful motivation: to create.

Happiness returned, but it wasn’t tied to pleasure. It came from the act of creation itself, from the clarity of purpose.

Pleasure still existed, but it was incidental. I noticed it, enjoyed it, but it didn’t dictate my choices. It was like sunlight on a path I was already walking.

The Core Insight: Faith in Conditional Value

Why does this work? Because motivation to create comes from believing that creation has meaning for my happiness.

Old belief (broken):
"Pleasure = happiness." But pleasure-seeking led to emptiness, fragmentation, and a lack of real motivation.

New belief (functional):
"Creation = meaning = happiness." When I truly believe that creating something (a project, a structure, a contribution) matters for my happiness, then:

Motivation arises naturally.

Happiness is sustainable (not dependent on fleeting pleasure).

Goals feel inevitable, not forced.

Evolutionary angle (speculative):
Maybe this is hardwired. Creation—building, innovating, contributing—is how humans thrive. Pleasure alone is passive; creation is active. Evolution rewards the latter.

If we only sought pleasure, we’d never build anything. We’d just consume until we collapsed.

But if we create for the sake of creation, pleasure becomes a bonus, not the point.

How to Apply This (Additions to the Guide)

To avoid these pitfalls, the guide needs two critical updates:

Stop imagining the process.

Don’t visualize or replay the steps of your own advice. Do the thing. Faith in conditional value must be lived, not simulated.

Stop seeking pleasure.

Pleasure will come passively as a side effect of a well-structured life, but it must never be the goal.

Ask: "What do I want to create?" Not: "What would feel good right now?"

Final State: The Peak

When both errors are corrected:

One motivation: To create. Nothing else.

No internal conflict: No tug-of-war between "should I work or relax?" The question doesn’t even arise.

Happiness is constant, tied to the act of creation, not to external rewards.

Pleasure exists, but it’s irrelevant. It’s like background music—nice if it’s there, but the song isn’t the point.

This is the state I aimed for. Now, the challenge is to test it, refine it, and ensure it doesn’t collapse under stress or time. But for now? It’s working.

Closing Thought:
"Satisfaction isn’t in having what you want. It’s in wanting what you’re doing."

The Illusion of Control: A Guide to Letting Go

1. The Obsession with Guides and Control

I noticed something unsettling: I had stopped living in the calm, focused state I once knew. At first, I thought the problem was that I had stopped creating guides for myself—those structured rules I used to follow to feel in control. But then I realized the issue had shifted. I was no longer trying to control myself through guides. Instead, I had started obsessing over creating guides for others.

I wanted to dictate how people should feel, how they should live. I fantasized about writing instructions so precise that others would follow them like a manual, becoming the version of themselves I wanted them to be. The thought of crafting such a guide consumed me—not because it ruined my mood, but because it left me paralyzed with questions: What kind of guide should I write? How do I describe the "right" state for others? How do I ensure they follow it?

I had so many conflicting states myself—sometimes focused, sometimes happy, sometimes aimless—and I didn’t understand how to reconcile them into a single, coherent instruction. The more I tried to define the "perfect" state for others, the more lost I felt. I asked myself: Why do I even have all these options now? Before, there was just one state where everything worked. Why is it so fragmented now?

2. The Core Problem: The Desire to Control Reality

Then it hit me: my real issue wasn’t about the guide itself. It was about control. I didn’t just want to control myself—I wanted to control others. I wanted to shape reality to fit my vision. The guide was just a tool for that.

But here’s the paradox: I couldn’t create a guide that would make people stop controlling themselves—because following a guide is a form of control. If I told people, "Stop controlling yourselves," they’d be using my instruction to do so, which defeats the purpose. My desire was impossible to fulfill through the very method I was using.

I realized: I don’t even believe in my own instructions. How could I? I had no faith in any guide, any description of how life should be. So why was I trying to impose one on others? The answer was simple: I wanted power. I wanted others to exist in a state I deemed correct, and I was frustrated that I couldn’t force that state upon them.

3. The Collapse of the Illusion

I couldn’t escape this cycle because I didn’t want to. I liked the idea of controlling others. But then I saw the truth: the state I wanted for them—a state of non-control—could never be achieved through control. If they followed my guide, they’d still be controlled, just by my rules instead of their own.

This was the breaking point. I understood that:

I couldn’t believe in any guide I created.

Even if I did, forcing others to follow it would only create more control, not less.

My desire to shape reality was the root of my unrest.

So I stopped. I let go of the idea that I needed to write a guide for others—or for myself.

4. The Freedom of Non-Control

When I released the need to control, something extraordinary happened. I stopped looking at descriptions, instructions, or guides as tools for domination—over myself or reality. I no longer saw them as things to cling to, to enforce, to believe in.

Instead, I simply observed them. I could describe my thoughts, my observations, but I no longer treated them as commands. They had no power over me or the world.

And then—I felt free.

Not the kind of freedom that comes from achieving a goal, but a deeper, quieter freedom. There was no motivation to create something grand, no rush to achieve happiness, no burning desire to receive pleasure. Yet, I was content. More than content—I was crystal clear.

5. The New State: Living Without Instructions

In this new state:

There is no "goal." I don’t feel the need to chase anything—neither creation nor pleasure.

There is no "happiness" as a destination. I don’t measure my life by how much joy I extract from it.

There is no "meaning" to seek. I don’t ask why I’m doing something; I just do it.

At first, I tried to recreate the old feelings—the motivation, the purpose, the joy of creation. But it felt hollow. I realized those feelings were tied to control. When I stopped trying to control, they vanished—but what replaced them was better.

Now, I act without needing a reason. I don’t ask, "What’s the point?" because the question doesn’t occur to me. I don’t need a guide to live.

6. The Childlike State

This feels like how I was as a child—before I learned to instruct myself, before I decided reality owed me something. Back then, I didn’t have:

A "purpose" to fulfill.

A "happiness" to chase.

A "reality" to reshape.

I just was. And it was enough.

Now, I’m back there. Not in memory, but in being.

7. The Final Guide: Stop Guiding

If I had to summarize this in a "guide" (ironically), it would be:

Stop believing in any description, instruction, or guide—for yourself or others.

Stop trying to control reality through words, rules, or expectations.

Stop trying to control yourself the same way.

Let go of the need to "create" or "receive" as a life purpose.

When you do this, you won’t find motivation, happiness, or meaning in the old sense. But you won’t need them. What you’ll find instead is a quiet, unshakable clarity—a state where you don’t question, because there’s nothing to question.

You just live.

And it’s perfect.

Closing Thought

I used to think life was about doing—creating, achieving, receiving. Now I see that life is just being. And in that being, there is no lack, no doubt, no unrest.

Only this.

A Guide to Living Without Thought: The State of Pure Observation

1. The Four Categories of Thought

I realized that all my mental activity could be divided into four core patterns—four things I unconsciously fixated on:

Controlling reality through descriptions – I tried to shape the world around me by clinging to certain ideas, rules, or narratives about how things should be. I believed that if I described reality in a certain way, I could bend it to my will.

Controlling myself through descriptions – Similarly, I used internal scripts—"I must," "I should," "I need to"—to dictate my own actions, as if my identity were a set of instructions I had to follow.

Seeking pleasure (or anything else) – Whether it was joy, love, achievement, or validation, I was obsessed with getting something. My mind was always calculating: Am I happy? Am I successful? Am I loved?

Fixating on my past self – I kept revisiting old versions of myself—the person who had different desires, different rules, different ways of controlling reality and myself. I’d think: "I used to want this," "I used to believe that," as if my past self were a separate entity, one whose instructions no longer applied to me.

These four things were the lens through which I experienced everything. And for a long time, I didn’t even realize I was trapped in them.

2. The Trap of "Not Thinking"

At some point, I noticed a mistake I was making. I’d tell myself:

"Don’t think about controlling reality."

"Don’t think about controlling yourself."

"Don’t think about seeking pleasure."

"Don’t think about your past self."

But here’s the catch: I was still thinking. I was replacing one thought with another—the thought of not thinking. I’d obsess over the instruction "don’t think," and in doing so, I was still trapped in the cycle.

This created unstable, uncomfortable states. Any stray thought would disrupt the fragile balance because I was trying to not think, which is still a form of control. I realized: I was using words as tools to manipulate my own mind, and it wasn’t working.

3. The Illusion of Understanding

I became fixated on understanding what words even were. What does it mean to follow an instruction like "don’t think"? Why do these phrases have power over me? I tried to dissect the nature of language, of thought itself, as if I could crack some fundamental code.

But then I hit a wall: You can’t truly understand. Not matter, not consciousness, not the mechanics of thought. The brain isn’t built for absolute comprehension. It’s built for experience.

When I accepted that I would never fundamentally understand, something shifted. I stopped trying to understand. And in that moment, my state improved. The tension dissolved.

4. The Childlike State: Living Without Instructions

I noticed something remarkable: I was already not thinking. Not in the forced, self-conscious way, but naturally. I wasn’t controlling reality. I wasn’t controlling myself. I wasn’t seeking pleasure. I wasn’t fixated on my past.

I had, without realizing it, let go.

This was the state I’d been in as a child—before I absorbed society’s rules, before I started believing in shoulds and musts. Back then, I simply lived. I acted on instinct, on immediate perception, without the layers of self-imposed narratives.

Now, as an adult, I had returned to that state—but with a crucial difference: I had the wisdom of experience. My brain, shaped by years of learning, was still analyzing, still guiding me, but without my interference. It knew how to avoid danger, how to plan, how to balance present and future—better than any conscious "guide" I could invent.

5. The Two Types of "Thinking"

I observed two distinct modes of mental activity:

My "thinking" – This was the chatter in the center of my head, the voice that said "I need to figure this out," "What should I do next?" It pulled me out of reality, made everything fuzzy. It was self-referential, anxious, and controlling.

My brain’s "thinking" – This wasn’t thought in the traditional sense. It was a quiet, surface-level hum, almost like a sensation at the front of my forehead. It wasn’t me analyzing—it was my brain automatically processing the world. I couldn’t see the algorithms, but I could feel it working: assessing risks, making decisions, guiding my actions.

The key insight: I don’t need to interfere. My brain does everything better without my conscious meddling.

6. The Absence of Everything (And Why It’s Perfect)

In this state:

No goals. Not in the traditional sense. There’s no "I must achieve X"—just movement, just life unfolding.

No motivation (as we know it). Not the kind tied to reward or punishment. Just… action, without the mental baggage.

No emotions (in the reactive sense). No fear, no anger, no desperate longing. Just presence.

No belief in descriptions. No "This is how life should be." No "I am this kind of person." Just direct experience.

No past or future. The past self is irrelevant. The future isn’t a source of anxiety—it’s just what emerges from the brain’s natural processing.

It’s not that I’m avoiding these things. They simply don’t arise. And in their absence, life becomes crystal clear.

7. Why This Works (And Why We Resist It)

The brain is designed to handle everything. It:

Notices dangers before I consciously do.

Plans without me needing to "think about the future."

Balances present enjoyment and long-term well-being better than any self-help guru’s advice.

Adapts seamlessly to new situations—without rigid rules.

Yet we resist this because we’ve been conditioned to believe:

"If I don’t control my life, it will fall apart."

"If I don’t have goals, I’ll achieve nothing."

"If I don’t analyze, I’ll make mistakes."

But these are illusions. The brain doesn’t need our conscious interference. It’s the interference that causes problems.

8. The Paradox of "Not Thinking"

The moment I try to apply this—"Okay, now I’ll stop thinking!"—I’m back in the trap. Because even that is a thought.

The solution? Don’t try. Just notice:

When you’re pulled into the center of your head (your "thinking").

When you’re observing reality and the brain’s quiet processing (the natural state).

The more you notice, the more you stop interfering. And the more you stop interfering, the more life flows effortlessly.

9. What This Feels Like

Like being a child again—but with an adult’s wisdom.

Like seeing the world in high definition—no mental static, no distortion.

Like trust—not in some external system, but in your own brain’s innate intelligence.

Like freedom—from the endless cycle of "Am I doing this right?"

It’s not about achieving this state. It’s about realizing you’re already in it—and stopping the habits that pull you out.

10. The Final Realization

All those "guides," "instructions," and "meanings" we cling to? They’re just descriptions. And descriptions are not reality.

The brain doesn’t need them. You don’t need them.

The moment you see that—really see it—you stop. And in that stopping, you find a way of living that’s lighter, clearer, and more alive than anything you’ve ever known.

So what’s left?
Just this:
Life, as it is.
You, as you are.
No instructions needed.

The Obsession with Controlling Reality

At first, I was trapped in a cycle of thinking about controlling reality—the idea that my mind could, or should, dictate how things unfold. But reality, by definition, resists control. My brain operates on its own, independent of my demands, and this realization left me paralyzed. I couldn’t stop fixating on it because the alternative—accepting powerlessness—felt unbearable.

Then, something shifted. I wrote a guide (or tried to), and that act became a new obsession. The problem wasn’t just the control anymore; it was the desire to change reality itself. Not just to manipulate outcomes, but to reshape them according to some internal blueprint. I realized: I wasn’t just trying to control reality—I was trying to alter it, to bend it toward an ideal I’d imagined.

The Core Conflict: Changing Others

The crux of my struggle wasn’t abstract. It was about people—specifically, their minds, their worldviews. I wanted to:

Erase their dependencies (whatever those were in my head).

Rewrite their perspectives so they’d think "independently" (by my definition of independence).

Force growth in them, as if I held the manual for how a person should be.

But here’s the catch: I had no manual. No step-by-step guide for what "better" even looked like. My desire to change others was built on faith—the blind assumption that I knew how they should change, what they should become. In reality, I had no clue. And neither does anyone else.

The Illusion of Change

Belief

Reality

"I know how to fix people."

I don’t. No one does.

"They should be independent."

"Independent" is my subjective ideal.

"I can guide their transformation."

I can only describe my own thoughts.

The Turning Point: Letting Go of the Illusion

The breakthrough came when I asked myself:
"How can I change reality if I don’t even know what ‘changed’ looks like?"

The answer was simple: I can’t. And neither can anyone.

Control is a myth. Reality isn’t a puzzle to solve or a machine to operate. It is. My resistance to this fact was the root of my suffering.

Change requires a destination. But I had no destination—just vague dissatisfaction with the present. Without a clear, objective vision of what "better" means, the desire to change is just spinning wheels.

People change themselves—or they don’t. I can’t force it. I can’t even influence it in any meaningful, predictable way. All I can do is describe my own observations, my own struggles. What others do with that? Their choice.

The Aftermath: Freedom in Surrender

Once I saw the futility of it all, the obsession dissolved. Not because I "fixed" myself, but because I stopped pretending I could fix anything.

No more guides. I can’t write a "how-to" for change because I don’t know how or to what. Any guide would just be another attempt to impose my incomplete, biased vision onto others.

No more responsibility for others. Their minds, their lives—they’re theirs. My only role is to speak my truth (if I even have one) and let go.

Peace in uncertainty. The moment I accepted that I don’t—and can’t—know how reality "should" be, the mental noise quieted. There’s a strange relief in admitting: I don’t have the answers.

The Deeper Pattern: Change vs. Control

I used to think control was the core issue. Now I see it’s secondary. The real engine is the desire to change reality—to mold it into something else, something "better." But "better" is always a fantasy, a projection. Reality doesn’t conform to our scripts.

Here’s the schema I’ve pieced together:

We hold an internal "description" of how things should be.

We measure reality against this description, and the gap creates suffering.

We try to change reality (or others) to match the description.

We fail, because the description is flawed—it’s just a story we tell ourselves.

The only way out? Stop believing the story. Not by replacing it with a better one, but by seeing it for what it is: a fiction.

Where That Leaves Me Now

I can’t tell others how to change. I can’t even tell myself how to change, because I don’t know what "change" would mean. All I can do is:

Observe (without judgment).

Describe (without attachment).

Let go (without resistance).

Everything else is just noise.

Final Thought:
Maybe the only thing worth "changing" is the belief that change is possible—or necessary. The rest is just life, unfolding as it will.

The Core Problem: The Desire to Change Reality

I realize that the deepest issue is the urge to alter reality—whether the past, present, or future. Even the desire to preserve reality is just another form of this urge: a wish to prevent a future where the reality I cling to has changed. At its root, it’s all the same mechanism.

Where Does This Desire Come From?

It stems from a belief: the belief that I possess an objective description—a guide, a manual—dictating how and in what direction reality should be changed. This description creates an image of the reality I want to reach. That image becomes my purpose, my goal, my meaning—why I do what I do. It also becomes my expectations.

The Obsession with Control and Evaluation

I constantly feel the need to:

Control reality—steering it toward my desired image.

Evaluate reality—measuring how well it aligns with my expectations.

When reality matches my expectations, I feel pleasure/happiness.
When it doesn’t, I feel suffering/unhappiness.
I obsess over maximizing pleasure and avoiding suffering. I’m always calculating how much pleasure I’ve gained, as if it were a score.

The Paradox: No Guide Exists

But here’s the problem: I don’t actually have a guide. I don’t know what to do with this. I can only describe what I did—not as a prescription for others, but simply as my own experience. If others find it useful, they’re free to try it. But I make no claims about what they should do.

Step 1: Killing Faith in Descriptions

First, I destroyed my faith in:

Observations (what I see, hear, perceive).

Words (the labels and narratives I assign).

Feelings (the emotional reactions they trigger).

Meaning (the significance I attach to any of it).

How? I realized I cannot prove any of these things to myself. They are constructs, not truths.

Step 2: Losing the Illusion of Control

With no faith in descriptions, I lost the illusion that I know how to control or change reality. Without a trusted guide, the very idea of steering reality became meaningless.

Step 3: Letting Go of Control Itself

I stopped trying to control or change reality because:

I no longer believed in any method to do so.

The desire to control was tied to the belief in a guide—and that belief was gone.

Step 4: The End of Pleasure-Seeking

I also stopped chasing pleasure. Why?

Pleasure comes from reality matching expectations.

But I no longer have expectations—because expectations require a belief in a "correct" reality.

Without expectations, there’s no pleasure to seek or suffering to avoid.

I don’t even evaluate whether I’m happy or not. That evaluation was just another form of control—and control no longer interests me.

What Can I Do?

I can only do two things:

Describe what I did—not as a guide, but as a neutral account.

Live without thinking about guides—just existing, without the burden of "shoulds."

The Two States of Being

Now, I oscillate between two states:

Describing: Sharing my experience (e.g., how the mind works based on my observations).

But this is not a guide. It’s just observation.

Living: Existing without any mental chatter about how things should be.

No instructions. No evaluations. Just being.

A third state—where I believe in a guide—no longer exists for me.

The Final State

What remains?

No mental "guide"—not even this description is treated as one.

No control, no change—because there’s no belief in how to control or what to change.

The Only "Next Step"

Describe my experience in detail (if I choose to).

Keep living—not as a directive, but as the natural result of having no directives at all.

Even this phrase—"describe and live"—could sound like a guide. But I don’t treat it as one.

Key Takeaway (In the Author’s Words)

"No phrase—including this one—is to be taken as a guide for what to do or not do."

The Core Problem: The Illusion of Control and Change

1. The Suffering Caused by "Guides" and Descriptions

I realized that thinking about creating any kind of guide—whether for myself or others—makes me feel terrible. The very act of describing how to live, how to change reality, or how to control myself or the world around me is unbearable. Why? Because a "guide" is just a description, a set of instructions I would use to control or alter reality. But I no longer have any such description in my mind. There is no internal "manual" telling me how to change myself or the world, no belief that I should change anything at all.

The moment I start thinking about such descriptions, my state worsens. My brain resists because it knows: there is no objective way to change reality. Any instruction I might write would be arbitrary, unproven, and ultimately meaningless. So why force myself to suffer by dwelling on it?

2. The Root of the Problem: Belief in Descriptions

The core issue is that most people (including my past self) operate under an unexamined belief: that they know how reality should be. This belief comes from an unconscious faith in their own observations, words, and descriptions. They assume:

Their observations are objective (i.e., what they see and don’t see must reflect what exists and doesn’t exist).

The words they use to describe reality are accurate.

Their internal "guidelines" (their worldview, expectations, desires) are valid instructions for how to live.

But none of this is true. Here’s why:

A. The Illusion of Objective Observation

I used to believe that my observations—what I see, hear, feel—were proof of how reality actually is. But I realized:

I cannot prove that what I observe corresponds to absolute reality.

What I don’t observe might still exist, and what I do observe might be an illusion.

My senses are limited, subjective, and conditional.

Conclusion: My observations are not objective. They are just one possible perspective, not a foundation for truth.

B. The Meaninglessness of Words and Descriptions

Words are just symbols we use to label observations. But if observations themselves are unreliable, then:

Words don’t describe reality—they describe my flawed perceptions.

Any "guide" or "instruction" I create is built on these unreliable perceptions.

Therefore, no description can be trusted as a basis for action.

Conclusion: Words and descriptions are empty. They don’t hold objective meaning.

C. The Illusion of Meaning

Even if I accept that observations and words are unreliable, there’s another layer: the belief that any of this matters. I used to think:

My feelings (pleasure, pain, desire) were signals of what was "right" or "wrong."

My goals and purposes were meaningful.

But meaning is just another description—another layer of belief with no foundation. I cannot prove that anything should mean something. It’s all arbitrary.

Final Realization:

I cannot trust my observations.

I cannot trust words or descriptions.

I cannot trust that anything has inherent meaning.

Result: All my old "guides," expectations, and desires collapse. There is no basis for them.

The Three Toxic Habits of the Mind

Even after dismantling belief in descriptions, I noticed I still felt bad sometimes. Why? Because my brain was still unconsciously clinging to three habits:

1. The Habit of Trying to Control Reality

I kept catching myself:

Searching for some hidden "instruction" in my mind to control myself or others.

Trying to create a new description to replace the old ones.

Feeling stress when reality didn’t match my (now nonexistent) expectations.

Solution: I had to notice this habit and stop. Not because of a new rule ("Don’t control!"), but simply as an act of awareness—like stopping myself from waving my hand for no reason.

2. The Habit of Trying to Change Reality

I would still, without realizing it:

Think about how to "improve" the world or myself.

Feel dissatisfaction when things didn’t go as I (unconsciously) wanted.

Assume that change was necessary or possible in any meaningful way.

Solution: I had to see that change requires a belief in how things should be—but I no longer have that belief. So the desire to change becomes pointless.

3. The Habit of Seeking Pleasure

The deepest habit was the assumption that:

Life should feel good.

I should chase pleasure (love, success, comfort).

My happiness depends on reality matching my desires.

But pleasure is just the brain’s reward for when reality matches a description I believe in. If I have no descriptions, no expectations, then:

Reality can’t "match" or "fail to match" anything.

There is no "pleasure" or "pain" in the old sense—just experience.

Solution: Stop expecting pleasure. Stop evaluating life as "good" or "bad." Just live.

The Freedom of a Life Without Instructions

Now, without any of these habits, what remains?

1. No Goals, No Meaning, No Suffering

I don’t try to change reality because I don’t believe in any "should."

I don’t seek pleasure because I don’t believe in any "better" state.

I don’t control myself or others because I have no instructions to follow.

Result: I am free. My state no longer depends on external conditions.

2. Desires Still Exist—but They Don’t Control Me

I still have desires (e.g., to eat, to move, to create), but:

They arise spontaneously, without attachment.

I don’t identify with them. They’re like background noise.

I don’t use them to create new "guides" or expectations.

Example: If I start a family, it’s not because I should or because it will make me happy. It’s just something I do, without purpose.

3. The Only "Control" That Remains

I still control my body (e.g., walking, avoiding obstacles), but:

This is instinctual, not based on any belief system.

I don’t need a "reason" to move my arm—I just do it.

The same applies to all actions: they happen without a "why."

The Final Insight: The Problem Was Never Belief Itself

At first, I thought the problem was belief—believing in observations, words, meanings. But the deeper issue was what belief leads to:

The creation of mental instructions ("how life should be").

The obsession with controlling and changing reality to match those instructions.

The suffering when reality resists.

The real solution? Stop creating instructions. Stop trying to control. Stop expecting pleasure.

Not because of a new rule—but because it’s impossible to do otherwise once you see the truth.

A Guide for the "Zero Person" (The Last Instruction)

If I were to leave one final message for someone starting from zero, it would be this:

See that all your suffering comes from one source:

The belief that you know how reality should be.

The attempt to force reality to match that belief.

Dismantle the belief:

Realize your observations are not objective.

Realize words and descriptions are empty.

Realize meaning is an illusion.

Notice the three toxic habits:

Stop trying to control reality.

Stop trying to change reality.

Stop seeking pleasure from reality.

Live without instructions:

Act without purpose.

Desire without attachment.

Experience without judgment.

That’s it. Everything else—happiness, freedom, peace—follows naturally.

Closing Thought: Why This Works

The brain is wired to seek control, change, and pleasure because it thinks it has a valid guide. But once you see that no guide is valid, the brain stops resisting. It stops suffering. It just lives.

And in that space—what remains is not emptiness, but aliveness.

On the Nature of True Altruism

I’ve come to understand something profound about a state I’ve been exploring—what I now call final altruism. It’s not about helping others selflessly or wanting to benefit everyone around you. That’s not it at all.

Altruism, as I see it now, is this:
It’s not about what you do—whether you help others or not. It’s about why you do it. Altruism is when you act (or choose not to act) without any desire to gain something in return. No hidden motive, no expectation of reward, not even the quiet hope for gratitude or recognition. You simply act—or don’t—without the goal of obtaining anything.

In this state, the very concept of "taking care of yourself" or "taking care of others" dissolves. There are just actions. Some benefit me; some benefit others. But the doing itself is detached from any aim to get. The only "aim" that ever exists in the mind is the desire to receive—and in this state, that desire is absent.

The Illusion of "Receiving"

I realized that the only thing a person can ever "receive" is a reality they strive for. For example:

You have a vision of how things should be (a better world, a successful project, a loving relationship).

You take actions to reach that reality.

But here’s the trap: You either (1) want to obtain that reality (which binds you to stress and control), or (2) you move toward it without wanting to obtain it—just because the actions themselves arise naturally.

In the altruistic state, if I don’t "receive" the reality I aimed for, it doesn’t bother me. I didn’t act to get it in the first place. If I took care of myself and failed? Fine. If I helped someone and gained nothing? Also fine. The absence of wanting to receive is what makes it altruism.

The Paradox of Motivation

This leads to a strange paradox:

If I don’t want to receive anything, I lose all motivation to do things like writing my guides. Why? Because my only past motivation was the desire to obtain—recognition, money, a better world. Without that, the impulse to act vanishes.

But if I do want to receive something, I plunge into stress. I start controlling every step to ensure I get what I want, and that control is suffocating.

I spent four days searching for a loophole—a way to write my guides without stress, with motivation. There isn’t one. The only way to have motivation is to want something… but wanting is what destroys me.

The Guide Dilemma

I used to think I wanted to write guides to "change the world." But really, I wanted to obtain a world—I wanted to get a reality where people were kinder, where my ideas spread, where I was valued. That’s why the thought of quitting the guides felt like giving up on life itself.

But now, in this altruistic state, I see:

If I write a guide to obtain something (money, fame, impact), I’ll stress endlessly.

If I write a guide without wanting to obtain anything, I have no drive to do it at all.

The only middle path? Delegate. Let others take my notes, spread them, even profit from them—if they want to. I don’t need to control it. I don’t need to get anything from it.

Money and the Illusion of Need

I used to think: "I need money to live, so wanting money is natural." But now I see:

Thinking about money = thinking about receiving.

Thinking about receiving makes me miserable.

I’m happier without money in my mind. I walk, listen to music, enjoy simple things. Why would I trade that for stress? And yet—if I do work, I might earn money without wanting to. That’s the strange part:

I can go to a job, do it well, and get paid… but the doing isn’t about the pay. The pay is just a side effect.

I won’t scheme for raises or promotions. If it happens, fine. If not, fine.

This isn’t laziness. It’s freedom. The workers who keep the world running—they’re not all chasing millions. Many just do the work, take the pay, and live. Maybe they’re closer to altruism than we think.

Life, Death, and the Point of It All

In this state, I don’t fear death. I don’t cling to life. I don’t see the difference between having a lot of money and having none, between success and failure. The question isn’t "Will I survive?" but "Am I living?"

What’s the point of spending a life fighting to survive, to obtain, to win—if you never actually live? You might "succeed" by society’s standards, but if you’re always stressed, always controlled by the need to get, what have you really gained?

The Only Way Forward

I see now that:

I can’t force myself to want to write guides if the only past "want" was to obtain something from them.

I can’t live in the "obtaining" mindset—it’s pure suffering.

The only peace is in acting without aim, or not acting at all.

So what’s left?

If an action arises naturally (helping a stranger, sharing notes, writing without the goal of impact), I do it.

If it doesn’t arise, I don’t force it.

I trust that reality will unfold as it should—without my control.

Final Thoughts

I’m not "giving up" on changing the world. I’m giving up on needing to change it. The world may or may not shift because of my ideas. People may or may not use my guides. But I no longer need to carry that burden.

For the first time, I’m free.

Key Takeaways (In Your Words):

"Altruism isn’t living for others. It’s doing everything without the desire to receive."

"The only thing you can ‘receive’ is a reality you strive for—and striving is what traps you."

"If I act to obtain, I stress. If I don’t want to obtain, I have no drive. The only out is to let others act if they want to."

"Money, fame, impact—wanting them is suffering. Not wanting them is peace."

"Life isn’t about surviving. It’s about living without the noise of getting."

A Reflection on Letting Go: Thoughts, Observations, and the Illusion of Control

1. The Absence of Altruism and the Burden of Duty

I realize now that I’ve been misleading myself. In the past, I spoke of a faint "altruistic desire" to share my guides with others—a half-hearted impulse, easily discarded. But the truth is simpler: I have no desire at all to spread anything. No intrinsic pull, no curiosity, no passion. The only force that moves me is an old, ingrained sense of duty—a belief that if something is useful to me, I must share it with others. This isn’t altruism; it’s a relic of past dependencies, a habit of thinking I owe the world something.

Without this duty, I’d have no motivation. If I reject both the idea that I should help others and the idea that I gain something (money, recognition, satisfaction) from it, then I simply don’t care. My notes would stay on my computer, untouched. The only way I can act is by clinging to this outdated framework: "I must because I can."

2. The Illusion of Meaning and the Trap of Thinking About It

This morning, I woke up with a strange clarity. I noticed that my good mood was tied to a narrative I’d constructed: "I’ve stopped obsessing over the guides. I’ve handed them off to others. Now I’m free. My life is my own." Believing this story—this meaning—made me feel light, hopeful. But then I caught myself: Am I just trading one obsession for another?

I observed a pattern:

Old Habit: Humans (including me) are conditioned to think in terms of guides, instructions, control—scripts for how reality should be. We chase the pleasure of shaping life to match these scripts, or we agonize over past/future versions of them.

The Harm: This thinking hurts. It’s a cycle of frustration, because reality resists control.

The Escape: To stop the pain, I had to see it, name it, and command myself to stop with words like:

"I’m thinking about the guide again. Stop."

"I’m craving pleasure from control. Stop."
These words act like a mental override, a direct order to my brain to disengage.

But then something else happens. After I stop thinking about control, I start thinking about the meaning of having stopped. "What does this mean? That I’m free? That my future is bright?" This thinking about meaning feels good—it’s not quite belief, but a mental simulation of significance. And it’s this simulation that lifts my mood.

The Problem: Is this just another trap? Am I replacing the obsession with control with an obsession with meaning?

3. The Paradox of Not-Caring

I oscillate between two states:

State A: Thinking about control, change, or pleasure—this is harmful.

State B: Not thinking about those things, but noticing that I’m not thinking about them, and then assigning meaning to that absence.

In State B, I feel good. But is this just another layer of illusion? If I stop assigning meaning, will the good feeling vanish? Or is the meaning itself irrelevant, as long as the harmful thoughts are gone?

Key Insight: The only thing that matters is that State A is toxic. State B—whatever it is—works. It feels stable, peaceful. The mechanics of why it works don’t matter. I don’t need to understand my brain to benefit from this.

4. The Final Hurdle: Letting Go of the Past

The last thread holding me back is guilt—the belief that I must share my insights to "save" others. This isn’t about altruism; it’s about old programming:

"What if I’m wrong, and people suffer because I didn’t help?"

"What if this is my purpose, and I’m abandoning it?"

But this is just my past self talking—the version of me that believed in duty, in grand missions. My new self doesn’t care. It wants simplicity: to live, to exist without the weight of shoulds.

The Plan:

Delegate: Give all my notes to others (e.g., my brother) to spread as they see fit. Let them earn from it if they want. I don’t need the money or the credit.

Release: Once it’s out of my hands, stop thinking about it entirely.

Trust the Process: The state that follows—whether it’s empty, meaningful, or something else—will be fine, because I won’t be trapped in State A anymore.

5. The Fear of the Unknown (and Why It Doesn’t Matter)

I worry: What if this "final state" is unstable? What if I’m missing something? What if my brain is tricking me?

But these fears are just residual control impulses. The truth is:

I don’t know what the final state will feel like, and I can’t know until I fully let go.

It doesn’t matter. As long as I’m not in State A (obsession with control), the details are irrelevant.

The only "trick" is to stop breaking my own peace by trying to understand or control it.

6. The Core Realization: Control Is the Only Problem

Everything boils down to this:

Thinking about control/change/pleasure = suffering.

Not thinking about them = peace.

The rest—meaning, purpose, the "right" way to live—is noise. There is no objective instruction manual for existence. The only useful question is: "Does this thought pattern harm me?" If yes, drop it. If no, let it be.

Final Thought:
I’ve spent years trying to solve my mind. But the solution was never in solving—it was in stopping the search. Now, I’ll pass on what I’ve learned, then walk away. What comes next isn’t a problem to fix. It’s just life.

Closing Note

This isn’t a philosophy or a guide. It’s a personal unraveling—a description of how one mind untangled itself from its own traps. The words aren’t perfect. The logic has gaps. But the experience is real, and for now, that’s enough.

1. The Problem with Guides and Self-Control

I recorded a guide recently, describing my observations about how my mind works—just my thoughts on how everything is structured inside my head. Without realizing it, I started using that description as a guide, a way to control my state. I noticed that I was unconsciously creating these guides for myself, treating them as references for how things should be. At first, it seemed harmless—just describing something and then using it to check my state against it.

But then I realized: this is living by a guide. And I hate that. I don’t want to live according to some pre-written description, some set of words I’m supposed to follow. My state got worse because I was controlling myself with words I didn’t even believe in. Instinctively, I resisted it.

I fell into the illusion that if I couldn’t use a description to control myself, then I couldn’t describe what was happening in my head at all. And if I couldn’t describe it, then I couldn’t know what was happening. For a whole day, I was stuck in this loop, refusing to accept that I could live without understanding my own mind. But then I realized: I can know what’s happening in my head. I can describe it. I just can’t control it with that description. That was the only thing I couldn’t do. Once I understood that, I could live with it.

2. The Illusion of Control Through Words

In my last guide, I talked about stopping the habit of trying to control reality, change it, or seek pleasure through words and descriptions. But I was wrong—I still do those things, just uncontrollably. Words don’t control the process; they only remind me that such a thing exists.

For example:

I might notice that I’m trying to control something with a description.

Words act like a sticky note: "Hey, remember that thing where you try to control reality?"

Then, without any words, I can just stop doing it.

The moment I try to explain how to stop—how to follow some verbal instruction—it becomes another guide, another attempt to control myself with words. And that’s exactly what I need to avoid.

So the process is:

Notice (words help me recall the concept).

See it happening in real time.

Stop (without words, without control).

3. The State Beyond Descriptions and Meanings

At some point, I completely forgot about guides, control, change, and pleasure. For days, I didn’t think about any of it. I wasn’t stuck in the loop of "I can’t trust my observations" or "words don’t reflect reality." I just… lived.

Then, I described my state in words:
"I’m not thinking about control, change, or pleasure. I’m not thinking about the past. I’m not thinking about whether I can trust my own mind."

But the second I started thinking about the meaning of that description, things shifted:

Motivations appeared.

My state changed.

I felt a pull toward certain actions.

The problem? If I think about writing a guide for others, I don’t want to do it—unless I force myself to think "I should get something from this" or "I have to do this," which makes my state worse.

But now, I realize: I don’t need to force desire. I can just write without wanting to control, change, or gain anything. The act itself doesn’t require motivation—it can be neutral.

4. The Trap of Wanting to Understand

I noticed that when I don’t think about meanings, I’m in a completely neutral state—no desires, no aversions. But when I do think about meanings:

Pros: Motivation appears. Life feels more vivid.

Cons: I start wanting specific things, which divides the world into "things I want" and "things I don’t." That’s a limitation.

Right now, I’m in a state where:

I don’t think about any descriptions.

I don’t think about their meanings.

I have no desires at all.

This feels like true freedom—I can do anything or nothing, and both are fine. But is it better than the state where I do think about meanings? I don’t know yet. Maybe the ideal is to switch between them depending on the situation.

5. Writing Guides Without Control

Before, I couldn’t write guides for others because:

If I thought about meaning, I’d stress over controlling/changing reality.

If I didn’t think about meaning, I had no desire to write at all.

Now, I see a third option:

Write without meaning. Not to control, not to change, not to gain—just to write.

This removes the stress. I can describe things without turning them into instructions.

The key insight:

"I can change reality in any direction without needing to control or desire the outcome."

This means:

I don’t fear losing control.

I don’t need to force motivation.

I can act without the burden of "I must" or "I want."

6. The Paradox of Desire and Action

When I think about meaning:

I want to do specific things (e.g., start a family, go skateboarding).

But I don’t want to write guides.

When I don’t think about meaning:

I have no desires—but I can write guides effortlessly.

The solution?

Use the neutral state for tasks that don’t require desire (e.g., writing).

Use the meaning state for things that do (e.g., personal joy, relationships).

But here’s the catch:

Constantly thinking about meaning is exhausting—like living inside a story all the time.

Never thinking about meaning feels empty—like existing without living.

Maybe the balance is:

"Think about meaning when it’s useful. Forget it when it’s not."

7. The Illusion of Faith and Proof

I used to believe that:

No description is proven.

No meaning is objective.

Therefore, I can’t trust any of it.

But now, I don’t need to believe. I can just:

Observe reality.

Describe it (without attachment).

Act without demanding proof or control.

The old me would’ve been paralyzed by "But is this true?"
The new me says: "Who cares? Just do it."

8. The Final Realization: No Guide Is Needed

The core problem was never descriptions or meanings. It was:

"The desire to use descriptions to control, change, or gain something from reality."

Once I removed that, everything else became optional.

Now:

I can describe my state without turning it into a guide.

I can think about meaning without being controlled by it.

I can act without needing desire or proof.

The ultimate freedom?
To live without needing to understand, control, or justify every thought and action.

Closing Thought

I still don’t know what’s "best"—living with meaning or without it. But now I know:

"I don’t have to choose. I can flow between them."

And that’s enough.

The Experiment with a New State of Mind

I tested a new mental state—one where I don’t think about control, change, or improvement. In this state, I realized something striking: I feel no emotions, no desires, no aversions—nothing at all. The reason? Even here, I can’t stop thinking about writing guides for others. I’m still fixated on the idea of guides, but without the usual impulses:

I don’t think about controlling myself with these guides.

I don’t think about changing anything through them.

I don’t think about gaining something from them.

This lack of attachment means no stress—but the mere act of thinking about guides (which I don’t even believe in myself) blocks me from feeling anything. It’s a paradox: the guides are empty words to me, yet I can’t escape them.

The Contrast with the Past

Before, when I thought about writing guides, I believed in them. I saw them as truths I was about to share with the world, and that belief filled me with joy—even if I didn’t actually want to write them. The anticipation of "telling everyone and making things better" was exhilarating.

Now? The opposite:

I don’t believe in the guides.

I don’t see them as truths—just meaningless words.

I don’t care about changing others or controlling outcomes.

Yet I still think about writing them. The result? Total emotional flatness. No joy, no frustration, no desire—just a robotic existence. I eat, walk, and function, but it’s all mechanical. No positive or negative emotions, just absolute neutrality.

The Trap of Thinking

I can’t switch this off. If I stop thinking about the guides, I fall into another state—one I used to call "thinking about meaning" (though it’s not quite that). That state comes with personal desires and emotions, but I can’t allow myself to stay there because:

It would mean abandoning the idea of writing guides entirely.

I’d become indifferent to others, which feels wrong—like a betrayal.

Something holds me back. Not duty, exactly, but an unnameable force. I can’t choose. So I remain stuck in this neutral, emotionless state, doing everything without feeling.

The Core Dilemma: Why Bother?

I used to stress over writing guides because I couldn’t detach from control, change, or gain. Now, I’ve mastered detachment—but I still don’t want to write them. There’s no motivation:

Money? Irrelevant. Happiness isn’t in money; it’s in a good state of mind. If I’m miserable while writing, money won’t fix that.

Altruism? Maybe. But even that’s not compelling enough to endure weeks in this hollow state.

Life is short. Why waste time in this emotional void just to produce something I don’t care about? It feels like a pointless sacrifice.

The Escape Plan: Delegation

My solution? Hand everything over to my brother. He wants money; that’ll motivate him. The key is to ensure he doesn’t read my guides—or he might end up like me: disillusioned and indifferent. If he does, the chain would never end. Someone else would have to take over, and so on.

But even this plan feels flawed. There’s a deep, instinctual urge to share my knowledge—like a social imperative. My brain resists hoarding it. Is it altruism? Dependency? I don’t know. But the pull is there.

The Hypothesis: Freedom Through Surrender

I suspect that if I truly let go—if I give away all my knowledge—I’d break free. Right now, I can imagine that freedom:

When I pretend I’ve already shared everything, my state improves dramatically.

I stop thinking about guides.

I feel lighter, happier.

But is this real? Or just a mental trick? To test it, I’d need to actually surrender the knowledge and see what happens. Until then, it’s just theory.

The Experiment: Can I Work in This Imagined State?

I considered trying to write guides while imagining I’ve already given them away. But:

Holding that imagination takes too much focus. I can’t work and visualize simultaneously.

If I stop visualizing, I revert to the empty, neutral state.

So, the test fails before it begins. The only way forward is to actually let go—pass the knowledge to someone else and see if the predicted freedom arrives.

The Unchanged Truth About Altruism

Through all this, one thing remains constant: true altruism has no agenda. In my "correct" state, I don’t act to control, change, or gain. I act without purpose—just action itself. That’s what I call altruism.

But here’s the irony: even this realization doesn’t resolve my dilemma. I’m still trapped between:

Writing guides (which drains me emotionally).

Abandoning them (which feels morally wrong).

Delegating them (which might not work).

The Final Question

What now? I don’t know. But I feel a small, stubborn impulse: the need to pass this on. Maybe it’s instinct. Maybe it’s addiction. But it’s there—and it might be the only way out.

Key Themes Summarized

Theme

Past State

Current State

Desired State

Belief in Guides

Strong (saw them as truths)

None (sees them as empty words)

Irrelevant (freedom from the thought)

Emotional State

Joyful (anticipation of sharing)

Neutral (robotic, no feelings)

Light, happy (post-surrender)

Motivation

Stress (control/change/gain)

None (but can’t stop thinking)

Instinctual urge to share

Solution Attempts

Forced writing (failed)

Detachment (partial success)

Total surrender (untested)

Closing Reflection
"I’m caught between a state that feels like death and a state that feels like betrayal. The only path left is to leap—and see if the fall is freedom or just another trap."

The Core Realization: Letting Go of Control Through Words

1. The Problem: Writing as a Source of Stress

For a long time, I noticed that whenever I tried to write guides, instructions, or any kind of prescriptive content for others, I experienced intense stress. The act of creating something meant to control, change, or direct—whether myself or other people—poisoned my state of mind. Even the thought of crafting such descriptions triggered anxiety.

At first, I couldn’t understand why. The only solution I saw was to abandon all my notes, give them away as-is, and walk away. I believed that if I stopped trying to shape others’ actions or my own through words, I’d finally feel at peace. And I was right—but only partially.

2. The Two Types of Harmful "Descriptions"

I realized there are two kinds of descriptions that destroy my well-being:

Descriptions for myself – Instructions, rules, or frameworks I create to control or alter my own behavior, reality, or future. ("How I should live," "What I must do to change.")

Descriptions for others – Guides, advice, or prescriptions I write to control or change other people. ("What you should do," "How you must think to improve.")

Both are toxic because they stem from the same impulse: the desire to manipulate reality through language. Whether the target is me or others, the mechanism is identical—words as tools for enforcement.

3. The Breakthrough: Not Creating, Just Describing

The shift came when I stopped trying to create these descriptions altogether. Instead of asking:

"How can I write a guide to fix others?"

"What rules should I impose on myself?"

I began to simply observe and record what already exists:

"What did I actually do?"

"What did I notice in my mind?"

"What happened, without judgment or instruction?"

This isn’t a guide. It’s not a manual. It’s raw documentation—like a scientist noting phenomena, not a preacher delivering sermons.

4. The Freedom in Technical Work

Once I detached from the intent to control, I could engage with my notes in a purely technical way:

Repurposing: Feeding them into an AI to generate summaries.

Publishing: Compiling them into a book to sell.

Sharing: Offering them to others without expecting them to follow, change, or obey.

The key? No hidden agenda. No subtext of "This will fix you" or "This is how you must live." Just: "Here’s what I saw. Use it if it helps. Or don’t."

5. The Illusion of "Helping" Others

I used to believe that helping people required giving them instructions. But now I see that true help doesn’t demand compliance. It’s not about saying:

"Do X, and your life will improve."

"Stop Y, or you’ll fail."

Instead, it’s:

"I struggled with this. Here’s what I tried. Maybe it’ll resonate. Maybe not."

"I don’t know what you should do. But here’s a piece of my experience—take it or leave it."

This removes the burden of authority. I’m not a guru. I’m just someone sharing observations.

6. The Empty Page Test

A litmus test for my state of mind:
If I imagine a blank page and ask, "What should I write for others?":

Old mindset: My brain floods with shoulds—"Tell them to stop believing Z! Warn them about W!" (This is the voice of control.)

New mindset: Silence. There’s nothing to say—because I have no instructions to give. No demands. No "musts."

This silence isn’t failure. It’s freedom.

7. The Paradox of Motivation

Strangely, once I stopped trying to change people (or myself) through writing, I regained motivation to:

Work with my notes technically (editing, publishing).

Earn money from them (without attachment to how others use them).

Live fully—programming, traveling, resting—without waiting for permission from some future "release" of my ideas.

Before, I thought: "I can’t live until I’ve given away all my notes and stopped thinking about them." Now? I can engage with them without the poison—because I’ve severed the link between my words and the need to control.

8. The Root of the Problem

All my past suffering trace back to one core error:
Believing that words could (or should) function as levers to move reality.

Wanting to change myself? That required a self-imposed script.

Wanting to change others? That required a guide, a manifesto, a set of rules.

Wanting to enjoy life? That, too, became a description to chase ("How to be happy").

But descriptions are not reality. They’re maps, not territory. And when I confused the two, I lost myself in the process.

9. The Way Forward: Speaking Without Instructing

Now, when I speak or write, I ask:

"Am I describing what is?" (Safe.)

"Am I prescribing what should be?" (Danger.)

If it’s the latter, I stop. Not out of fear, but because I have no prescriptions to offer. Not for myself. Not for others.

What remains?

Honest accounts of my experiences.

Technical projects (e.g., compiling notes into a book).

Conversations where I say, "I don’t know what’s best for you—but here’s what I’ve seen."

This isn’t passivity. It’s active non-control.

10. The Final Insight: The Myth of "Should"

The deepest lie I told myself was:
"If I don’t write guides, I’m useless to others."

But the truth?
The only thing I ever had to offer was my raw, unfiltered experience—not my instructions, not my rules, but the simple story of what I’ve lived.

And that’s enough.

Key Takeaways (In the Author’s Words)

"I cannot think about creating descriptions to control myself or others without ruining my state."

"The only safe work is technical—repurposing, publishing, sharing without the hidden goal of change."

"Helping others doesn’t mean telling them what to do. It means showing them what I did—and letting them decide."

"When I stop writing prescriptions, I stop suffering. What remains is just life—no conditions, no scripts."

"I have nothing to teach. Only things to describe."

The Realization: Stopping the Need to Speak to Others

I recorded a short addition to my previous notes. After writing them, I kept thinking about what else I could say to other people. The very act of wondering what to say to others—or even whether to say anything at all—was spoiling my state of mind. I realized I needed to stop trying to communicate anything to others, just as I had already stopped trying to say things to myself.

The previous recording wasn’t for myself, not entirely. I wrote it for others. I described things, spoke things, framed them in a way that was meant to be shared. At the time, I didn’t consciously think, "This is for them," but afterward, I caught myself planning to take those words and deliver them to people. And once that thought took root, I spiraled: What else could I say? What else should I tell them? The obsession grew, and my state deteriorated.

Then it hit me: I have nothing to say to others. The desire to speak to them—the compulsion to craft words, instructions, or guidance—had to stop. Not just reduced, not just moderated, but completely ceased. No more thinking about what to say. No more attempting to form those thoughts. No more speaking to others at all.

Because the truth is, I can’t say anything to them. Not a single word. Just as I’ve stopped speaking to myself—stopped using words as tools to control myself, to alter reality, to follow some imagined script—the same applies to others. There is no instruction manual I can offer. There are no words left to give. And the effort to create them must end.

The Shift: From Speaking to Describing

I used to spend all my time doing one thing: speaking—to myself, to others, endlessly shaping words, trying to make them matter. But now, I can stop. Not by starting something new, but by ceasing this entirely.

When I stop, I enter a state where I can do everything—except speak. In this state, I can act, create, exist fully, as long as I don’t speak to others or to myself. The moment I do, the state collapses.

So what can I do? I could, for example, describe my own journey—not as advice, not as a guide, but as a pure account. Condense everything I’ve recorded (hundreds of rambling audio notes) into one tight, clear, beautiful summary. Not to teach, not to prescribe, but simply to document: This is what happened. This is the path I took.

I could share that—not as a "product" for others, but as an artifact. The key distinction: it wouldn’t be for anyone. It would just be. No hidden agenda. No attempt to influence. Just description.

The Core Problem: The Illusion of Useful Words

I kept searching for the root of the issue. Earlier, I thought it was the desire to create descriptions for others. But the deeper root is simpler: the urge to speak to others at all.

Speaking to others—even casually, even without intent—disrupts my state. The same goes for speaking to myself: trying to control myself with words, to "guide" my reality, to extract some outcome. All of it is the same trap.

I can talk with people, but I cannot say things to them. There’s a difference. One is exchange; the other is imposition. One is presence; the other is performance.

The Test: Can I Maintain This?

Right now, I’m in the state where I’m not speaking to others. I’m just speaking—describing, not instructing. But I know the risk: I could slip back. I could start thinking, "What if I tell them this?" or "What if I frame it that way?" And then I’d lose it all.

The only safety is absolute cessation. No words for others. No words for myself. No attempts to craft them. No exceptions.

What’s left? Just this: I’ve described everything I can. Anything beyond that would be speaking to someone, and I can’t do that anymore.

The Paradox: Describing the Undescribable

I keep circling the same realization: I have nothing to say. Not because I lack words, but because the act of saying is the problem. The moment I try to give something—to others or to myself—I break the state that lets me be.

So what remains? Only this:

I’ve stopped speaking to others.

I’ve stopped speaking to myself.

I can describe what I’ve experienced, but not to teach, not to guide—only to mark the path.

Everything else is silence.

Final Note: The Experiment Continues

For now, I hold this state. I don’t know if it’s permanent. I don’t know if I’ll slip. But the rule is clear:
Speak only to describe. Never to say.

The rest is testing. The rest is living.

The Mistake of Simplifying Descriptions

I realized I made a serious mistake in my previous recordings. At some point, I noticed a new problem: when I think about wanting to say something to others—or even to myself—it makes me feel worse. I observed this pattern and decided to act on it. Instead of just describing it, I wanted to extract something from all my past descriptions (of which I’d accumulated many).

Previously, I’d said the core problems were:

The desire to change reality,

The desire to control,

The desire for pleasure,

Belief in certain words or descriptions,

And so on.

But this time, I wanted to reduce all these descriptions to a single root cause. I thought: "If I remove this one root, everything else will collapse." I wanted to separate the "important" descriptions from the "unimportant," the "true" from the "false." I believed that if I could isolate one key description—the most accurate, the closest to truth—I could build my state of mind around it.

But this was the mistake. By focusing on that single description, I started believing in it. I built my mental state on it, and everything became worse. I couldn’t understand why. I spent an entire day unable to reach a normal state because I had already made the error of dividing—of cutting away what I thought was unimportant.

This morning, I spent hours trying to figure out what was happening. Then I remembered my past recordings and realized: I must have made a mistake in my descriptions. This had happened before—when I described something incorrectly and then tried to understand reality based on that flawed description.

The Solution: Expanding, Not Reducing

The key insight? I cannot reduce the number of descriptions in my mind. In fact, I need more of them. The wider the picture, the better. When my descriptions are narrow, compressed, or cut off, I start misunderstanding them. I lose information, and questions arise—Why can’t I say anything to others? Why can’t I say anything to myself?—and my state deteriorates.

But when my mental picture is complete—when nothing is cut away, when I’m not trying to simplify—I have no questions. I don’t wonder why I don’t believe in any single description, why I don’t rely on one "true" version. I don’t ask why I don’t think about telling others what to do or say. There are no conflicts because I understand why.

The brain doesn’t work by simplification. When I try to compress everything into one idea, I lose the full context, and my mind stops understanding. The more expansive my internal descriptions, the better my state, my understanding, my clarity.

The Desire to Speak and Its Consequences

I noticed that when I think about saying something to others, my state worsens. The solution? Just work, just write—without the intention of telling others what to do. Then everything flows smoothly.

At one point, I thought this desire to speak was the root of all problems. I wanted to "breathe easy," believing I’d found the core. But that was another mistake. There is no single root. Everything is interconnected:

The desire to speak to others → stems from the desire to control or change them.

The desire to control or change → stems from belief in certain descriptions.

Belief in descriptions → stems from belief in observations.

It’s all a system. Cutting out one part (like the desire to speak) while ignoring the rest creates imbalance. If I remove the context—why I want to speak (to control, to change, to gain pleasure)—I’m left with an empty rule: "Don’t speak to others." Then I start asking why?, and the missing context creates confusion.

The Illusion of Belief

At times, I’ve wanted to create a description I could believe in—some perfect phrase that would free me from my struggles. I thought: "If I believe in these words, I’ll stop trying to control others, and my state will improve."

But now I see:

I cannot believe in any description. It’s impossible for me to truly believe in words.

Belief isn’t necessary for well-being. The fact that I can’t believe in anything is enough to discard the idea entirely.

The Freedom of Non-Attachment

Now, I can work, write instructions for others, and live without the burden of telling them how to live. I can say: "Here’s how to achieve a state. Follow it or don’t—it doesn’t matter to me." This detachment allows me to function without conflict.

Before, I thought I had to get rid of all my notes—publish them raw, unfinished—because holding onto them made me think about saying something to others, which harmed my state. But now, I can think about my notes, my descriptions, without it turning into a compulsion to influence others. The problem is gone.

Testing the New State

This is a new, unfamiliar state. I need to test it:

Can I think about the meaning of my words without harm?

Can I think about my descriptions without slipping into control or desire?

Right now, it seems possible. Thinking about meaning doesn’t create problems. Desires arise, but they’re not tied to control or change—they’re just normal life impulses.

The Absence of Rules

There’s no guidebook now. No instructions, no need to control or change. What happens next is unscripted. I don’t chase comfort; I don’t need to. I’ll live and see what emerges.

The old question—"What should I choose?"—is irrelevant. There’s no "should." Whatever happens, happens. I’ll observe, test, and let reality unfold.

Final Thought

The mistake was in dividing—in trying to isolate one "true" description. Reality is a whole. Cutting parts of it away only creates suffering. Now, I embrace the full picture, and the conflict dissolves.

The Discovery of a Fundamental Belief: Faith in Objective Logic

I have made a profound and unexpected discovery—a belief so deeply embedded in my thinking that I only now recognize its presence. This belief is faith in the existence of an objective logic in the world. By "logic," I mean something very specific: the belief in consequence. What does this mean? It is the unquestioned assumption that something follows from something else—that observations, words describing those observations, or even abstract ideas inherently lead to outcomes, meanings, or actions.

But here is the revelation: I do not observe this. I do not see, in any direct or indirect way, that anything must follow from anything else. This isn’t about proof or disproof; it’s about the absence of observation itself. I cannot point to a single instance where I witness a necessary connection between cause and effect, premise and conclusion, or action and reaction. The belief that such connections exist is an illusion—a mental construct I’ve inherited, not a feature of reality.

The Collapse of Meaning and Motivation

For years, I operated under the assumption that my observations, my words, and my descriptions meant something—that they led somewhere. I studied reality, described it, and believed that these acts had consequences. But now, I see that none of it matters, because nothing follows from anything.

Words and observations are empty. Whether I describe the sun rising or my own emotions, the description itself does not compel any outcome. It is just sound or text.

Cultural and personal "logics" (e.g., "If someone hits me, I should hit back") are arbitrary. They are not laws of nature but shared delusions, passed down through repetition, not truth.

Even survival is not "logical." There is no inherent reason to preserve my life, to seek pleasure, or to avoid pain. These are just habits of thought, not objective truths.

When this realization fully landed, my motivation evaporated. Why speak? Why observe? Why describe? If nothing follows from anything, then all effort is equally meaningless. The projects I’ve worked on for years—the guides, the analyses, the explorations—now feel like a house of cards built on a belief in consequences that do not exist.

The Two Layers of Belief: Consequence and Meaning

I now see two distinct but interconnected beliefs that have governed my life:

Belief in Consequence
The assumption that A leads to B—that actions, observations, or words inherently produce outcomes.

Example: "If I work hard, I will succeed." But where is the proof that hard work must lead to success? It’s a pattern we’ve observed, but patterns are not laws.

Root: This belief stems from inductive reasoning—the mistake of assuming the future will resemble the past. The sun rose yesterday, so it must rise tomorrow. But this is not a law; it’s a guess based on memory.

Belief in Meaning
The assumption that consequences matter—that they carry weight, value, or significance for me.

Example: "If someone insults me, it means I am worthless." But this is a secondary delusion: first, we invent a consequence ("insult → worthlessness"), then we invent a meaning for that consequence ("worthlessness is bad").

Root: This is psychological, not logical. It’s about how my mind reacts to invented consequences, not about any objective truth.

The critical insight: Meaning cannot exist without consequence. If nothing follows from anything, then nothing means anything. The two beliefs are symbiotic, and dismantling one collapses the other.

The Illusion of Logic in Nature and Culture

We mistake prediction for law. Because the sun has risen every day of my life, I predict it will rise tomorrow. But this is not a logical necessity—it’s a probabilistic guess. The same applies to cultural "logics":

"If you wrong me, I should punish you."

"If you fail, you are inadequate."

"If you suffer, you must fix it."

These are not observations of reality; they are stories we tell ourselves, reinforced by repetition. We treat them as laws because we’ve forgotten they are inventions.

Even scientific or survival-based "logics" (e.g., "Eat to live") are not inherent. They are useful fictions—tools for prediction, not truths. The universe does not demand that I eat, breathe, or avoid pain. I do these things because my body and mind are conditioned to do so, not because they are logically necessary.

The State of Liberation (and Its Paradox)

Losing faith in consequence has left me in a strange, weightless state. On one hand, it is profoundly freeing:

I no longer feel compelled to analyze, describe, or justify anything. Why observe closely if nothing follows from observation?

I no longer chase meaning or purpose. If consequences are illusions, then so are goals.

I no longer fear mistakes or failures, because they don’t mean anything. They are just events.

On the other hand, it creates a paradox of motivation:

I have no reason to share this realization with others, because my words cannot compel understanding or change. They are just sounds.

I have no reason to continue my previous work, because the belief that it matters is gone.

Yet, I am testing this state, and so far, it feels comfortable—even ideal. There are no downsides I’ve found. Life continues, but without the burden of invented consequences.

How This Belief Was Uncovered

The unraveling happened when I examined the chain of my own past realizations:

I stopped believing in observations (because they are not "proven").

Then, I stopped believing in words/descriptions (because they are just symbols, not reality).

Then, I stopped believing in meaning (because meaning requires consequence).

Finally, I saw that consequence itself is the core delusion.

The breakthrough came when I asked:

Why do I assume that my past experiences imply anything about the future?

Where is the "law" that says "if X, then Y" must hold?

What if all "logic" is just memory and habit, not truth?

The answer: There is no law. There is only what happens, and our minds’ desperate attempt to impose order on it.

What Remains?

Mechanical actions: I can still do things (e.g., format old recordings, publish them), but without belief in their significance.

Direct experience: I focus only on what is immediately relevant to me, not on "understanding" or "controlling" reality.

A strange peace: The absence of motivation is not suffering—it’s relief. The world is no longer a puzzle to solve or a script to follow.

I may share these recordings, not because I believe they should help others, but because it’s a residual habit. But I no longer care if they do. That, too, is liberation.

Final Thought: The Human Error

All of humanity operates under this delusion. We invent consequences, then invent meanings for them, then live as if they are real. But they are not. The world does not tell us what follows from what. We are alone with our perceptions, and our perceptions are not laws.

This is not nihilism. It is the end of a very old lie.

The Dilemma of Sharing My Work: Money, Meaning, and Reality

1. The Initial Conflict: To Publish or Monetize?

I spent an entire day agonizing over what to do with my writings. Should I monetize them? Should I keep them private? The only two options that felt right—that preserved my peace of mind—were:

Publishing everything for free, exactly as it is, and forgetting about it.

Giving all my notes to my brother, so he could decide whether to monetize them. This way, at least the profit would stay within the family, not with strangers exploiting my free content.

Both options had one thing in common: I would stop thinking about it. The problem wasn’t the money—it was the mental burden of deciding. I don’t need money, and the idea of profiting from my work doesn’t excite me. But then a thought struck me: If I give my notes to my brother, they won’t reach people who need them now. People struggling with depression, suicidal thoughts, or existential suffering—those who might find solace or clarity in my words—would have to wait months while my brother figures out what to do. Is it fair to delay help when I can provide it immediately?

I realized: I don’t need money, but others need these notes. So I decided to publish everything for free—but with a twist. My brother, Tim, would hear about it first. Since he’d be the first to know, he could act faster than anyone else to monetize the content if he wanted. My family, of course, protested: "How can you give away years of work for free? You’re devaluing your labor!" But I don’t feel the loss. Money doesn’t motivate me. I don’t understand why I’d need it.

2. The Experiment: Imagining a World Where Money Matters

To understand my own indifference, I ran a mental experiment: What if I lived alone, with no family or friends, fully responsible for my own survival? Instantly, the answer became clear: I’d need money to live. In that imagined reality, my writings would feel like a potential income source. The motivation to monetize them would emerge naturally.

This revelation led me to a hypothesis: I’ve forgotten that money is necessary for survival because, for the past two years, I haven’t needed to think about it. My family has provided for me. I’ve been living in a bubble where survival isn’t tied to effort. I’d convinced myself—illogically—that money wasn’t real, that the world could function without it.

But when I forced myself to picture a world where no one would care for me unless I cared for myself, the truth hit hard: The world is structured this way. Most people believe that if you don’t work for money, you won’t survive. And because they believe it, they live it. They compete, they hoard, they prioritize profit over generosity. I’d been blind to this because I hadn’t needed to see it.

3. The Trap of Belief: When Descriptions Become Reality

Here’s where things got dangerous. At first, I merely imagined this harsh world. But then, I started to believe in it. I began treating my mental construct—"The world requires money to survive"—as an objective truth. And the moment I believed it, my mental state deteriorated. Why? Because believing in a world where you must constantly struggle for survival is exhausting. It’s a world of perpetual anxiety, where every action is a transaction, every relationship a potential exploitation.

I realized: I cannot live in a world I’ve only imagined. Belief is not observation. Just because I can describe the world as competitive and transactional doesn’t mean I must accept it as the only reality. The moment I stopped believing in my own description, my peace returned. But the question remained: What is the real world, then?

4. The Nature of Reality: Is the World Really Like This?

The deeper issue isn’t about money—it’s about how we define reality. Most people operate under the assumption:

"If I don’t take care of myself, no one will."

"Money is necessary for survival."

But is this true, or is it just a shared illusion? My last two years prove the opposite: I didn’t work, I didn’t earn, yet I survived. Others did care for me. So which is the real world?

The one where you must fight to survive?

Or the one where survival is possible without constant struggle?

Both are real—but neither is absolute. The world is what we collectively agree it is. If everyone believes money is necessary for survival, then for them, it is. But if I choose not to believe it, I can live differently. The problem isn’t the world’s structure; it’s our attachment to descriptions of it.

5. The Solution: Observing Without Believing

I don’t need to believe in any description of the world. I only need to observe it. For example:

Observation: Right now, I live in a "greenhouse" reality—protected, cared for, free from financial stress.

Observation: Outside this bubble, the world does operate on the principle that money equals survival. Most people live by this rule.

I don’t have to believe it’s the only truth. But I can acknowledge it exists. This acknowledgment changes my desires:

When I forget about the broader world, I feel no urge to monetize my work. Why would I? I don’t need the money.

When I remember that the world outside my bubble is harsher, I feel a pragmatic pull to prepare—to monetize, to save, to secure my future.

The key is balance:

I don’t obsess over the world’s rules (that’s exhausting).

I don’t ignore them (that’s naive).

I occasionally recall them, especially when making decisions.

This way, I stay grounded in reality without being enslaved by it.

6. The Final Resolution: Living Without Illusions

After all this, I’ve arrived at a simple conclusion:

I don’t believe in any fixed "truth" about how the world works. Descriptions are tools, not absolutes.

I don’t need to constantly think about survival. But I can remember it when necessary—like choosing whether to monetize my work.

My natural state is indifference to money. But indifference doesn’t mean ignorance. I can use money as a tool without being ruled by it.

The world changes when we change. If I want a world where generosity is possible, I must live generously—even if others don’t.

So what will I do?

Publish my notes for free. They’re more valuable to others than to my bank account.

Work a simple job for basic income. No ambition, no stress—just enough to live.

Stay aware, but not obsessed. Remember the world’s rules when needed, then let them go.

This isn’t a philosophy. It’s just how I feel. There’s no deeper logic—only the quiet certainty that this is the way to live without conflict.

Epilogue: The Paradox of Motivation

There’s one irony: In my "perfect" state (free from desire, free from illusion), I lose the motivation to create the very guides that could help others. If I don’t want money, why write for an audience? Why structure my thoughts for others’ benefit?

The answer, perhaps, is that I don’t need a reason. I can write because it feels right in the moment—not for money, not for impact, but simply because the act itself is meaningful. And if that means giving it away, then so be it.

The world is what we make it. And I choose to make it gentle.

The Core Conflict: Giving Away vs. Monetizing My Work

I’ve been struggling with a paradox: I feel a natural urge to give away all my recordings for free, but my family opposes this. I wondered if there was any way I could want to monetize them instead—if I could shift my mindset to see value in earning money from them. So I started exploring that possibility.

But as I dug deeper, I realized something critical about how I perceive the world.

Observing the World and the Trap of Belief

At first, I casually thought about how the world around me is structured. I saw it like this:
"If I don’t take care of myself, no one else will. To survive, I need to earn money."
When I observed this, I believed it. Not just as an abstract idea—I truly believed in my own observations.

And that belief changed my state. Suddenly, I wanted to earn money.

But here’s what happened next:

First, I believed in my observations—that the world is structured this way.

Then, I believed in the description of those observations—the words I used to explain them.

Finally, I believed in the words themselves: "To survive, you must earn money."

And that’s where everything fell apart.

The Problem: Believing in Words

Believing in my observations didn’t hurt me. It felt neutral, even logical. But when I started believing in the words describing those observations—when I accepted the statement that the world demands money for survival—my mental state deteriorated.

Why?
Because believing in words about how the world works—especially harsh, transactional ones—made me miserable. My psyche rebels against a world where survival depends on constant hustling.

I tested this:

If I only observe the world and think, "This is how it is," I feel fine.

But if I start living by the description—if I accept the words as truth—then anger, frustration, and despair creep in.

Even a small disruption (like someone interfering with my plans) triggered irritation. That’s how deeply words affect me.

The Solution: Rejecting Belief in Observations

So I realized:

Yes, I see a world structured a certain way.

But I cannot believe in what I see.

My observations might have no connection to reality.

If I accept that my observations are just observations—not truth—then it doesn’t matter how the world seems to work. I don’t need to engage with that question at all.

Key insight:
"I don’t care how the world is structured because I can’t prove my observations reflect reality. Therefore, I won’t think about it. I won’t believe in it."

This frees me. If I don’t believe in my observations, I don’t slide into believing in the words that describe them—and I avoid the suffering those words bring.

Why I Don’t Care About Monetizing My Recordings

People ask:
"Why don’t you want to earn money from your work? You could help others and profit from it!"

But here’s the truth:

My past words are meaningless to me now.

I spent years recording thoughts, but those words don’t lead anywhere. They describe observations that changed me—but the words themselves are just garbage.

The experience of observing mattered; the description doesn’t.

Money doesn’t motivate me.

I don’t care about wealth. I care about interesting work.

I’d rather flip burgers at McDonald’s than sell my old recordings because flipping burgers might actually engage me.

Helping others isn’t my goal.

Even if my words could improve lives, I have no interest in that.

I don’t want to "sell" something I see as trash just because it has perceived value to others.

I can’t force desire.

I can’t choose to want money. My brain simply doesn’t crave it.

Any attempt to "convince" myself to monetize feels artificial—like creating a fake guide for how to live.

The Old vs. New Self

I used to want money, survival, pleasure. But now?

My past self was built on illusions.

My current self sees life without those illusions.

But what if I’m wrong?
What if the new me is the mistake, and the old me had it right?
That doubt lingers. It’s why I hesitate to publish everything instantly—why I still question instead of acting decisively.

The Dead End of Self-Manipulation

I’ve spent a week trying to force a desire to monetize. I’ve searched for words, concepts, or "guides" that could trick me into wanting this.

But it’s useless.

I’ve been here before. I know how to manipulate my own mind with descriptions.

But this time, I see the cycle: Belief in observations → Belief in words → Suffering.

There’s no new path here. Only the same old trap.

The Only Way Forward

After all this, I’ve concluded:

I will publish my work for free. There’s no other option—I can’t force myself to care about monetization.

I’ll discuss it with others first. Not to seek validation, but to hear perspectives before acting.

I’ll accept my disinterest. If programming excites me and my recordings don’t, that’s fine. I don’t need to justify it.

Final thought:
"A fool never doubts. But I’m not a fool—I question, and that’s why I can’t just ‘decide’ to want this. The only honest move is to act as I am, without force."

The Beginning: Observations and the Illusion of Reality

I began by noticing something profound: my state of being was entirely built on my observations. My first observation was that I could not trust my own observations because I could not prove them to myself. Then came the second observation: I could not trust the words and descriptions that framed those observations. The third, fourth, and so on followed. At some point, I realized that my good state of mind was a direct result of these observations.

Before, I had believed my observations were reality itself. I trusted them implicitly, and that trust—rooted in the assumption that my observations were proven—kept me in a bad state. But then I looked closer. I saw that I had no proof that my observations were real. My state shifted. It improved because I no longer assumed my perceptions were absolute.

But then a terrifying thought struck me: What if my understanding of my observations is wrong? What if my entire framework for interpreting what I see, hear, and feel is fundamentally flawed? I realized I could never prove my observations were correct. No matter how many times I re-examined them, there was always a chance my senses had deceived me. The belief that I saw what I saw—the foundation of my old state—collapsed. And with it, my good state vanished, because it had been built on observations that might be entirely false.

I lost something critical: the faith that I see what I see. And not just sight—I no longer believed I felt what I felt, heard what I heard, or sensed what I sensed. I stopped trusting that I was receiving any observations at all. I lost everything. I cannot—and do not want to—live without this faith, but I also cannot restore it, because I now see that it was baseless. Even if I tried to believe again, I physically cannot. The capacity is gone.

The Collapse of Perception and Trust

I also lost faith in perception itself. I understood that my perception could be flawed, and that I had no way to verify it. If I cannot prove my perception is accurate, then it holds no weight—no interest, no emotion, no meaning. My experiences might all be errors, so I cannot rely on them. I used to believe I was not mistaken. Now, I cannot believe that, because I cannot prove it.

How can I live knowing that everything I see, hear, and feel might be a mistake? That my past experiences might never have happened? That my entire life could be an error of perception?

I thought further: If everything can be an error, then even this realization might be an error. And if that’s true, then there’s no point in dwelling on it. I had fallen into the illusion that something in this world must be free from error—that there had to be some unshakable foundation. When I realized no such foundation exists, my state worsened because I had lost my last support. But now, understanding that nothing is provably error-free, I no longer care about seeking flawless observations to rely on. I accept that in this world, everything may be an error, and there is no alternative.

Derealization and Depersonalization: The New State

I spent my life trying to eliminate perceptual errors. But I arrived at a brutal truth: it is impossible, because everything could be an error—even these words I am writing now. So there is no point in distinguishing between what is an error and what is not, because all of it might be. There is no point in analyzing what I see, because I cannot trust that I see what I see. I cannot prove it is not an error.

In short: We believe we see what we see. Then we believe that what we see is real. Then we believe that what we see means something, that it implies something. We describe it with words, trust those words, and use them to control ourselves and reality—to chase pleasure. But the root problem is not believing that my observations are reality—it is believing that I have observations at all. Maybe all my observations are errors. Maybe I do not see what I see.

I reached a state of total derealization and depersonalization. At first, it felt terrible. But then I understood why: I was still clinging to the memory of my old states—the ones where I believed I saw what I saw. Once I accepted that those states were gone forever—because I would never again believe in my perceptions—the suffering stopped. Now, I no longer think about the past. I no longer ask, "What do I want?"—because answering that would require believing in the feelings I observe, and that would ruin my state. If I do not believe in the observations of my desires, then I cannot act on them as if they were real.

Now, I live in permanent derealization. I do not think about the life I had when I believed in my senses. I do not do what I "want" in the conventional sense, because I do not believe in the feelings that would define that want. Derealization means I do not believe I see what I see, hear what I hear, or feel what I feel. To me, nothing is real—but since I understand that nothing in this world is provably real, this no longer bothers me. Any experience could be an error. Real experience would require proof of its reality, but such proof does not exist. Everything might be a perceptual mistake, and I can never verify it.

I do not believe I exist. I do not believe anything exists. Maybe nothing I experience is happening at all.

The Paradox of Verification and the Illusion of Consensus

This all started when I wondered: What if others find errors in my observations that I myself missed? That possibility cannot be ruled out. When I realized this, I lost my good state—which had been sustained by the belief that my observations were correct and error-free. I thought, "Maybe others can confirm my observations." But then I realized: Others cannot be trusted either. Even if everyone agrees with me, that proves nothing. We might all share the same perceptual error.

Consider an example: A person thinks they see a snake, but I see it is just a stick. Suppose I am right—it was a stick. That person believed they saw a snake, but I tell them it was an error. It seems like people can correct each other’s perceptions, but what if my perception is also wrong? What if the stick was also an illusion? What if the entire situation—our debate, our observations—is one giant perceptual error that no one can ever prove or disprove?

I cannot believe I saw what I saw, even if others confirm it.

The issue is not that I do not see what I see—it is that I cannot believe in it. I can live in a derealized world just as I did when it seemed real. The only difference is that now, I do not believe in its reality. Whether the world is real or not only affects my state: if I believe it is real, I worry about it; if not, my state is independent of what I see, hear, or feel.

But to clarify—it is not that I do not believe in its reality. It is that I do not believe it exists at all.

Descriptions, Illusions, and the Void of Meaning

Before, I carefully examined my observations and feelings, trying to understand what was happening. When I thought I understood, my state changed. I used to describe my observations as if they were reality. Then I realized I could not prove their reality, so I stopped believing they were real. At first, I thought descriptions only described my observations—not reality itself. But now, it is even more extreme: descriptions may not even describe what I see, because what I see might be an error.

What, then, do descriptions describe? The unknown. They do not describe my observations, because those observations might be errors. What is an observation that is an error? An illusion? But what is an illusion? I have no answer.

Take the person who thought they saw a snake. Their description—"I saw a snake"—was initially a description of what they saw. But when they realized it was an error, the description no longer referred to what they saw. It became a description of an illusion they saw. What is a description of an illusion? How can I know whether my descriptions refer to what I saw or to an illusion? What if all human descriptions are descriptions of illusions?

I have no reason to believe my observations—and their descriptions—are not errors. I cannot rely on them from any perspective, because all of them might be wrong. My observations are no different from the person who saw a snake instead of a stick. They saw something that did not exist. Maybe I, too, am seeing things that do not exist.

It may seem that others can verify my observations, but they, too, might be mistaken. Everyone could be wrong about everything. It could all be one massive perceptual error, and no one can ever prove otherwise.

The Impossibility of Proof and the Freedom of Uncertainty

If I saw a snake but it was a stick, how can I verify what I saw? I can look again, more carefully, and see a stick. But how do I know that is not also an error? The only difference is that my opinion changed the first time, but not the second—but that does not mean the second time is correct. Maybe I just did not notice the error. Even if everyone agrees it is a stick, that does not mean we are not all mistaken.

I understand that I have no basis to believe I see what I see, even after a thousand checks. The possibility of error can never be eliminated. Knowing this, I lose the ability to believe in my perceptions. I cannot believe I see a stick and not a snake, because it could be anything—or nothing at all. Sometimes, behind a perceptual error, there is nothing. If all my observations are errors I cannot detect, then perhaps nothing stands behind what I see. Maybe there is no me, no stick, no snake—nothing.

Why can I not believe I see what I see? Because I cannot say for certain whether I see a snake, a stick, or nothing. It does not matter what I see—what matters is that I cannot believe I see it. Looking at a stick, I cannot believe it is a stick, because it might be a snake. Looking at a snake, I cannot believe it is a snake, because it might be a stick. Looking at the world, I cannot believe I see what I see, because all of it might be an error—even the idea that it exists at all.

And yet, I can still act on unproven observations. If I feel a desire—even knowing it might be an error—I can follow it. The key is that I do not believe I am not mistaken. All my observations might be errors. I have no way to prove otherwise, so I cannot believe in their accuracy.

Believing I see what I see means believing I see a stick or a snake—but neither can be proven or disproven, no matter how many times I check.

The Final Realization: Letting Go of the Old State

My state was sustained by the belief that my observations were correct. When I lost that belief, I lost the state that depended on it. I could spend forever mourning that loss, searching for ways to restore the old state—but it is impossible, because the old state relied on a delusion that is now destroyed.

I must forget the old state and stop chasing it. It will never return, because it was built on a belief I can no longer hold. I cannot derive any state from observations, because I do not believe I am observing them. I do not believe these observations are not errors. I certainly cannot derive any state from words or descriptions, because those, too, are built on observations that might be errors.

I have completely detached my state from all observations, words, and descriptions. I no longer try to build my life by accumulating observations I trust as flawless. I do not attempt to describe anything to control myself or reality, because controlling reality based on descriptions of observations that might be errors is absurd. To control reality, I would need to know how—and for that, I would need to know what I see. But I cannot know that. I cannot even know if I see anything.

This is like The Matrix—maybe I am in a pod, and my entire life is an illusion. The difference is that even if I "wake up," I have no guarantee that that is not also an illusion. I simply cannot believe in the reality of what is happening or that anything is happening at all. I cannot believe my descriptions describe what I see—or what I do not see.

Before, I stopped believing my words described what is and what is not. I thought they only described what I see and do not see. But now, I do not even believe that. Maybe I do not see what I see, and my words describe illusions. If I do not believe I see what I see, then I cannot believe my words describe what I see.

Conclusion: Living Without Belief in Perception

I do not feel the desire to write this guide for others. I would rather do other things. But then I thought: I could make money from this. Since I need money anyway, why not earn it with my knowledge? When I realized I wanted to earn money and write the guide for that purpose, I tried to create a mental description: "I want to write the guide to make money." I wanted to control myself with that description—to ensure I did what I "wanted." But that act immediately ruined my state. It pulled me from the uncertainty of "What do I want?" into the false certainty of believing in an observed feeling.

The solution? Do nothing with my observations. If I see a desire, I do not need to label it as "mine." I can simply act on it without asking what it is. I cannot call anything "my desire" because I do not believe I see or feel anything. If I ask, "What do I want?", I will try to answer by believing in an observation—and that will ruin everything.

Now, I live in permanent derealization of all things. I do not think about the past, when I believed in my senses. I do not do what I "want" in the traditional sense, because I do not believe in the feelings that would define that want. I act without belief—without the need to prove, describe, or justify.

This is not nihilism. It is freedom. The freedom to exist without the burden of proof, without the illusion of certainty. In a world where everything may be an error, the only honest way to live is to accept that—and act anyway.

The Collapse of Perception: A Guide to the Deepest Unbelief

1. The Initial State: Doubt as the Foundation

I find myself in a state where I no longer trust anything I perceive. Not just the content of what I see, hear, or feel—but the very act of perceiving itself. I do not believe that I see what I see, because what I see might be a mistake of my perception. Equally, I do not believe that I fail to see what I don’t see, because that too could be an error. The same applies to everything else: what I touch, what I hear, what I feel. None of it is reliable.

I do not believe my perception has any connection to reality. I know nothing of what lies beyond it. There may be nothing at all behind what I see and don’t see. Or perhaps there is something—but something utterly unlike anything I perceive. It’s possible that everything I experience, both the seen and the unseen, is nothing but a flaw in how I process the world.

From this follows a deeper skepticism: I cannot trust words or descriptions. Words describe what I see and what I don’t see—but if my perception itself is untrustworthy, then words are either describing:

My flawed perception (which bears no relation to reality), or

Nothing at all.

To believe in words would mean believing they accurately represent what I see and don’t see—but since I can’t trust that I actually see or don’t see those things, belief in words becomes impossible. They might just be describing the errors of my perception, which have no grounding in anything real.

2. The Illusion of Consequence

Nor can I believe in consequences—that one thing follows from another. If what I perceive (or fail to perceive) is an error, then nothing logically follows from it. There is no meaning to be derived, no conclusions to be drawn. The chain of cause and effect, of implication and inference, collapses when the foundation (perception itself) is unreliable.

I once held a simpler disbelief: the idea that "if I don’t see something, it doesn’t exist." First, I realized that seeing something doesn’t mean it exists. Then, I realized that not seeing something doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. But now, I’ve reached a deeper layer: I don’t even believe that I see what I see. And I don’t believe that I don’t see what I don’t see.

The question of whether what I see exists is secondary—because first, I must ask: Do I even see it at all? Maybe I only think I see it. Maybe the act of "seeing" is the illusion. The same goes for what I don’t see: perhaps I do see it, but my perception is so flawed that I mistake absence for presence, or presence for absence.

3. The Death of Emotion

In this state, emotions disappear. Emotions rely on the belief that you see what you see, or don’t see what you don’t see. If that belief vanishes, emotions vanish with it. There’s nothing left to react to—no joy, no fear, no sadness—because all of it was tied to a perception I no longer trust.

What remains is a strange, neutral comfort. A seriousness, a weight. Childishness, frivolity, lightheartedness—gone. Not because I’m unhappy, but because those states depended on illusions I’ve discarded. Now, there’s just… this. A quiet, stable ground where nothing disturbs me.

4. The Hierarchy of Beliefs

I didn’t arrive here overnight. I moved step by step, dismantling layers of belief like peeling an onion:

Low-Level Beliefs – Desires, needs, shoulds. "I want love. I should be respected. I deserve pleasure." These are just beliefs in certain words, certain narratives. Fragile.

Belief in Meaning – The idea that things signify something. That actions, objects, or events have inherent importance.

Belief in Logic – That one thing follows from another. That conclusions are valid.

Belief in Feelings – That sensations and emotions reflect something real.

Belief in Observation – That what I see and don’t see is accurate. That my senses report truth.

Most people stop at the lower layers. They hold a million superficial beliefs—about themselves, the world, what’s right or wrong—and never question the foundation. But I kept going until only one belief remained: the belief that I see what I see and don’t see what I don’t see.

When I finally let go of that, everything else collapsed. There was nowhere left to run, no other beliefs to cling to.

5. The Paradox of Choice

Others might say: "So what? Why does it matter whether you believe in perception or not? You still function. You still have other beliefs."

But they don’t understand. For them, disbelief in perception is just one option among many. They can still believe in love, in purpose, in their own importance. They have alternatives.

I don’t.

For me, it’s binary:

If I believe (even a little) that I see what I see, I suffer.

If I don’t believe, I am free.

There is no middle ground. No other beliefs left to soften the fall.

6. The Path Forward: Where to Begin?

Should I start with the deepest belief (perception) and work outward? Or begin with the superficial beliefs others hold, guiding them inward?

In practice, it may be easier to start with what people think they know—their values, their identities, their certainties—and slowly unravel the thread until they reach the core. But the core is where the real liberation lies.

7. The Aftermath: A Strange Comfort

Three hours ago, I was in agony. I had reached the point of doubting perception itself, and it felt like dissolution. But then I realized: I was still clinging to the belief that what I don’t see, I truly don’t see. Even that was a remnant of trust in my own experience.

When I let go of that, the suffering eased. Not because I found answers, but because the question itself became meaningless.

Now, I move through the world without disturbance. Not numb—just unshaken. The old reactions (smiles, laughter, lightness) are gone, but in their place is a solid, quiet presence. It’s not joy. It’s not sadness. It’s something else entirely.

And for the first time, it feels… right.

Final Note: The Unanswerable Question

The deepest belief isn’t about what we perceive. It’s about whether we perceive at all. And once that belief crumbles, the rest is silence.

Guide v135: The Deconstruction of Belief

August 5, 10:20

Part 1: The Collapse of Everything

This is the original document where I attempt to write a guide. In this section, I dismantle everything I once believed in. There is one foundational belief—the bedrock upon which all others rest. I have two formulations for it:

I believe that much of what I see—or do not see—is not an error of my perception.

I believe that I see what I see and do not see what I do not see.

How to destroy a belief?
It is simple: Realize that:

I cannot believe that anything I see—or do not see—is free from the errors of my perception, because I cannot prove it to myself. Everything could be a flaw in how I perceive reality.

The Chain of Beliefs

1. Observations

My beliefs about what I perceive (or fail to perceive) form a chain:

I believe that much of what I see—or do not see—is not an error of my perception.

I believe that I see what I see and do not see what I do not see.

I believe that from what I see—or do not see—something follows.

I believe that what I see—or do not see—means something.

I believe that what I see is what exists, and what I do not see does not exist.

2. Feelings/Sensations

The same structure applies to what I feel:

I believe that much of what I feel—or do not feel—is not an error of my perception.

I believe that I feel what I feel and do not feel what I do not feel.

I believe that from what I feel—or do not feel—something follows.

I believe that what I feel—or do not feel—means something.

I believe that what I feel is what exists, and what I do not feel does not exist.

3. Words/Descriptions

Beliefs extend to language—the words I use to frame reality:

I believe that certain words describe what I see/do not see, feel/do not feel.

I believe that from certain words or descriptions, something follows.

I believe that certain words or descriptions mean something.

I believe that certain words describe what exists and what does not.

I believe that certain words or descriptions are my instructions for how to control and alter reality.

I believe that certain words, descriptions, or instructions create a reason, purpose, or meaning for doing or obtaining something.

I believe that I want, need, or must do or obtain something.

Final Note:
This is not just an exercise in skepticism—it is the unraveling of the threads that weave perception, meaning, and action into what we call reality. Each belief, when examined, reveals its fragility. The question then becomes: What remains when the foundations dissolve?

A Journey Through Belief, Fear, and Liberation: A First-Person Retelling

1. The Collapse of Belief and the Void It Left

For a long time, I dismantled everything I believed in. I stripped away every conviction, every guiding principle, until I reached a state where I believed in nothing. And when I looked at that emptiness, I realized: I cannot live like this. This wasn’t freedom—it was a desert. In this state, I felt no sense of receiving anything from life, no joy, no fulfillment. I had lost the feeling that life was giving me something, and I desperately wanted it back.

I had followed a path of cognitive therapy—dissecting my beliefs, exposing them as illusions, killing them one by one. But this path led to a dead end. Yes, it erased my stress, my fear, my anger… but it also erased my desires, my sense of gain, my will to live. I was left in a sterile void where nothing mattered—not because I was at peace, but because I had destroyed the very mechanisms that made me human.

Today, I discovered something critical: even in this emptiness, a few lingering beliefs remained. I tested them, and the states they produced were unbearable. I realized: I do not want to live like this. Not even for a second. The cognitive approach had failed me. It was time to abandon it entirely.

2. The Return to Stress—and the Return of Life

When I stopped obsessing over my cognitive frameworks, my old stress returned. But something else came back too: my desires. My sense of receiving from life. The joy of wanting, of feeling, of being alive. The problem? The stress came back with a vengeance. Everything triggered it—things I did, things I didn’t do, things I merely thought about.

I understood then that cognitive therapy was a trap. It worked—it did remove stress—but at the cost of everything else. It was like cutting off a limb to stop the pain. I needed another way.

3. The Breakthrough: Indifference as Power

I spent an entire night searching for an alternative. And then, I found it.

Here’s how it works:

Before, when I thought about doing something, I’d immediately anticipate the stress and fear it would bring. And because I expected it, it happened. My mind was a self-fulfilling prophecy machine.

Now, I decided: I don’t care. Whether the stress comes or not is irrelevant. I will do what I want regardless.

And something miraculous happened: when I truly didn’t care, the stress vanished.

It was never about the stress itself. It was about my relationship to it. My fear of fear was the real prison. The moment I stopped resisting, the moment I said, “Fine, let it come—it doesn’t matter,” the chains dissolved.

4. Why This Works Now (When It Never Did Before)

I had tried this approach a thousand times. But it always failed because:

I was still believing in something. I still clung to the idea that my feelings were real, that my observations meant something, that my fears were justified.

I was still searching for fear, still analyzing it, still fighting it. And in doing so, I fed it.

But now? I believe in nothing. Not in my emotions, not in my thoughts, not in my perceptions. I have no faith in any of it. And because of that, I am free.

Before, I used cognitive therapy to dismantle beliefs. But it left me hollow.

Now, I use behavioral therapy—not to think my way out of fear, but to act in spite of it. To do the things I avoided, to move toward what I want, without caring about the psychological consequences.

This only works because I have no remaining illusions. I don’t wonder, “Should I feel this?” or “Is this fear valid?” I don’t care. The questions themselves are meaningless now.

5. The Two-Step Process to Freedom

If I were to distill this into a method, it would be:

Destroy all fundamental beliefs—not just surface-level ones, but the deepest assumptions about reality, observation, and feeling. Burn it all down. This is the cognitive phase.

Stop thinking entirely. Once the beliefs are gone, stop analyzing, stop questioning, stop caring. Just act.

Do the thing you fear.

Do it without wondering if fear will arise.

If it does? Who cares. Keep going.

The key insight: Fear only exists if you believe in it. If you don’t, it’s just noise—and noise fades when ignored.

6. The Results: A Life Without Psychological Barriers

Now, I live differently:

I do whatever I want, without hesitation.

I don’t waste energy predicting how I’ll feel. It doesn’t matter.

I don’t fear rejection, embarrassment, or failure—because those are just psychological constructs, and I don’t believe in them anymore.

I still consider physical consequences (e.g., “If I approach a girl with a boyfriend, he might punch me”), but psychological ones? Irrelevant.

The outcome?

No stress.

No shame.

No anxiety.

Total confidence.

I can say anything to anyone. I can approach any girl. I can take risks without flinching. I am free.

7. The Paradox: Why Most People Can’t Do This

This seems simple. Why doesn’t everyone do it?

Because most people still believe—in their feelings, in their thoughts, in the reality of their fears. They still think their emotions mean something. They still resist the bad ones and clutch the good ones.

But resistance is the problem. The moment you stop resisting, the moment you stop believing, the moment you say, “Fine, let it come—it changes nothing,”—the fear evaporates.

8. Final Thoughts: The Only Way Out Is Through

I tried everything:

Cognitive therapy (worked, but left me empty).

Affirmations (felt fake—I don’t believe in words).

Avoidance (made me weaker).

Forcing myself (just created more resistance).

The only thing that worked was:

Total destruction of all beliefs.

Total indifference to the psychological aftermath.

Relentless action—doing what I want, no matter what.

Now, I live as I always wanted: without barriers, without fear, without the weight of my own mind.

9. What’s Next?

I haven’t recorded in seven days. A lot has happened—discoveries, tests, refinements. I’ll document those later. For now, I rest.

But the core lesson is clear:
Freedom isn’t the absence of fear. It’s the absence of belief in fear.

The Return of Automatic Thoughts: A Cycle of Awakening and Relapse

1. The Sudden Collapse

Everything was fine after my last recording—until it wasn’t. The next morning, I woke up in a terrible state. For days, I couldn’t recover. I didn’t understand what was happening. My condition became strange, unstable. Only now do I realize what occurred: my state wasn’t ruined by the recording itself, but by the evolution of my own mind.

I had abandoned all the guides, all the cognitive frameworks that once dismantled my beliefs. I stopped obsessing over whether I could prove or believe in anything. I let go of that path entirely—because it led nowhere good. And in doing so, the old symptoms returned.

2. The First Symptom: Fear and Stress

The first thing that came back was fear. Stress. Anxiety. Automatic thoughts that triggered these emotions. Before, I’d used cognitive techniques to dismantle them. But this time, I tried a different approach. It worked—briefly. Then my state worsened. More automatic thoughts surfaced, not just fear, but old dependencies I hadn’t felt in four years.

3. The Return of Instant Gratification

Thoughts like:
"I can’t refuse quick pleasure. I don’t want to work—working is for long-term rewards, but YouTube is here now, easy, immediate."
This was my old struggle: I couldn’t focus on long-term plans because I’d cave to instant gratification. And just like before, I found myself binge-watching shows, unable to understand why I couldn’t stop.

Then it hit me: these were automatic thoughts too. Just like the ones that caused fear, these created an illusion of inevitability—"I can’t refuse this"—as if resistance were impossible. The feeling was so strong that I’d give in without question.

4. The Trap of Self-Description

Even describing my state triggered automatic thoughts. If I wrote a guide for others, I’d later look at it and think:
"Why do I live like this? What’s the point?"
The act of articulating my life made me question it. Motivation vanished. I couldn’t write guides because the process poisoned my state—it made me doubt everything.

I didn’t understand why. Why couldn’t I write guides? Why did instant gratification pull me back? Why did I feel trapped?

5. The Core Realization: All Automatic Thoughts Are the Same

Then I saw it: all these thoughts operate on the same mechanism. Fear, stress, cravings, apathy—they’re all automatic thoughts that hijack my mind. The difference is only in the emotion they trigger.

Fear makes me believe I must avoid something.

Cravings make me believe I can’t refuse pleasure.

Shame makes me believe I shouldn’t act.

Anger makes me believe others owe me something.

But the pattern is identical: if I believe the thought, it controls me. If I don’t, it vanishes.

6. The Old Problem: Belief vs. Disbelief

Four years ago, I faced the same issue. I’d ask:
"Should I believe these thoughts? Are they true?"

"Do I really owe someone something?" (Fear)

"Do I really need this pleasure?" (Cravings)

"Are they really wronging me?" (Anger)

I tried to prove whether these thoughts were valid. But the deeper I went, the more I realized: I can’t trust anything—not thoughts, not feelings, not perceptions. This led me to a place of total disbelief. And in that place, I lost all motivation, all joy. Everything good disappeared.

7. The Breakthrough: Choosing Not to Believe

The key wasn’t about proving thoughts wrong. It was about not believing them at all.

Now, when an automatic thought arises—"I can’t refuse this pleasure" or "I must avoid this fear"—I don’t engage. I don’t argue. I don’t try to disprove it. I simply don’t believe it.

This isn’t about suppression. It’s about seeing the thought for what it is: a passing impulse, not a command.

8. The Result: Freedom

Now, I can:

Approach a woman without fear, shame, or hesitation.

Work without craving distractions.

Write guides without existential doubt.

Exist without being derailed by emotions.

I’m not controlled by:

The need for quick pleasure.

The fear of failure or judgment.

The anger over perceived slights.

The shame of past mistakes.

I act on my true desires—nothing else.

9. The Mechanism: Why This Works

Before, I was trapped because:

I believed automatic thoughts were real.

Even when I doubted them, I still feared their power.

Now, I see them as illusions. They only have power if I give it to them. And I don’t.

If I seek them out, they’ll influence me.

If I ignore them, they dissolve.

If I resist them, they strengthen.

But if I neither resist nor engage—if I treat them like background noise—they lose all control.

10. The Final State: Limitless Possibility

Now, my mind is clear. My path is unobstructed. The only limits are physical—laws of nature, time, resources. Psychologically, there are no barriers.

I can:

Talk to anyone, no matter how intimidating.

Pursue any goal, no matter how difficult.

Reject any distraction, no matter how tempting.

Because I don’t believe in limitations that aren’t real.

11. The Lesson: Awareness is the Key

The mistake was thinking I had to disprove automatic thoughts. The solution was simpler: stop believing them.

Now, when I notice myself:

Procrastinating ("Just watch one more video"),

Avoiding ("This is too scary"),

Ruminating ("What’s the point of all this?"),

I recognize: This is just a thought. It’s not me. It’s not true.

And then? I do what I truly want.

Closing Reflection

This isn’t about suppression or willpower. It’s about seeing the matrix. Automatic thoughts are like a software bug in the mind—once you recognize the pattern, you can override it.

The result? A life directed by choice, not by invisible scripts.

The Two Layers of Decision-Making: Desire vs. Psychological Barriers

1. The Ideal Path: What I Truly Want

I start with a blank sheet of paper. On it, I draw my ideal life path—not just how I want my life to unfold, but what I genuinely want to do with it. This is my vision of priorities, actions, and experiences in the order that feels most meaningful to me. It could be a plan for the next five minutes, the next day, or my entire life. The line is fluid, curved, imperfect—it’s my optimal route.

For example, I might write: "I want to dance." Or: "I want to start this project." Or: "I want to speak in public." This is the first layer: pure, unfiltered desire.

2. The Mask: Psychological Resistance

But then, almost immediately, I used to overlay this ideal path with a second layer—a mask of psychological resistance. I’d ask myself:

"What will I feel if I follow this path?"

"If I dance, I’ll feel awkward at first."

"If I speak in public, I’ll fear judgment."

"If I pursue this goal, I’ll have to give up quick pleasures or face failure."

The mask distorts the original line. I start editing my ideal path to avoid discomfort:

"No, I can’t do that—I’ll feel stress."

"I’ll be angry if I fail."

"I’ll waste time and regret it."

So I abandon the ideal route and choose a safer, less fulfilling alternative—or do nothing at all.

This is how I used to live: constantly negotiating between what I want and what I fear feeling.

The Problem: Why We Sabotage Ourselves

1. The Illusion of Psychological Pain

The core issue is that I believed in the reality of these negative emotions. I treated them like unavoidable truths:

"If I’m rejected, it will hurt."

"If I fail, I’ll be worthless."

"If I feel stress, it will break me."

But these beliefs are self-fulfilling prophecies. The more I feared the pain, the more I created it by anticipating it.

2. The Cycle of Avoidance

Human nature avoids pain—especially psychological pain. So I’d:

Imagine the worst-case scenario ("What if I embarrass myself?").

Believe it would happen ("It will be unbearable.").

Avoid the action entirely ("I won’t even try.").

But here’s the paradox:

The fear itself causes the suffering.

The avoidance guarantees stagnation.

I was trapped in a loop: believing in the pain → fearing it → creating it → repeating the cycle.

The Solution: Dissolving the Mask

1. Reject the Belief in Psychological Pain

I realized: these emotions are not real in the way I thought. They’re mental constructs, not objective truths. For example:

"Being a ‘failure’ is just a word I attach to myself—it has no inherent power."

"Stress is a reaction, not a fact. I don’t have to believe in it."

When I stopped treating emotions as absolute realities, their power over me vanished.

2. Act Without Considering the Mask

Now, my approach is radical simplicity:

I identify what I want (the first layer).

I act on it immediately—without pausing to predict how I’ll feel.

I don’t ask:

"Will this cause stress?"

"What if I’m judged?"

"What if I fail?"

I ask only:

"Do I want this?"
If yes, I move forward.

3. The Result: Emotions Fade When Ignored

When I stop feeding the mask with attention, the expected emotions don’t even arise. For example:

If I decide to dance and don’t think about awkwardness, I just dance—and the awkwardness never appears.

If I speak in public and don’t entertain fears of rejection, the fear doesn’t materialize.

The emotions only exist if I summon them by focusing on them.

Why This Works: The Mechanics of Freedom

1. Pain Requires Belief

Psychological suffering depends on two things:

Belief in its inevitability ("This will hurt.").

Fear of experiencing it ("I can’t handle it.").

When I stop believing in the pain, the fear collapses. When the fear collapses, the pain never manifests.

2. The Past Doesn’t Dictate the Future

Old wounds (rejection, failure, shame) only have power if I let them. For example:

"Last time I tried this, I felt humiliated."

"Therefore, it will always feel this way."

But this is a false assumption. The past doesn’t control the present—my current thoughts do.

3. The Only Real Barrier Is Attention

The mask of psychological resistance only exists when I look at it. If I:

Focus on the mask → It feels real, and I suffer.

Ignore the mask → It dissolves, and I act freely.

The New Way of Living: Pure Action

1. Stay on the First Layer

I no longer negotiate with my desires. I don’t ask:

"Can I handle the stress?"

"Will this make me unhappy?"

I ask only:

"Do I want this?"

If the answer is yes, I proceed—no questions asked.

2. Emotions Are Irrelevant

I don’t fight emotions or suppress them. I simply stop giving them authority. For example:

If fear arises mid-action, I notice it and keep going.

If doubt whispers "This will hurt," I reply: "Maybe. But I don’t care."

3. The Paradox of Freedom

The less I resist psychological discomfort, the less it exists. It’s like a shadow:

If I shine a light on it (focus on it), it appears.

If I turn away (ignore it), it vanishes.

Final Insight: The Key to Unstoppable Momentum

The entire system collapses when I realize:

Psychological pain is optional.

It only exists if I feed it with belief and attention.

Thus, the formula for freedom is:

Want something.

Do it.

Never, ever ask "How will I feel?"

When I live this way, the mask disappears. There is no resistance. There is only action—and the life I actually want.

Closing Thought:
This isn’t about "positive thinking" or "pushing through pain." It’s about recognizing that the pain was never real to begin with. The moment I stop believing in the monster under the bed, the monster ceases to exist.

A Journey Through Belief, Despair, and the Search for Meaning

1. The Collapse of Belief

For a long time—since August 2nd—I had been in a state of profound stagnation. My mind was trapped in a cycle where a kind of "guide" (my own internal logic) systematically dismantled every belief I held. It stripped away my faith in everything: my perceptions, my emotions, even my existence. I was left in a void where nothing felt real, and I couldn’t even generate a single thought. For two or three days, my mind was completely blank. No ideas, no direction, no movement—just total paralysis.

I realized I couldn’t help myself. So, in desperation, I turned to the idea of seeking help from psychologists, psychiatrists, or therapists. I filled out online forms, browsed profiles, and even exchanged messages with a few. But just as I was about to commit to letting someone else "fix" my mind, something unexpected happened: my state improved before I even reached out. The moment I accepted the possibility of external help—when I surrendered responsibility for my own mind—my condition shifted. The heaviness lifted slightly.

I canceled my appointments. I no longer needed them. But I didn’t understand why or how this change had occurred. That mystery became my new focus.

2. The Illusion of Responsibility

For years, I had carried the weight of responsibility—for my life, my emotions, my thoughts. I believed that if I just tried hard enough, I could control my state of mind. But this belief only led me back to the same destructive "guide" that erased all my convictions. It was a paradox: the more I took responsibility, the worse I felt.

Then, in a moment of exhaustion, I did something radical: I relinquished all responsibility. Not just for my emotions, but for everything—my thoughts, my perceptions, my existence. I decided to let someone else take charge, to follow their instructions without question. And in that surrender, my mind became… empty. Not in a painful way, but in a strange, neutral way. It was as if my head was a hollow space, with no thoughts, no resistance—just silence.

At first, this emptiness felt better than the suffering before it. But soon, I realized it was just as unlivable. There was no value in it. No joy, no pain, no meaning. I might as well not exist at all. I thought: "I’d rather not live than live like this."

3. The Fleeting Spark of Desire

I experimented with this empty state, toggling it on and off. But it wasn’t sustainable. So I drifted—watching YouTube, numb, unsure of what to do next. Then, by chance, I saw a short video about a new Superman movie. Something in it ignited me. For the first time in ages, I felt a desire: the urge to change the world.

It was exhilarating. I imagined healing people, transforming society, making things better. But the moment I tried to hold onto that desire, my "guide" intervened: "You can’t trust this feeling. Change is just another perception—it might all be an illusion. How do you know your actions have any real effect?"

The desire vanished. Because if I couldn’t believe in change, why would I want it?

I realized: my belief in the possibility of change was the last thread holding me together. Once that was gone, I was left with nothing. No hope, no purpose, no reason to keep going.

4. The Rejection of Cognitive Therapy

This was the breaking point. I saw clearly that my "cognitive therapy"—this relentless deconstruction of belief—led only to annihilation. It didn’t just remove stress; it removed everything. No emotions, no thoughts, no will to live. It was a dead end.

So I abandoned it completely. Not gradually, but instantly. I stopped thinking about perceptions, illusions, or the nature of reality. I stopped trying to "fix" my mind through logic. And in doing so, I lost my shield against stress. All the automatic thoughts—the fears, the anxieties, the self-doubt—rushed back in full force.

But this time, I didn’t care. Because I had learned something crucial: I didn’t need to believe in these thoughts to ignore them. My years of dismantling belief had given me a strange power—I could see the thoughts, the fears, the urges, but I no longer trusted them. They had no hold over me.

5. The New Strategy: Action Without Belief

I remembered an old method I’d tried before: behavioral exposure. When I was afraid of something, I’d force myself to do it anyway. But back then, it never worked because I still believed in the fear. Now? I didn’t believe in anything—not my thoughts, not my emotions, not even my perceptions.

This changed everything.

If I felt fear, I no longer trusted it. So I could act despite it.

If I had a negative thought, I no longer engaged with it. So it passed like background noise.

If I wanted to change something, I no longer needed to believe it was possible. I could just try.

I wasn’t relying on faith. I wasn’t relying on logic. I was operating in a space beyond both—where thoughts and feelings existed, but had no authority over me.

6. The Final Realization: Freedom in Non-Belief

Now, I live in a state where:

I don’t believe my observations are real (they could be perceptual errors).

I don’t believe my feelings are real (they could be illusions).

I don’t believe my thoughts have meaning (they’re just noise).

But I also don’t disbelieve them. I don’t waste energy fighting them. I just… don’t engage.

This is the key: I ignore what doesn’t serve me. Not through suppression, but through indifference.

Automatic negative thoughts? I don’t believe them, so they don’t affect me.

Fear? I don’t trust it, so I act anyway.

Desire? I don’t need to justify it—I just follow it if it arises.

I’ve reached a place where I no longer need to dismantle beliefs, because I’ve already seen where that path leads: to emptiness. Instead, I exist in a default state—like a blank slate, but with all my experiences intact. I don’t resist my mind; I don’t obey it. I simply live, unburdened by the need to prove or disprove anything.

7. The Lesson (If There Is One)

If I had to summarize what I’ve learned, it would be this:

To be free, a person must reach a point where they no longer believe in their own thoughts. Not just some thoughts—all of them. Because as long as you believe in anything—even your own suffering—you’re still trapped.

But here’s the paradox: you can’t try to stop believing. The moment you try, you’re still engaging with the belief. The only way out is to see the futility of the entire game—to realize that the search for absolute truth or perfect mental control is a dead end.

Once you stop playing, you’re free.

Not free from thoughts or feelings, but free from their power over you. And in that freedom, for the first time, life becomes… livable.

Final Note:
This isn’t a "solution." It’s not a method to replicate. It’s just where the path led me. And for now, it’s enough.

The Illusion of Emotional Masks: How We Distort Past, Present, and Future

1. The Nature of Automatic Thoughts

I’ve noticed something: my mind generates automatic thoughts—unbidden, reflexive reactions to life. Some are rooted in fear, others in anger. But the angry automatic thoughts feel different from the fearful ones. They’re sharper, more immediate, like a flare of resistance. I’ve spent time dissecting how fear shapes my behavior—how it fuels procrastination, the pull toward instant gratification over work, the way I imagine future discomfort and use it as an excuse to avoid action. But anger? That’s a different layer.

2. Masks on the Future: The Trap of Anticipated Suffering

I’ve talked before about how we project masks onto the future. Here’s how it works:

I create a plan—a long, ambitious list of tasks.

Then I imagine myself executing it and ask: How will I feel?

The answer is always the same: stress, anger, sadness, frustration ("tilt"—that mental state where everything feels overwhelming).

So I think: "Why bother? This will only make me miserable." And just like that, the motivation vanishes.

The mask here is the assumption that the future must feel a certain way. If I strip away that assumption—if I stop predicting my emotional state—there’s no resistance. The work just is. No story, no dread.

3. Masks on the Present: The Tyranny of "Should"

But now I realize: we don’t just mask the future. We mask the present too.

Something happens in the moment.

Instantly, my mind races: How should I feel about this?

Should I be angry?

Should I be sad?

Should I be afraid?

Should I be in "tilt" and seek quick escapes (drinks, distractions, numbing out)?

It’s like there’s a script: "This event = this emotion." And I follow it blindly.

The key is to notice this process. To catch myself asking, "How am I supposed to react?" and instead—just let the present be. No labels. No demands. No "shoulds".

4. Masks on the Past: The Weight of Borrowed Pain

And then there’s the past. We do the same thing there:

I recall an event.

My mind overlays a mask: "Because of this, I should feel [X]."

"They wronged me—I should be angry."

"I failed—I should be ashamed."

"I lost something—I should be grief-stricken."

It’s as if the past dictates my present state, like an unpaid debt.

But these reactions aren’t mine—not originally. They’re copied. From parents, from society, from childhood observations. My mother felt unloved? I learned that not being loved = misery. My parents raged when thwarted? Now I rage when I don’t get my way. It’s not logic; it’s mimicry. A loop of inherited scripts.

5. The Origin of Masks: Childhood Copy-Paste

Where do these masks come from? They’re downloaded in early life:

A child watches their parents’ reactions.

The brain, efficient and uncritical, copies them: "This is how humans respond."

"When X happens, feel Y." No questions asked.

Over time, the pattern repeats. "See? It’s true. X really does mean Y." The belief hardens.

For me:

My mother’s unhappiness when unloved → I must be unhappy when unloved.

My parents’ anger at frustration → I must be angry when frustrated.
It’s not my truth. It’s their truth, grafted onto me.

6. The Way Out: Dropping the Masks Entirely

The solution? Stop applying the masks.

Future: Don’t predict how you’ll feel. Just act.

Present: Don’t ask "How should I feel?" Just be.

Past: Don’t let old scripts dictate now. The event is over; the mask is optional.

It’s not about changing the emotions. It’s about noticing the process—the moment you reach for a mask—and choosing not to wear it. No analysis. No negotiation. Just:
"Oh. There’s the thought that I ‘should’ be angry. Interesting."
And then—letting it pass.

7. The Freedom of No-Mask Living

What happens when you stop?

The future isn’t a minefield of anticipated misery.

The present isn’t a performance of "appropriate" emotions.

The past isn’t a chain dragging you down.

You’re just here. Doing. Feeling what actually arises, not what you’ve been told to feel. No stories. No shoulds. No masks.

And suddenly, life isn’t a struggle against your own mind. It’s just… life.

Final Reflection

This isn’t about suppressing emotions or forcing positivity. It’s about seeing the mechanism—the way we layer borrowed reactions onto raw experience—and stepping out of it. The masks aren’t you. The automatic thoughts aren’t you. They’re just old programs running in the background.

The real you? That’s what’s left when the masks fall away.

A Journey Through Self-Awareness: The Collapse and Rebirth of Perception

1. The Starting Point: Work, Guides, and Psychosomatic Tension

I began by working on guides, transcribing audio, and attempting to create a book with the help of neural networks. But the work itself started to trigger excessive tension—psychosomatic symptoms, unpleasant physical reactions. Beyond that, I was plagued by automatic thoughts: some filled with anger, others with stress and rigidity. I had learned to live with the angry thoughts; they no longer disrupted my life. But the ones tied to work—the urge to control, to change—were different. They persisted, and I couldn’t shake them.

I dug deeper. What exactly were these automatic thoughts? I realized: I was writing guides not just to share knowledge, but to control and alter other people. The belief that I could dictate how others should live, what they should or shouldn’t do—this desire was rooted in control. And control, whether over myself or others, is inherently stressful because it operates through fear, through the illusion of power.

But why couldn’t I let go of this urge? Because I still believed in it. I saw a purpose in controlling others—a perceived benefit. If I could just write the right guide, people would follow it, and the world would bend to my vision. The automatic thoughts reinforced this: "You must control. You must ensure they change correctly. Don’t leave it to chance." I believed them because I believed in the underlying premise: that people are real, and thus can be changed.

2. The Illusion of Changing Others

My mind had already accepted that reality itself cannot be changed—that any perceived change might just be a misperception, an error in how I process the world. But people? People felt different. I still believed they were real, tangible, separate from the abstract "reality" I had dismissed. And if they were real, then changing them wasn’t an illusion—it was possible.

This was the crux: my brain had carved out an exception. Reality was unchangeable, but people—ah, people were malleable. And so the desire to control them persisted, feeding the automatic thoughts, the stress, the psychosomatic symptoms.

Then came the breakthrough: What if people, too, are part of reality? What if my perception of them—of their actions, their changes—is also just a misperception? What if none of it is real? The moment I applied the same skepticism to people that I had to reality, everything shifted. The urge to control vanished. If I can’t prove that people are real, then I can’t prove I can change them. And if I can’t change them, why try?

3. The Collapse of Desire

With that realization, my entire framework crumbled. I lost all desires—not just the desire to control, but any desire. Before, even if I didn’t understand it, I had the drive to change people. Now? Nothing. No desire to receive, to alter, to do anything. The previous "good" states I had experienced were built on beliefs—beliefs that I could change reality, or people, or at least get something from the world. But now, those beliefs were gone.

I tried to return to those old states, but they felt hollow. I could force myself into them, but without belief, they were meaningless. I no longer wanted to stay there. The comfort was an illusion, and I saw through it.

4. The Return to Cognitive Therapy

I had abandoned cognitive therapy earlier, thinking it was incomplete or flawed. But now, I saw the truth: I had only half-applied it. I had dismissed the idea of changing reality but clung to the belief that people could be changed. That belief was my escape hatch—a way to avoid the full weight of cognitive therapy’s conclusions.

Now, with no escape left, I embraced it fully. The result? A state of pure observation. No emotions, no desires, no automatic thoughts. Just… seeing. And in that clarity, something unexpected happened: the world became sharper.

Before, my perception was like a 360p image—blurred by thoughts, desires, and constant mental chatter. Now? 16K resolution. No distortion. No filter. Just raw, unmediated experience. I could walk outside and see—not just look, but perceive everything in crystalline detail. Music sounded richer, sensations more vivid. It wasn’t about pleasure or "highs." It was about purity.

5. The Absence of Automatic Thoughts

Previously, automatic thoughts—angry, fearful, controlling—would arise, and I’d have to manage them with techniques. Now? They don’t appear at all. There’s nothing to manage because there’s nothing to believe in. The thoughts that once plagued me were all rooted in two things:

The belief that I could change reality or people.

The belief that I could (or should) receive something from the world.

But if reality and people are just perceptions—and if I can’t prove any of it is real—then there’s nothing to change, and nothing to receive. The automatic thoughts dissolve because their foundation is gone.

6. The New State: Effortless Being

Now, I don’t need to think about cognitive therapy 24/7. I can simply… live. There’s no urgency to control, to change, to do anything. Yet, paradoxically, I still do things. Not out of desire, but from a quiet impulse—a striving without the weight of motivation or craving. My body moves, my mind observes, but there’s no attachment.

And when I stop engaging with thoughts entirely? The world becomes even clearer. No mental noise. No "shoulds." Just existence.

7. The Guide I Can Now Write

Before, I couldn’t write a guide because I was conflicted: I had abandoned cognitive therapy but was still trying to control others through my words. Now? I can write from alignment. The guide won’t be about control. It will reflect what I’ve lived:

You cannot change reality or people (because you can’t prove they’re real).

You cannot "receive" anything (because perception is fallible).

All automatic thoughts stem from these two illusions.

The freedom comes when you fully accept this—not as a theory, but as a lived truth. Then, you’re left with pure experience, unburdened by the need to manipulate or acquire.

8. The Final Insight: No Need to Invent

There’s no higher math here. No complex philosophy. Just this:

Kill all beliefs—in changing, in receiving, in the reality of others.

Stop running from the void that follows.

Live.

The "good" states I chased before were built on shaky beliefs. This new state isn’t built on anything. It just is. And in that, there’s a strange, effortless peace.

Closing Thought

I used to think I needed something—a belief, a desire, a purpose—to feel okay. Now I know: I don’t need anything. The world is enough, just as it is. And for the first time, I can see it clearly.

The State of No Words: A Journey Beyond Belief

1. The Collapse of Old Beliefs

I’ve spent so much time trying to reach a "good state"—exploring, questioning, dismantling. Along the way, I uncovered new beliefs, hidden assumptions. Words, observations, feelings—all of it could be a mistake. A misperception. A lie I tell myself.

I killed those beliefs, one by one. But when I became aware of them, they vanished. My last "good state" was built on a single belief: that I could gain new experiences. I believed in the divide between what I’d already lived (old experiences) and what I hadn’t (the unknown—relationships, money, family). I craved the unknown, imagining how it would feel, what emotions it would bring. The thrill of novelty pulled me forward.

But then I realized: Even if I gain that new experience, how do I know it’s real? Maybe it’s all just another misperception. Maybe I’m not gaining anything at all. The thought destroyed me. If I can’t trust new experiences—if I can’t change myself, others, or even believe in words—then what’s left? The answer was nothing. A hollow, lifeless state where nothing mattered. I felt nothing. Saw nothing. Wanted nothing.

2. The Trap of Words

The problem was words. Always words. Before, I lived by them—my worldview, my beliefs. They gave me structure, but they also caused suffering when reality clashed with them. So I studied them, dismantled them, and found that none could be trusted. The words I once relied on became poison.

But even after destroying them, their echoes remained. I knew the words, the ideas—I just no longer believed them. Yet their presence in my mind was enough to drag me back into the void. The more I tried to use words—to describe, to control, to understand—the more I spiraled into the same conclusion: Nothing is real. Nothing matters. And that realization made life unbearable.

3. The Experiment: Waking Up Empty

Then, something shifted. I woke up and didn’t remember. Not the words, not the beliefs, not the conclusions from the day before. For the first few seconds after waking, the mind is blank—no memories, no thoughts. I decided to stay there. To live in that emptiness.

I didn’t try to recall anything. No words. No beliefs. No "guides" or frameworks. I just… existed. Observed. Felt. And it worked. The state was good—alive, effortless. Everything flowed. Work, rest, life. No resistance.

The key? Avoiding words at all costs. If I started remembering, analyzing, or clinging to any idea—even the idea that "nothing can be trusted"—I’d fall back into the void. So I didn’t. I stayed in the present, untouched by the past’s words.

4. The Paradox of Description

Now, as I describe this, I risk losing it. The moment I try to explain the state, I’m pulling myself back into the world of words. But here’s the difference: I’m not holding onto them. I speak, but the words don’t stick. They’re just sounds, echoes. They don’t define me.

Before, I’d wake up and immediately grasp for words—for some "base" of beliefs to build my day on. But every time I did, I’d either:

Believe something (and later destroy that belief, crashing into despair), or

Believe nothing (and collapse into numbness).

This time, I skipped the words entirely. No base. No guide. Just… being.

5. Why This Works (And Why I Resisted It)

I’ve always known this was possible. But I resisted it because I wanted to believe in something. I wanted words to give me meaning, direction, a "good state." I kept searching for the perfect belief—one that wouldn’t crumble under scrutiny. But every time I found one, I’d eventually see through it. The cycle was exhausting.

Now, I realize: The only sustainable state is the one without words. Not because words are evil, but because any word I cling to will eventually betray me. The moment I try to use a word—to define my experience, my goals, my self—I’m back in the trap.

6. The Practice: Living Without Yesterday

The trick is to never recall. To wake up and stay in that initial blankness. No memories of yesterday’s states, no analysis, no "lessons." Just existence.

If I think, "What was I feeling yesterday?"—I’m lost. Because yesterday’s realizations will pull me back into the void. But if I don’t think that—if I treat each moment as brand new, untainted by the past—then life is light. Effortless.

It’s like being reborn every morning. No baggage. No expectations. Just this.

7. The Fear of the Unknown (And Why It Doesn’t Matter)

I don’t fully understand this state. I don’t know why it works, or how to guarantee it’ll last. But I don’t need to. The old me would have obsessed over that—trying to define it, control it, replicate it. But that’s the path back to suffering.

Now, I just live it. If it fades, I’ll deal with that then. For now, it’s enough to know: This is how it feels to be free.

8. The Invitation (And the Warning)

I’d recommend this to anyone. Not as a philosophy, but as an experiment: Wake up. Don’t remember. Don’t think. Just be.

But here’s the warning: If you start analyzing it—if you try to use this as a new belief system—you’ll lose it. The moment you think, "Ah, so the key is to not think!"—you’re already thinking. And the cycle begins again.

The only way out is to stop looking for a way out.

Final Note: The Fragility of the State

Even now, as I write this, I feel the pull. The urge to understand, to define, to hold onto this state. But I know better. The second I try to make it mine, it slips away.

So I’ll stop here. Not because there’s nothing left to say, but because the saying itself is the danger.

Live it. Don’t name it.

The State of Forgetting: A Guide to Dissolving Deep Beliefs

1. The Initial State: Living Without Memory

I began living in a state where I forgot everything—where I no longer recalled words, guides, or defenses. Without these, I had no shield against the automatic thoughts rising from my subconscious. But that wasn’t the core issue. The real problem emerged when I noticed a compulsive urge during conversations: the desire to prove something to others—to refute their words, validate my own, or expose their mistakes.

When I failed—when I couldn’t convince others or satisfy this urge—I felt deep dissatisfaction. I traced this back to a hidden belief: I believed others’ words were not erroneous. I trusted that their words reflected reality, while mine might be flawed. This asymmetry created friction.

2. The Core Beliefs: What Can Be an Error?

I realized that everything could be a perceptual error:

My observations, feelings, and sensations—all might be misperceptions.

My words—the labels I used to describe my experiences—could be incorrect.

Others’ words—their descriptions of their experiences—might also be flawed.

Change itself—the idea that I could alter my reality or gain new experiences—could be an illusion.

Previously, I’d only questioned my perceptions and words, but my mind treated others’ words as inherently valid. This was the root of my urge to argue: I unconsciously believed their words were error-free, while mine were suspect.

3. The Solution: Dissolving Belief in Infallibility

The fix was simple in theory: Osconize that nothing is provably error-free.

Perceptions? Could be wrong.

Words (mine or others’)? Could misrepresent reality.

Change? Might not exist outside my mind.

New experiences? Could be illusions.

By accepting that everything might be an error, I destroyed the foundation of my automatic thoughts. The belief that "something is not an error" was the source of all distress. Once gone, the compulsions vanished.

4. The Trap of Remembering the Solution

But a new problem arose: fear of forgetting. I worried that if I stopped actively recalling the phrases that dismantled my beliefs ("Everything could be an error"), the old beliefs would return. This fear led to obsessive self-monitoring—a constant mental check to ensure I still "knew" the truth.

Yet this vigilance was counterproductive. The solution wasn’t to remember but to forget entirely. The beliefs, once dissolved, wouldn’t return on their own. The mind doesn’t spontaneously revive what it has truly abandoned.

5. The Paradox of Writing a Guide

I wanted to share this discovery—create a guide for others. But writing it forced me to re-experience the beliefs I’d dissolved. To verify the guide’s accuracy, I had to:

Recall the phrases that killed my beliefs.

Osconize them again to ensure they still worked.

Test them against my current state.

This process pulled me back into the mental loops I’d escaped. The act of teaching became a source of suffering.

6. The Guide Itself: A Step-by-Step Dissolution

Despite the paradox, here’s the essence of the method:

A. Identify Automatic Thoughts
Automatic thoughts (e.g., anger, sadness, dissatisfaction) stem from deep, unquestioned beliefs. These beliefs assume that something is not an error—whether it’s a perception, a word, or a change.

B. Locate the Deep Beliefs
The primary beliefs to dissolve:

"My observations/feelings/sensations are not errors."

Challenge: They could be misperceptions.

"My words accurately describe reality."

Challenge: They might describe errors, not truth.

"Others’ words are not errors."

Challenge: Their words could also describe their own misperceptions.

"Change is real."

Challenge: Perceived change might be an illusion.

"I can gain new experiences."

Challenge: "New" experiences might be misperceived repetitions.

C. The Universal Antidote
For each belief, ask:
"Can I prove this is not an error?"
The answer is always no. Thus, the belief collapses.

D. Forget Everything
After dissolving the beliefs, stop recalling the process. The mind won’t revert to old patterns. Forcing memory only creates stress.

7. Handling Residual Automatic Thoughts

If new automatic thoughts arise, they signal an unaddressed belief. Example:

"I feel the urge to argue" → "I still believe others’ words are error-free."

Solution: Reapply the antidote ("Their words could be errors"), then forget it again.

8. The Final State: Living Without Foundations

The goal is a life unburdened by:

Memory (no need to recall "truths").

Control (no need to monitor thoughts).

Belief (no assumption that anything is error-free).

In this state:

Automatic thoughts vanish.

Reality feels fluid, not rigid.

Suffering dissolves because nothing is proven to matter.

9. The One-Phrase Summary

Perhaps all of this can be condensed into a single realization:
"I cannot prove that anything—including this phrase—is not an error. Therefore, I cannot believe in anything as error-free."

Osconizing this once may be enough to dissolve all deeper beliefs. After that? Forget it.

Closing Reflection

This is not a philosophy to hold but one to use and discard. The moment the beliefs dissolve, the words become unnecessary. The guide, the memories, the mental checks—all are crutches for a mind that no longer needs them.

The only "practice" is forgetting.

1. The Problem with Testing Guides on Myself

I recorded a guide for others—something meant to help people start from scratch. But after writing it, I started testing it on myself. I treated my own words as a personal manual, as if I had to follow them rigidly, remember everything, and never make a mistake. This created immense stress.

The core issue wasn’t the guide itself—it was that I was applying it to my own life. I obsessed over whether it was "correct," and the act of self-application triggered anxiety. For a long time, I struggled with this: How do I write guides for others without first testing them on myself? How would I even know if they worked?

Then, a realization struck me: I don’t need to test them on myself at all. I can test them on other people. I can treat my guides as experiments for others, not personal dogma. This was the first breakthrough.

2. The "Just Woken Up" State: A Personal Guide

I discovered a way to enter a neutral, stress-free state. The method is simple:

"I imagine I’ve just woken up. ‘Just woken up’ means I remember nothing—literally. No thoughts, no emotions, no memories. My state normalizes completely. Then, I just live in that state without trying to change it or recall anything. I don’t analyze it. I don’t question it. I exist in the purity of that moment, like a blank slate."

At first, even this guide triggered questions in my mind—What is this "just woken up" state? Why enter it? What’s the purpose? But then I noticed something critical: These weren’t my questions. They were the imagined questions of an audience I was trying to convince. The doubts weren’t mine; they belonged to hypothetical listeners who’d demand explanations.

I realized: I don’t need to answer them. The state works for me. That’s enough. If others ask "why?" or "how?", that’s their journey—not mine. I can say:

"Here’s a state that works. Use it if you want. Live in it or don’t. I don’t care about your ‘whys.’ I live in it because it feels right."

This freed me. The questions stopped mattering.

3. The Trap of Self-Application

My stress always came from one place: applying my own guides to myself. Osmosis of ideas is one thing—it shifts my state temporarily, but it’s lightweight. I can forget it, return to neutral, and move on. But turning words into a personal guide—that’s poison. It creates rigidity, pressure, and the illusion that I must follow it perfectly.

So I made a rule:

Never test my guides on myself. Never treat my own words as laws I must obey.

If I write something for others, I let them experiment with it. My role is to observe, not to internalize.

4. Fear of Conversation (And How It Vanished)

I used to avoid talking to people because conversations would trigger old patterns:

The urge to prove something.

The fear of being swayed by others’ words.

The anxiety that their questions would destabilize me.

But then I understood: Conversations only harm me if I believe in the words exchanged. If I don’t assign weight to others’ statements (or my own responses), dialogue becomes neutral. It’s just an exchange—like observing clouds passing.

Now, I can talk about anything, then return to my baseline state afterward. The words don’t stick. The state isn’t permanently altered. I’m free to engage without fear.

5. The Fear of Spontaneous Awareness

For a while, I avoided any conscious awareness—even positive observations—because I feared it would lead me back to the toxic thoughts that once paralyzed me. But this was extreme.

I realized: Not all awareness is dangerous. There’s a difference between:

Toxic awareness: Recalling the old beliefs that destroyed my peace (e.g., "Everything might be a mistake, nothing can be trusted").

Neutral/positive awareness: Noticing the beauty of a sunset, remembering a pleasant past experience, or casually observing my surroundings.

The rule became:

Avoid only the awareness that harms. Everything else is allowed.

I can say, "I see a beautiful sunset," without spiraling. I can recall a happy memory without inviting old demons. The key is selectivity. If a thought or memory drags me into despair, I drop it. If it’s neutral or joyful, I let it exist.

6. The Core Rules for Peace

After all this, I distilled my operating principles:

Never create personal guides.

Writing guides for others? Fine. Applying them to myself? Never.

Never test others’ (or my own) guides on myself.

Experimentation belongs to others. My mind is not a lab.

Avoid recalling the "killer phrases."

The beliefs that once destroyed my peace? They served their purpose (I learned from them). Now, they stay buried. I use the "just woken up" technique to reset if they resurface.

Allow neutral/positive awareness.

Observing the world, remembering good things, or planning the future is fine—as long as it doesn’t hook into old pain.

Conversations are safe.

Words are just sounds. I can engage, then return to my center.

7. The Big Picture: Living Without Automatic Suffering

Most people live with automatic thoughts—invasive, unquestioned beliefs that dictate their emotions. These thoughts arise from deep-seated convictions (e.g., "I must be perfect," "Others’ opinions define me").

My process dismantled those convictions by:

Osmosis of specific phrases (e.g., the "just woken up" technique).

Refusing to reinforce old patterns (by not revisiting toxic awareness).

Detaching from others’ (and my own) demands for explanation.

Now, I live lightly. I think what I want, say what I want, and observe without fear. If a thought or guide starts to feel like a cage, I discard it. Freedom isn’t the absence of rules—it’s the absence of unquestioned rules.

Final Thought: Testing the New Approach

This is all theoretical until proven. The next step? Live it.

Will spontaneous awareness stay harmless?

Can I engage in deep conversations without residue?

Does the "just woken up" state hold under stress?

I don’t know yet. But for the first time, the experiment feels safe—because I’m no longer the guinea pig.

Reflections on Self-Guides, Beliefs, and the Desire to Change Others

1. The Flaw in "Awakening" to Words

In my last recording, I talked about the idea of "awakening" to words—this notion that you can become consciously aware of the words you use, the beliefs they carry, and how they shape your perception. I tested it, but immediately hit a wall: I have no interest or desire to "awaken" to words because I don’t believe in words at all. What’s the point of dissecting something you don’t even trust? If you don’t believe in the power of words to begin with, the whole exercise feels meaningless. So that hypothesis was flawed—not because the concept itself is wrong, but because it assumes a faith in words that I simply don’t have.

2. The Critical Mistake in My Guide for Others

After my previous audio entry, where I drafted a rough guide for people starting from scratch—trying to distill everything I know—I made a serious oversight. Not an error, exactly, but a glaring omission. I forgot to include something crucial, and the consequences hit me immediately.

Here’s what happened:

My brain seems to work like this: When I articulate a system or guide, it overwrites my previous understanding. If I believe I’ve captured everything correctly, my mind discards the old version and adopts the new one as the foundation.

The problem? The new version was missing a key piece. And because of that gap, I ran into trouble precisely in the area I’d failed to address.

It took me two days of relentless stress to realize what I’d left out.

3. The Hidden Belief: The Desire to Change Others

The missing piece was this: After writing that guide for others, I developed an overwhelming urge to change people.

Here’s how it unfolded:

I started thinking about writing guides for others—not just for myself—and suddenly, I was consumed by the idea of using words to control or alter them.

This desire wasn’t just abstract; it was actively stressful. Why? Because writing a guide for others is, at its core, an attempt to shape their reality with your words. And that’s a form of control.

The stress came from the same place as when I try to write words to control myself: the illusion that words can manipulate reality.

But here’s the critical distinction I’d missed:

I’d already rejected the belief that I can change reality itself. I’d accepted that any perceived change might just be a misperception—my brain tricking me into thinking I have power over something I don’t.

But I’d forgotten to apply this to people. My brain separates "reality" and "people." I’d dismantled the belief that I can change the world, but I’d left intact the belief that I can change others.

4. The Root of the Problem: Faith in Influence

The desire to change others stems from a deep-seated belief that it’s possible. In my guide, I’d addressed the general desire to change reality, but I’d completely overlooked the specific desire to change people.

The mechanics are the same:

Belief: "I can change others with my words/guides."

Reality: This "change" might just be my perception. Maybe people don’t even exist in the way I think they do. Maybe any "change" is an illusion.

Conclusion: If I don’t believe I can actually change others, the desire vanishes.

Once I saw this, everything shifted. The stress dissolved instantly. Now, when I write guides, I do it without the hidden agenda of control. The guide is just a guide—nothing more. I don’t care how others use it. I don’t believe it has power over them. And that neutrality is liberating.

5. The Domino Effect of One Belief

All the other issues I’d been grappling with—the compulsive need to test guides on myself, the anxiety around writing them—stemmed from this single overlooked belief. The moment I dismantled it, everything else collapsed too. No more stress. No more internal resistance.

Now, when I imagine writing a guide, I don’t spiral. Before, the mere thought would trigger the old pattern: "I’m trying to change others" → stress. Now? Silence.

6. The Danger of Incomplete Guides

This was a hard lesson: A poorly written guide isn’t just a bad explanation—it rewires your brain.

If you write a guide and think it’s complete, your mind deletes the old version and adopts the new one as truth.

If the new version is missing something critical, you will suffer for it. The gap won’t stay hidden; it will surface as stress, confusion, or compulsive behaviors.

Writing a guide is high-stakes. It’s not just about sharing knowledge—it’s about what you’re implicitly telling yourself.

7. The "Just Woken Up" State and Lingering Beliefs

Right now, I’m in a state where I don’t recall any of my past guides or beliefs. It’s like I’ve just woken up, with no memories or attachments. And it’s peaceful.

But here’s the catch:

If I start "awakening" to words or beliefs again, the stress returns. The unaddressed beliefs rise to the surface and take control.

For example, the moment I forgot to dismantle the belief in changing others, it reasserted itself—even in this "blank slate" state. It started dictating my thoughts, my desires, my stress.

This proves you can’t just "pretend" to be free of beliefs. If they’re still there, they will emerge. The only way the "just woken up" state works is if all the beliefs are already gone.

8. The Path Forward: A Flawless Written Guide

Now, my task is clear:

Write a comprehensive, written version of the guide—one where I don’t miss anything.

Cross-reference it with my audio recordings to ensure no gaps.

Test it relentlessly to confirm it leads to a stable, stress-free state.

The goal isn’t to create a "good" state—it’s to eliminate the mechanisms that create suffering in the first place.

9. The Universal Lesson

This isn’t just about me. It’s a fundamental truth:

You can’t tell someone, "Just imagine you’ve woken up with no beliefs and live like that," if they haven’t actually dismantled those beliefs. The beliefs will resurface and dominate.

The "just woken up" approach only works after you’ve killed all the hidden convictions.

If something still bothers you, it means there’s a belief you haven’t unearthed yet. That’s the signal to dig deeper.

Final Thought: The Responsibility of Guides

Writing a guide—whether for yourself or others—isn’t a casual act. It’s brain surgery. You’re not just organizing thoughts; you’re redefining the operating system of your mind. Miss a critical piece, and the whole system glitches.

So I’ll proceed carefully. No more omissions. No more half-truths. Just the raw, complete dismantling of every hidden belief—until the only thing left is the quiet of a mind that doesn’t need to control anything.

The Collapse of Belief and the Search for a New Way to Live

1. The Crisis of Consciousness

I’ve reached a point where the more I understand—the more I awaken to certain truths—the less I want to live. It’s as if awareness itself has stripped me of the ability to function. The deeper I go into self-realization, the more my subconscious beliefs and automatic thoughts dissolve. But the problem is this: if I keep holding onto these realizations, if I keep consciously repeating them to myself, life becomes unbearable.

So I had an idea: What if I pretend I just woke up? What if I forget everything—all the words, all the realizations—and simply exist without memory, without meaning? No recalling, no analyzing, just being. Because the moment I remember those phrases—the ones that shattered my old beliefs—I lose the will to live. But if I forget them, if I act as though I’ve just woken up with no past, no thoughts, then maybe I can function again.

2. The First Mistake: Believing in the Idea Itself

At first, I made a critical error. I thought: "Okay, I’ll imagine I just woke up. I won’t remember anything. I’ll just live as I am." But the mistake was that I started believing in this idea. I kept repeating it to myself, convincing myself that I was actually in that state—no memories, no thoughts, just pure presence. But in reality, I was only imagining it. I was using my imagination to simulate forgetfulness, and that simulation became my entire focus.

I realized: I don’t need to believe in the phrase. I don’t need to tell myself, "I am not remembering, I am not changing anything." Because even before that phrase, I was already not remembering, not changing anything. The belief was redundant. The moment I stopped trying to forget, I found that I already was forgetting.

3. The Second Mistake: Clinging to the Idea as Truth

Then I made another mistake. I started believing that this approach—"forget everything, live as if you just woke up"—was the correct way to live. I treated it like an absolute truth. And for a while, it worked. I felt better. But then I stumbled upon someone else’s opinion online—some other way of living—and suddenly, I doubted myself.

"What if I’m wrong? What if this isn’t the right way? What if their way is better?"

I realized I had been believing in my own method without any real foundation. The moment I questioned it, the illusion collapsed. I was back to square one: no beliefs, no direction, no will to live.

4. The Void: When Words Fail

Now I was stuck. I had destroyed all my deep-seated beliefs, and with them, my ability to want anything. I couldn’t force myself to believe in new words, new ideas, because I knew they were just words—arbitrary, potentially false. Without belief, there was no desire. Without desire, there was no action. I was paralyzed.

I thought: "Maybe I need to find something to believe in." But how? Belief requires the assumption that something is not a mistake. And I had lost the ability to assume anything. Every possible path—every way of living—seemed equally meaningless. I couldn’t choose, because I didn’t believe in any of them.

5. The Discovery: The Brain’s Default Setting

Then, by accident, I found something. Not a belief, not a word, but a state. A way of being where I don’t choose how to live—my brain does it for me. In this state, I don’t decide; I just follow.

And what does my brain want? Two things:

Survival – Work, health, safety, stability.

Reproduction – Family, children, providing for them.

That’s it. No chasing pleasure, no entertainment, no self-indulgence. Just pure, instinctual drive toward survival and propagation. And here’s the strange part: in this state, I feel happy.

Not the kind of happiness that comes from getting what you want, but a quiet, steady contentment. Like I’m a character in a movie—a reliable, hardworking father, providing for his family, living simply, without question. No moral dilemmas, no existential angst. Just doing what needs to be done.

6. The Resistance and the Stress

At first, I resisted. "But what about my plans? What about pleasure? What about games, fun, freedom?" The idea of giving up control felt like a loss. But then I realized: I have no other option.

Every other way of living requires belief in words—believing that I want something, that something matters. But I can’t believe anymore. So if I try to live by my own design, I feel nothing. No joy, no motivation. Only emptiness.

But in this brain-led state, I do feel something. Not excitement, not thrill, but a deep, quiet satisfaction. Like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.

7. The Fear of Letting Go

The hardest part? The stress when I resist. If I think, "Maybe I don’t want this. Maybe I want something else," my mind rebels. It’s like my brain is protecting this state, warning me: "No. This is how you survive. This is how you stay alive."

The only way to escape the stress is to stop resisting. To merge with this state, to let it guide me without question.

8. The Illusion of Choice

Before, I thought I was in control. I’d say: "I want this. I’ll work for it. I’ll enjoy it." And when I got what I wanted, I felt good. But that system required belief—belief that my desires were real, that my choices mattered.

Now, I see that was all an illusion. My brain was just following deeper programs, and my "choices" were just stories I told myself. Without belief in those stories, the whole system collapses.

9. The New Reality: Living Without Words

So now, I don’t choose. I don’t decide. I just follow what my brain wants:

Work to survive.

Build a family to propagate.

Avoid unnecessary risks.

Live simply, without distraction.

And in this state, I don’t need to believe in anything. I don’t need words. I don’t need justifications. I just am.

10. The Question of Writing a Guide

At first, I thought: "How can I write a guide for others in this state?" Because writing a guide requires belief—belief that my words have meaning, that they can help someone. But in this state, I don’t believe in words.

Then I realized: I don’t have to write a guide. I can just record my experiences. Share them as they are, without trying to convince anyone. Because in this state, I don’t need to convince. I don’t need to change anyone. I just live, and if others find value in that, fine. If not, that’s fine too.

11. The Final Realization: There Is No Other Way

I’ve tried everything. I’ve explored every possible way of living. And the only thing that works is this: letting the brain lead.

Because when I try to live by my own design, I feel nothing. When I resist the brain’s programming, I suffer. But when I surrender to it, I feel… right.

Not happy in the way I used to understand happiness—excited, thrilled, entertained—but happy in a deeper, quieter way. Like a tree growing toward the sun. No questions. No doubts. Just being.

12. The Test

Now, I have to test it. Live in this state. See if it holds. See if it’s real.

Because right now, it feels like the only truth left.

Closing Thought

This isn’t about giving up. It’s about seeing what remains when all the stories fall away. And what remains is simple: survive, propagate, be content.

Everything else was just noise.

A Journey Through Desire, Belief, and the Return to Instinct

1. The Collapse of Belief in "Wanting"

I began by testing the theory I had shared in my last recording—the idea that I could derive meaning or satisfaction from certain states of mind. But the experience left me hollow. I rejected that path entirely and moved on.

What followed was a deeper realization: I had been operating on a belief that I could receive something—pleasure, observations, emotions—and that these things were real, not just illusions of my perception. This belief was simple: "If I receive something—a feeling, a thought, an observation—it is not a mistake. It is real." But when I questioned whether my perceptions could be errors, this belief shattered.

Once it did, everything unraveled. Before, at least I had the idea that I could receive something. Now, even that was gone. I was left in a limbo where I wanted to receive, but believed I could not—because anything I received might just be another perceptual error. This created a painful disconnect: the desire persisted, but fulfillment was impossible. I was trapped in a cycle of wanting without believing in the possibility of satisfaction.

For a while, I was stuck. I wanted to do something, to feel something, but every attempt led to disappointment. I would act on a desire—watch a video, seek an experience—and even if I technically "got" what I wanted, it felt meaningless. The pleasure, the observation, the emotion: none of it felt real to me. It was as if I were receiving nothing at all, because my foundational belief—that reception was possible—had vanished.

2. The Discovery of "It Feels Like" (vs. "I Want")

I spent days lying in bed, paralyzed, wondering how to escape this void. Then, unexpectedly, a feeling surfaced: something felt like it wanted to happen. Not a conscious "I want," but an instinctive "it feels like." I don’t even remember what it was—maybe watching a movie, maybe eating something—but the sensation was undeniable: my brain wanted something.

This was different from the "I want" that had failed me. "I want" was a choice, a belief I had constructed: "I, as a conscious being, desire this." But this new feeling was not a choice. It was raw, unmediated, untouched by doubt. It didn’t require faith in my perceptions. It simply was.

I decided to follow it—not because I believed in it, but because it was something, and I had nothing else. I did what "felt like" doing, and for the first time in ages, the experience wasn’t followed by disappointment. There was no expectation, no belief in an outcome. Just the act itself.

But here’s the catch: I still didn’t believe in the feeling. I didn’t trust that the pleasure or satisfaction was real. Yet, paradoxically, the act of following this instinct felt better than the endless cycle of wanting and doubting. It was comfortable. Not ecstatic, not life-changing—just fine. And after so much emptiness, fine was revolutionary.

3. The Mechanics of "It Feels Like"

I began to explore this distinction:

"I want" = A conscious, constructed desire. It requires belief—belief that my wants are valid, that my perceptions are accurate, that fulfillment is possible. Without that belief, "I want" collapses into meaninglessness.

"It feels like" = An instinctive pull. It doesn’t ask for belief. It doesn’t need justification. It’s not mine in the same way; it’s my brain’s impulse, separate from my conscious self.

I tested this further. If "it feels like" watching a movie, I watch it. If "it feels like" making pancakes, I make them. If "it feels like" going for a walk, I go. Each time, the experience was neutral but acceptable—no highs, no lows, just a quiet hum of existence.

Then came the challenge: what about things I don’t feel like doing? Like chores my mom asked me to do. Here, I noticed a shift: when I did something out of obligation, the "feeling" disappeared. My actions became mechanical, joyless. But I realized this wasn’t a problem—it was just a phase. I could do the unpleasant task as a step toward what I would feel like doing later. This reframing made obligation tolerable, even neutral.

Gradually, I extended this logic to everything. Life became a flow of "it feels like" moments, with obligations as brief detours. The key was never to resist the instinct—only to see non-instinctive actions as temporary bridges back to it.

4. The Problem with Guides and Systems

At first, I tried to formalize this into a guide:
"Do what feels like doing. If you must do something else, treat it as a step toward what feels like doing."

But I noticed something: following a guide diluted the experience. When I consciously thought, "I should do what feels like doing," the spontaneity vanished. The contrast between "I don’t feel like anything" and "suddenly, I feel like something!"—that electric moment of discovery—disappeared. Life became a flat, predictable sequence of "feels like" actions, lacking the thrill of unpredictability.

I realized that the purest form of this existence was to abandon the guide entirely. To sit, to wait, to let the "feels like" arise organically—without anticipation, without structure. The unpredictability made it alive. When I planned my day around "what feels like," it became a script. When I let the feelings come as they would, it became an adventure.

5. The Origin of Suffering: When "It Feels Like" Becomes "I Want"

Reflecting on my past, I saw how this distinction explained so much of my suffering.

As a child, I lived almost entirely by "it feels like." I didn’t overthink my desires; I just followed them. But at some point, I began to believe in my wants. I started to think:

"I want this" (not just "it feels like").

"I need this."

"I should have this."

These beliefs required faith in my perceptions—faith that my desires were valid, that my feelings were real, that the world could satisfy them. But perception is fallible. When I doubted that, the entire structure collapsed.

Worse, these beliefs bred secondary emotions:

Anger = When I believed I deserved something (because I wanted it) and didn’t get it.

Fear = When I believed I had to do something (to get what I wanted) and might fail.

Sadness = When I believed my wants were unmet, and I was powerless.

All of these stemmed from one error: confusing "it feels like" (instinct) with "I want" (belief). The moment I labeled an instinct as a personal desire, I tied my identity to its fulfillment—and thus, to its potential failure.

6. The Return to Instinct: A Life Without "I"

Now, I’ve circled back to a state that feels primordial. I no longer believe in "I want." I don’t trust my conscious desires, because they’re built on shaky perceptions. But I do trust the raw, wordless impulses of my brain.

This isn’t a philosophy. It’s not a choice. It’s the only thing left after stripping away every belief that failed me. I don’t decide to follow these impulses; I just do. There’s no resistance, no debate. If "it feels like" eating, I eat. If "it feels like" resting, I rest. If "it feels like" working, I work—knowing it’s a step toward the next "feels like."

There is no "I" in this equation. There’s just the feeling and the action. No expectations. No disappointments. Just movement.

7. The Two Modes of Living

Now, I see two ways to live:

The Planned "Feels Like" = Structuring life around anticipated desires. Comfortable, stable, but predictable. The thrill of spontaneity fades.

The Spontaneous "Feels Like" = Letting impulses arise without foresight. Unpredictable, sometimes uncomfortable, but alive. The contrast between emptiness and sudden desire makes existence vibrant.

I haven’t decided which to embrace fully. For now, I oscillate between them, observing how each feels.

8. The Final Theory: Words Ruined Everything

Here’s my current understanding of how humans go astray:

Pre-language: We acted purely on instinct ("it feels like"). No suffering, no conflict—just action and reaction.

Post-language: We began describing our instincts with words. "It feels like" became "I want." This small shift had massive consequences:

We started believing our wants were real and important.

We tied our identity to these wants.

We invented obligations, needs, and shoulds to fulfill them.

We suffered when reality didn’t align with our beliefs.

The solution? Stop believing in the words. Stop trusting "I want." Return to the raw, wordless "it feels like." Let go of the stories, the justifications, the identities. Just act when it feels like acting, and rest when it doesn’t.

Closing Thoughts

This isn’t enlightenment. It’s not even happiness. It’s a way to exist without the weight of meaning—without the crushing demand that life should feel a certain way.

For now, it’s enough.

The Problem: Living in Imagination

I tested a state yesterday—the one I described in my last entry—and realized something crucial: I don’t like it. Why? Because my brain got exhausted. At first, it felt effortless, but then it became a relentless burden. What changed?

I discovered that my state had morphed into non-stop imagining that I wanted things. Whatever I thought about—an action, an object, an idea—I’d simultaneously imagine myself desiring it. It wasn’t a natural "want"; it was artificial, fabricated by my imagination. My brain was trapped in a loop: I think of X → I imagine wanting X → I feel like I want X (but only because I’m imagining it).

At first, this felt powerful. But after hours, my mind was drained. The state wasn’t bad—it was just unsustainable. I ended up numbing myself with YouTube, too mentally fatigued to think.

The Root Cause: Writing Guides for Others

This morning, I traced the problem back to its source. The moment I started writing guides for others, everything broke.

Here’s what happened:

Original State: I had a natural, effortless sense of wanting—no imagination required. It was physical, almost like a pull in my chest, not in my head.

The Shift: As soon as I tried to describe this state for others (to make a guide), my brain switched modes. Instead of feeling the desire, I started imagining it. The real sensation vanished, replaced by a mental simulation of wanting.

The Trap: My brain doesn’t distinguish between guides for myself and guides for others. If I write "Do X, and you’ll feel Y" for someone else, my brain automatically tries to live by that guide too—even if I don’t believe it. Since I don’t believe in any guides (for myself or others), the only way to "feel" the desire is to forcefully imagine it, which is exhausting.

Key Insight:

When I stop thinking about guides for others, my natural desires return.

When I start thinking about guides again—even for a second—the desires disappear, replaced by imagined ones.

The Two Modes of Motivation

I realized there are only two ways to feel motivated:

Belief-Based Motivation (Broken for Me):

You write a guide (for yourself or others).

You believe the words in the guide are true.

Your brain follows the guide, and you feel motivated.

Problem: I don’t believe in any guides. So this path is closed.

Non-Belief Motivation (The Only Way Left):

You stop thinking entirely—no guides, no words, no imagination.

Your brain shifts to a deeper, non-verbal mode.

Desires arise organically, from somewhere in my chest (or deep in my brain), not from thoughts.

Condition: This only works if I completely stop thinking about others, the future, or myself in words.

The Paradox:

If I try to describe this state (even to myself), I lose it.

If I try to help others achieve it, I lose it.

The only way to keep it is to stay silent—both internally and externally.

Why Thinking About Others Destroys My State

When I think about others (or write guides for them), three things happen:

I Simulate Their Perspective: My brain pretends I am them, imagining how they’d react to my words.

I Lose Myself: My own desires vanish because I’m now "living" as someone else.

I Get Stuck in Imagination: To compensate, I start imagining desires for myself, which feels fake and draining.

Example:

If someone asks, "What should I do?", I instinctively put myself in their shoes.

The moment I do that, my own desires disappear.

The only way back is to stop thinking about them entirely.

The Solution: Limited Thinking + Returning to Self

I can’t avoid thinking about others completely—life requires some interaction. But I can:

Think in Short Bursts:

Think about others/future/past only when necessary (e.g., to adjust my actions).

The second it stops being useful, drop it.

Always Return to "Wanting":

After thinking about others, I must actively shift back to my own body and desires.

If I don’t, I’ll stay stuck in simulation mode.

Accept Uncertainty:

I’ll never get proof that my interactions with others are "correct."

I have to act without certainty, then let go.

Metaphor:
It’s like adjusting a ship’s course:

You check the map (think about others/future) briefly.

Then you sail (live in your desires) until the next check.

If you stare at the map forever, you’ll never move.

The Big Picture: Why Humans Overthink

I think humans (including me) get trapped in overthinking because:

We Crave Proof: We want absolute confirmation that our actions (toward others, the future, the past) are "right."

We Fear Letting Go: If we stop thinking about these things, we feel like we’re losing control.

We Confuse Simulation with Reality: We think imagining desires (or others’ perspectives) is the same as real feeling.

The Fix:

Think only when it changes your actions. If thinking doesn’t lead to action, it’s useless.

Trust the "Wanting": The deep, wordless desires are more real than any imagined ones.

Protect Your Silence: The moment you start explaining your state (even to yourself), you risk losing it.

Final Realization: The Only Sustainable Way

For Myself:

Stop writing guides (for me or others).

Stop trying to "fix" my desires with words.

Just feel—the desires come when I’m not forcing them.

For Others:

I can still help, but only from my direct experience (e.g., "This worked for me").

The second I try to prescribe a solution, I lose my own state.

True help comes from silence, not instructions.

For the Future:

Plan only what’s necessary (e.g., earning money to live).

Then return to the present—don’t linger in "what ifs."

The Feeling Itself

When I’m in the right state:

The desire isn’t in my head—it’s deeper, almost physical (chest/center of the brain).

It’s strong but effortless, like a pull, not a thought.

My mind is quiet; there’s no inner chatter about "shoulds" or "wants."

When I’m in the wrong state:

Desires feel weak, mental, forced.

My brain is loud, constantly simulating what I think I should want.

The Challenge Ahead

Can I help others without losing myself?
Maybe—if I share observations instead of instructions.
Example: "I noticed that when I stop thinking, I feel X" vs. "Do Y to feel X."

Can I plan for the future without overthinking?
Yes—if I act quickly, then return to the present.

Can I trust this state?
It’s the only thing that’s ever worked. Everything else was exhausting imagination.

Closing Thought

The hardest part isn’t finding the state—it’s protecting it. The world (and my own mind) will keep pulling me back into simulation. But now I know:

Thinking is a tool, not a home.

Desires aren’t made of words.

The only way out is in—into the silence beneath the noise.

Final Question to Myself:
Can I live this way—not as a rule, but as a practice?
Not by believing in it, but by doing it, over and over, until it becomes the default.

The Collapse of Belief and the Return to the Self

1. The Loss of All Deep Beliefs

I’ve reached a point where I no longer believe in anything—not in words, not in thoughts, not in the very act of thinking itself. Because thinking, at its core, is just thinking in words. When you strip away every belief, every conviction, you’re left with a void. And in that void, the only way to want something—to feel desire again—is to stop thinking entirely.

2. The Objects of Human Thought

So what do people think about? From what I’ve observed, human thought revolves around just a few things:

Other people (their lives, their opinions, their expectations).

The future (what might happen, what I want to happen).

The past (what was, what could have been).

The present (though I rarely think about this—mostly, my mind is fixed on others).

But here’s the realization: I no longer believe in any of these thoughts.

I don’t believe in my thoughts about other people—that they owe me anything, that I want anything from them.

I don’t believe in my thoughts about the future—no faith in plans, hopes, or fears.

I don’t believe in my thoughts about the past—no regret, no nostalgia, no "what ifs."

I don’t even believe in my thoughts about the present—no self-judgment, no "I should be doing this."

When you reject all of these, you’re left with nothing but the raw experience of being.

3. The Mechanism of Desire

Here’s the law I’ve discovered:
Desire cannot exist when you’re lost in thought.

When I think about others, I’m not me—I’m projecting, comparing, performing.

When I think about the future or past, I’m not here—I’m scattered across time, dissolved in abstraction.

Even when I think about the present, if it’s filtered through judgment or expectation, I’m still not present.

The only way to feel desire—to want something truly—is to stop thinking about all of it.
Stop thinking about others.
Stop thinking about time (past, future, even the present as a concept).
Just… stop.

And then—only then—do I return to myself. To the actual present. To the body, the breath, the unmediated experience. And from that place, desires arise naturally. Not as demands, not as lacks, but as pure, unfiltered impulses.

4. The Test of Absence

Recently, after recording a voice note (like this one), I noticed I wasn’t feeling that alive, present state. I wasn’t in touch with my desires. So I asked: Why?
The answer was immediate: I was thinking about how others would receive it.

Would they understand?

What questions would they have?

Did I forget to mention something?

I was lost in the minds of others—imagining their reactions, anticipating their judgments. And in that moment, I was gone from myself.
The moment I stopped—when I let go of those thoughts—I returned.
The "wants" came back. The aliveness. The me.

This is the ironclad rule:
If I’m not in that state of presence, it means I’m thinking about:

Others (their lives, their opinions).

The past (regret, memory).

The future (anxiety, planning).

The present (but as a concept, not the living reality).

5. The Futility of Alternative Methods

Some might suggest:

"Just tell yourself something positive!"

"Visualize what you want!"

"Repeat affirmations!"

But here’s the truth: That’s all just more thinking.
It’s another layer of words, another distraction from what is. It’s mental effort, and effort is the opposite of presence. It’s not joyful—it’s exhausting.

The only thing that works is the cessation of thought itself.
No guides.
No words.
No "techniques."
Just stopping.

6. The Final Realization

After losing all belief—after seeing through every mental construct—the only thing left is this:
To live, you don’t need to think about anything.
Thinking is what removes you from life.
Presence is what returns you to it.

And the proof is in the experience:

When I’m not present, I’m thinking about them, or then, or what should be.

When I am present, there’s no thought—just being, and from being, wanting arises naturally.

This isn’t a theory. It’s a mechanism.
The only one that works.

Closing Note

That’s all I wanted to add.
Everything else—every other method, every other "trick"—is just more noise.
This is the only way.

The Illusion of Planning: How Structure Kills Spontaneity

I started by thinking I should write a plan—a tiny, three-hour to-do list: wash the dishes, take a walk, work a little. The moment I scribbled it down and tried to follow it, I lost that state. The state where I’m truly alive. Planning, I realized, is living by words—by abstract commands in my head. When I obey a plan, I’m obeying words, not my actual desires. So I asked myself: How do I live without a plan? The answer seemed simple: do whatever I feel like in the moment, with no premeditation.

But then I thought: What’s the point of a plan I don’t follow? It becomes just a list of options—a menu of possibilities I might dip into if I run out of spontaneous ideas. So I can write a plan, but I’ll only do what I want from it. If I’m only doing what I want, the plan isn’t a plan at all. It’s just a backup list. That felt resolvable… until I remembered my mom asking me to water the cucumbers.

The Conflict: My Desires vs. Others’ Expectations

I don’t want to water the cucumbers. But ignoring her request feels wrong—yet complying drags me out of that state. I tried bargaining with myself: "I’ll do what I don’t want now, so I can do what I want later." But that’s just more words in my head. I’m not doing—I’m imagining a sequence of actions, and the imagination itself becomes a burden. The mental effort of picturing myself suffering through unwanted tasks to "earn" desired ones kills my motivation entirely.

This led me to a stark realization: The only way I feel truly alive is when I’m a complete egoist. Not the kind of egoist who calculates long-term benefits (that’s just disguised altruism), but the kind who does only what he wants in the present moment—no compromises, no obligations, no future considerations. In this state:

Other people become part of the landscape, like trees or weather—resources to use if they offer something I want.

I don’t believe I owe anyone anything, but I also don’t believe anyone owes me anything.

My motivation skyrockets. I feel confident, capable, even happy.

The second I start considering others’ interests, my energy collapses. I lose all desire to act.

The Paradox of "Selfish" Generosity

Here’s the twist: In this egoistic state, I might choose to help others—but only if it aligns with a spontaneous desire, not out of duty. For example:

I might pay for a family member’s medical bills not because I should, but because in that moment, I want to.

I might share wealth not out of guilt, but because it amuses me to see others benefit from my success.

This isn’t strategic generosity (which is still about control). It’s impulsive, uncalculated. I’m not investing in relationships; I’m acting on whims. And paradoxically, this makes me more reliable in some ways—because when I do give, it’s genuine, not performative.

The Social Problem: Can an Egoist Coexist?

The glaring issue: How do I live this way around people who aren’t egoists? Non-egoists—people who constantly weigh others’ needs—will reject me. They’ll see me as selfish, ungrateful, even parasitic. But here’s what they miss:

I’m not exploiting them. I’m using the reality they provide (a home, food, resources), but I’m not manipulating them. I’m indifferent to their judgments because I don’t need their approval.

I’m not against collaboration. If my desires align with theirs (e.g., I want to improve the house we share), I’ll act—but the moment it feels like an obligation, I’ll disengage.

I’m okay with consequences. If they cut me off, I’ll adapt. I’ve seen people start from nothing (even homelessness) and thrive in this mindset. The state itself is a kind of superpower: it turns me into a machine that will find a way, no matter the circumstances.

The Experiment: Testing Pure Egoism

I’m considering proposing an experiment to my family:
"Let me live for a week in total egoism. Use your resources, ignore your expectations, and see what happens. If I’m productive, motivated, and moving toward goals (like earning money), isn’t that better than me being paralyzed by guilt?"

Potential outcomes:

They accept it. They see I’m happier and more effective when unshackled. Maybe they even benefit from my spontaneous generosity.

They reject it. I lose their support and must fend for myself. But in this state, that doesn’t scare me—it’s just a new reality to navigate.

Key insight: The fear of their rejection is the last chain of my conditioning. Society (parents, teachers, systems) trained me to care about others’ interests. But that training made me miserable. The years I spent in Moscow, free from family obligations, were the best of my life—I worked when I wanted, earned what I wanted, lived only by desire.

The Core Dichotomy: Two Modes of Existence

Mode 1: Living for Others

Mode 2: Pure Egoism

- Constant guilt/obligation

- Effortless motivation

- No personal desires

- Intense focus on wants

- Depression, stagnation

- Energy, creativity

- "Shoulds" dictate actions

- "I want" dictates actions

- Fear of disapproval

- Indifference to judgment

The catch: Mode 2 is socially unsustainable unless I find others who operate the same way. But even then, I don’t need their approval. I only need their tolerance—or their absence.

The Ultimate Question: Is This Even Wrong?

I keep circling back to: Is it wrong to live this way? Society says yes. But society is built on control—on convincing people to prioritize the system over themselves. The most successful people I know are egoists. They didn’t get there by caring about others’ feelings; they got there by relentless focus on their own path.

Yet part of me wonders: Am I justifying laziness? No. In this state, I’m more productive—just on my terms. The dishes might not get washed, but I’ll build something, create something, earn something because I want to, not because I’m avoiding shame.

The Path Forward: Radical Honesty

I need to talk to my family. Not to negotiate, but to declare:
"This is how I function. I can’t live any other way. You can be part of this reality, or not—but I won’t pretend to care about your expectations."

If they refuse?

I’ll leave. Find a way to support myself. Sleep on floors if I must.

The state itself will fuel me. I’ve seen it before: when I’m truly free, I move.

If they accept?

I’ll thrive. And perhaps, in time, they’ll see that my egoism isn’t cruelty—it’s the only way I can exist without collapsing.

Final Thought: The Freedom of Indifference

The scariest part? In this state, I don’t need anyone. Not emotionally, not materially. I can want companionship (a game night, a shared meal), but I don’t need it. That’s the ultimate freedom—and the ultimate threat to a world that runs on dependency.

But here’s the truth: I’ve never been more alive than when I stopped caring what anyone else wanted.

A Radical Shift: Losing Faith in Meaning

The Decision to Become an Egoist

I recorded this update because something profound has changed in me—my personality, my state of mind, even my core. I’ve become a different person. Let me try to explain what happened.

In my last recording, I talked about the need to stop thinking about others’ interests—to stop caring about people and become an egoist. At the time, I thought: Okay, I’ll try this, but how do I live with others while doing it? I considered telling people about my experiment, warning them that I’d be acting differently so they wouldn’t worry. But then I realized: Even that thought—wanting to explain myself—is still caring about others’ interests. If I truly stopped caring, I wouldn’t bother warning anyone. I wouldn’t think about how my behavior affects them. I’d just stop.

The idea terrified me. What if this is wrong? What if I regret it? My whole life, I’d believed in considering others. The thought of abandoning that felt like jumping into the void. But I forced myself. I decided, right here, right now, to stop thinking about others’ interests—completely. No explanations, no warnings. Just… stop.

The Immediate Aftermath: A Collapse of Meaning

As soon as I made that decision, I went for a walk (it was already part of my plan, but I also wanted to). And then—something shattered.

At first, I couldn’t understand what had happened. My usual state of mind was gone. Everything felt different, hollow. It took me a long time to piece it together, but now I think I understand: I lost my belief in meaning.

For years—maybe most of my life—I’d believed that caring for others gave my actions purpose. Even when I stopped believing in the meaning of my own desires, I still clung to the idea that others’ interests mattered. My logic was brutal but simple:

My own life had no inherent meaning.

But others could give it meaning—through their approval, their needs, their expectations.

If I didn’t care about them, I’d suffer. They’d be dissatisfied, and that would hurt me.

So I lived for them. I wrote guides, tried to change people, obsessed over how to care for others in ways that would also benefit me. It was a twisted kind of self-interest: I care about others because, ultimately, it serves me.

But when I decided to stop caring about others—when I ripped away even that—the last pillar holding up my sense of purpose collapsed.

The Illusion of Desire

Before this shift, I still wanted things. I wanted to work, to earn money. But why? Because it served others—my family, who supported me financially. Their disapproval hurt me, so I told myself: If I work, they’ll be happier, and that gives my effort meaning.

But that was a lie. I didn’t truly want those things for myself. I only wanted them because I believed they mattered to others. The moment I stopped caring about others, my own desires evaporated. There was no longer any point in wanting anything.

I’d spent years thinking I’d lost faith in my meaning but still held onto theirs. Now I see: That faith was the only thing keeping me going. Without it, even my own wants feel empty.

Where This Leaves Me

I don’t know what comes next. I’m in freefall. The fear isn’t just about others’ reactions—it’s deeper. If nothing has meaning—not my desires, not others’ needs—then what’s left?

I used to believe in two things:

My own interests mattered (until I lost faith in that).

Others’ interests mattered (until I forced myself to stop believing in that too).

Now both are gone. And I’m standing here, staring at the void where purpose used to be.

Reflection:
This isn’t just an experiment anymore. It’s an unraveling. The question now isn’t how to live as an egoist—it’s whether I can live at all without the illusion of meaning.

Note on Style:

Structure: Divided into clear sections (Decision → Aftermath → Illusion → Conclusion) to mirror the author’s logical progression.

Voice: First-person, intimate, and raw, preserving the original’s urgency and existential weight.

Key Phrases: Retained verbatim where critical (e.g., "lost faith in meaning," "caring for others in ways that would benefit me").

Tone: Balances analytical clarity with emotional rawness, avoiding clinical detachment.

The Collapse of Meaning: A First-Person Account

1. The Loss of Faith in Purpose

I stopped believing there was any point in doing what I wanted. And then, suddenly, I found myself in a state where nothing made sense at all. I lost faith in the idea that anything—anything—was worth doing.

At first, I tried being selfish. I stopped caring about others’ interests, thinking maybe that would free me. But the moment I did, I was hit with a wave of questions: Why should I live as an egoist? What’s the point of doing what I want? Why am I even in this state of selfishness? The questions "why" and "what for" flooded my mind.

I realized I had spent years not asking these questions. I had convinced myself that I’d already accepted life was meaningless, that I was beyond such doubts. But the truth was simpler: I had believed in meaning. As long as I believed—even unconsciously—that there was a point to things, I didn’t need to ask why. The moment that belief vanished, the questions returned with a vengeance.

2. The Death of Words and Guides

When I lost faith in meaning, something else died with it: my trust in the words of my own "guides"—the ideas, philosophies, and frameworks I’d used to navigate life. All those words that once told me "everything might be a perception error" or "meaning is subjective"… they became hollow.

I stopped believing any words had meaning. Everything I’d said, thought, or taught over the past four years—all of it—lost its weight. It no longer meant anything. It didn’t do anything.

Before, I had found meaning in two things:

Achieving a state—some ideal version of myself or my life.

Feeling better—whether through pleasure, self-improvement, or serving others.

But then I stopped believing in my own interests. I stopped believing I even had interests worth pursuing. And when I shifted to thinking my "guides" were only for others—for helping them, making their lives better—that meaning collapsed too. Without the belief in others’ needs, my words became empty noise.

3. The Experiment: Acting Without Meaning

I still wanted things—desires lingered. But the critical difference was this: I no longer believed those desires mattered.

I tried acting on them anyway, despite the absence of meaning. The result? I’d stop almost immediately. Why bother if it’s pointless? Before, I had unconsciously assumed my desires had purpose. Now, that assumption was gone, and with it, my motivation.

I thought: Maybe I just need to stop questioning and keep doing what I want. But it didn’t work. I felt nothing—no life, no joy, no interest. Just a hollow, mechanical existence.

4. The Discovery: Desire Without Belief

I realized I had to find a way to function without meaning. So I searched my mind for anything I still wanted—not because it had purpose, but simply because the impulse existed.

What I found was this:

I didn’t want anything I already had. YouTube, games, socializing—none of it interested me.

The only thing I could desire was what I didn’t have.

I decided to believe in these desires—not in the old way (where belief implied meaning), but as a choice. I could choose to accept that I wanted them, even if I didn’t believe they mattered.

This wasn’t faith in meaning. It was faith in realness: the reality of my own hunger, my own impulses. Nothing more.

5. The New Self: Aggression as Rational Defense

With meaning gone, something else emerged: aggression. But not the blind, moralistic anger of others. Mine was calculated.

Aggression ≠ Anger: I don’t believe in morality, guilt, or "shoulds." If someone crosses my boundaries, I react—not because they’re "wrong," but because my interests are threatened.

Proportional Response: If attacked, I retaliate harder than the initial strike. Not out of vengeance, but to deter future threats. (Like in war: to make the opponent think twice before acting again.)

No Moral Lectures: I don’t waste energy judging others. I don’t care who’s "right." I only care about protecting what’s mine.

This aggression isn’t constant. It’s a default readiness—a passive state of being prepared to strike if needed. Relaxing feels like vulnerability, and I see no reason to be vulnerable.

6. The Animal Instincts

My desires now are stripped down to primal essences:

Survival: Financial independence, health, security.

Legacy: Children—not for love or connection, but as a biological imperative. I want offspring, strong and numerous, because that’s how life persists.

Dominance: Maximizing resources (money, influence) to ensure my survival and that of my lineage.

Pleasure? Irrelevant. I might still feel it (music, food, exercise), but it’s meaningless. It’s just a signal—like pain—that something is or isn’t working. It doesn’t enhance my life; it’s just data.

7. The Absence of Joy (and Why It Doesn’t Matter)

I don’t experience joy, love, or excitement. Not because I’m depressed, but because I no longer believe in their value.

Old Me: Chased pleasure—YouTube, games, socializing—because I thought it meant something.

New Me: Sees these things as distractions. If I walk, it’s for oxygen and movement, not beauty. If I eat, it’s for energy, not taste.

I’m not unhappy. I’m neutral. Emotions are irrelevant to my goals.

8. The Final Acceptance: A Life Without Illusions

Most people live with a veil—a subconscious belief that life has meaning, even if they know rationally it doesn’t. That veil lets them function. Mine is gone.

I see only one layer: no meaning. No hidden purpose, no grand narrative. Just observation and action.

I tried to rebuild the illusion of meaning. I failed. Now, I accept that it’s gone forever.

9. The Current State: A Machine with Teeth

I operate on two modes:

Neutral: When my interests aren’t threatened.

Aggressive: When they are.

I’m not cruel, but I’m dangerous—like a wild animal that attacks only when provoked. My intelligence and knowledge make me more effective, not more "human."

I don’t smile. I don’t seek happiness. I don’t waste energy on moral judgments. I have:

Goals (survival, legacy, dominance).

Tools (aggression, rationality, detachment).

No illusions.

This is how I live now.

Closing Reflection

I used to be soft, kind, eager for connection. Now, I’m a fortress. Not because I hate the world, but because the world is indifferent—and so am I.

I don’t know if this is better. But it’s what remains when meaning burns away.

A State of Forced Compliance and the Illusion of Meaning

1. The Immediate Trigger: Washing Dishes as a Metaphor

I was washing dishes—an endless, tedious task—and at some point, I realized I was forcing myself to finish. I didn’t want to do it, but I had to. The more I resisted, the more aggressive I felt, as if aggression were a tool to escape the unwanted. This sensation—being trapped between what I must do and what I want to do—felt eerily familiar.

It reminded me of when I was 20, fresh out of Moscow, back with my parents. I had no job, no money, nothing. I wanted to learn programming, to build a future, but my parents piled household chores on me—things I didn’t want to do. Back then, I had two competing forces:

What I wanted: To code, to earn money, to live independently.

What I was forced to do: Chores, obligations, their demands.

On top of that, I was addicted to quick pleasures—YouTube, distractions, the "I-want-it-now" impulses. These cravings clashed with my long-term goals, and I believed in both: the desire for independence and the urge for instant gratification. But I also only thought about my wants. My parents’ demands felt like invasions. I knew I had to comply—otherwise, they’d stop feeding me, kick me out—but I resented it. I forced myself, but deep down, I was seething.

Now, years later, I’m in a similar spot. I have nothing again—no money, no stability—just the need to "get back on my feet." And again, I’m doing things I don’t want to do (like washing those damn dishes) because I have to. The difference? Back then, I believed my desires had meaning. Now, I don’t.

2. The Absence of Joy: A Robot’s Existence

In both eras—then and now—my face is the same: empty. No emotions, no smiles, no joy. Even music doesn’t bring pleasure when you’re in this state. Nothing does. Because when you’re constantly doing what you must instead of what you want, life feels mechanical.

Back then, I had faith—faith that my goals (programming, money, freedom) mattered. Now? I don’t believe in anything. Not in meaning, not in entitlement, not even in my own aggression. The aggression is still there, but it’s different:

Then: I believed others owed me something. My anger was righteous—they were wrong, I was right.

Now: I don’t believe anyone owes me anything. My aggression is just a reflex: "Leave me alone." If I lash out, it’s not because I think I’m right—it’s just to make people back off.

I’ve stripped away the illusions. No dependencies, no addictions, no false beliefs. Just raw, unfiltered reality: I do what I don’t want to do, and it makes me aggressive.

3. The McDonald’s Parallel: When Work Drains the Soul

This state also reminds me of my time at McDonald’s. At first, I wanted the job. But by the fifth or sixth month, I was a zombie. My face was stone. They told me to smile at the cash register, but I couldn’t—I felt nothing. No joy, no interest, just obligation. The moment I quit, life got better because I returned to doing what I wanted.

Now, I’m in that same cycle: forced compliance → emotional shutdown → aggression. The only way out is to reach the point where I can do what I want. Until then, I’m stuck in this limbo.

4. The Core Problem: Doing vs. Wanting

I’ve realized: My lack of emotion comes from not doing what I want.

What do I actually want? Simple things:

Playing Warcraft.

Riding a longboard.

Freedom to choose.

But I can’t have those yet. I must work, earn money, build stability—all prerequisites for the life I want. And because that life is distant, I’m unhappy now.

It’s a paradox:

I want financial independence so I can do what I want.

But to get there, I must do what I don’t want.

And doing what I don’t want drains all joy.

This is why I’m aggressive: The more my life is filled with "musts," the angrier I get. The more it’s filled with "wants," the happier I am.

5. The Illusion of Meaning and the Birth of Beliefs

I used to believe in meaning. That my desires were real, that my goals mattered. But meaning is a trap.

How beliefs form:

You see a desire (e.g., "I want money").

You believe the desire is real (not a perception error).

You justify it ("Money will give me freedom").

You create obligations ("I must work to get money").

You believe the obligations are real ("I should work hard").

You suffer because now you’re trapped in "shoulds."

Example:

"I want love from my parents" → "I must obey them to get love" → "Obeying them is meaningful" → "If they don’t love me, I’m worthless."

"I want pleasure" → "I must avoid pain" → "Pleasure is the meaning of life."

But none of it is real. It’s all relative:

"Meaning" only exists in relation to something else (e.g., "work has meaning because it gives money").

If the foundation is an illusion (e.g., "money will make me happy"), the whole structure collapses.

Now, I see through it. I don’t believe in:

Obligations ("I should do this").

Entitlements ("They owe me this").

Meaning ("This matters").

All that’s left are raw desires—not beliefs, just facts of what I want.

6. Aggression as Fuel

My aggression isn’t toxic—it’s motivation.

Then: My anger was mixed with zlość (malice, resentment). I believed others were wrong, and that belief stressed me out.

Now: My aggression is pure. It’s not about blame—it’s a signal: "This isn’t what I want. Change it."

If I didn’t feel this aggression, I’d do nothing. It’s unpleasant, but it pushes me forward.

7. The Future: Will It Be Better?

I theorize that once I have what I want—money, independence, freedom—my state will improve. Not because I’ll believe in meaning again, but because:

I’ll stop doing what I hate.

I’ll start doing what I love.

The aggression will fade (because there’s less forced compliance).

I might even smile—not out of belief, but because I’m finally aligned with my desires.

But I don’t expect euphoria. Just calm. A quiet, steady contentment. No grand illusions—just a life that doesn’t drain me.

8. The Unavoidable Truth: Suffering as a Motivator

I once tried to feel good regardless of circumstances. To be at peace no matter what. But that’s impossible—at least for me.

The only way to feel better is to change the circumstances:

Now: I’m forced to do what I don’t want → aggression, emptiness.

Future: I do what I want → calm, slight joy.

This isn’t about "happiness." It’s about alignment.

9. The Final Realization: There Is No Meaning (And That’s Okay)

All my past suffering came from believing in meaning:

"I must do this."

"They owe me that."

"This goal matters."

Now, I’ve stripped it all away. There is:

What I want (desires).

What I must do (obligations).

The gap between them (suffering).

But suffering isn’t forever. It’s temporary friction—the cost of moving from "must" to "want."

So I’ll endure it. Not because I believe in the struggle, but because the alternative is worse: doing nothing, staying stuck.

One day, the gap will close. And then? Maybe I’ll smile. Not because life has meaning—but because, for once, I’m not fighting myself.

Closing Thought

This isn’t a philosophy. It’s a survival mechanism.

Aggression = Fuel.

Emptiness = A sign I’m off-track.

Freedom = The only goal worth the grind.

I don’t need meaning. I just need a life that doesn’t require me to pretend.

Self-Update: The Shift from Aggression to Purposeful Action

1. The Core Realization: From Forced Action to Acceptance of Stages

I used to be in a state where I was constantly doing things I didn’t want to do—things that felt meaningless because I couldn’t see their connection to what I actually wanted. The frustration came from this paradox:

Physically, nothing stopped me from doing what I truly desired.

Mentally, I was trapped in a loop: "I’m doing what I don’t want, and I don’t even understand why."

This created a chronic, passive aggression—a simmering resentment toward every moment spent on "obligations." My face was like stone, my mood sour, my mind rebellious. But then, in my last recording (Part 3), I had a breakthrough:

"What if this isn’t just pointless suffering? What if it’s a stage—a necessary step to eventually do what I want?"

Once I reframed my actions as temporary stages on the path to freedom, everything changed. Cutting the grass (a task I hated) became bearable because I saw it as:

The fastest route to my goal.

Not a punishment, but a bridge.

The aggression vanished. Not because the tasks became enjoyable, but because they made sense.

2. Testing the New Mindset: Work, Fatigue, and the Illusion of Choice

After the realization, I tested it immediately:

Mowing the lawn: No anger. Just neutral action.

Mom’s request to finish: A flicker of irritation ("I’m done!"), but I reframed it as "another small stage" and completed it calmly.

Then came exhaustion. Physically drained, I faced a choice:

Option 1: Push through, work on my side projects (writing guides, monetizing my recordings).

Option 2: Rest.

I wanted to rest—but not for pleasure. I wanted to test if I could even enjoy leisure anymore. So I sat down to watch YouTube, and here’s what happened:

First attempt: Zoned out. No engagement. Just empty relaxation.

Second attempt: I forced myself to focus on a video I’d genuinely want to watch. I felt joy. A real, immersive "high."

But then I noticed something critical:

"I could get addicted to this pleasure… but I don’t want to. My deeper desire—to work toward financial independence—overrides it."

I wasn’t denying myself joy; I was prioritizing a greater want. The pleasure was there, but it wasn’t compelling enough to derail me.

3. The Absence of "Kayf" (Joy) in Work Mode

Now, here’s the paradox:

When working: I feel nothing—no joy, no suffering. Just neutral focus.

I eat delicious food and don’t taste it.

I shower and don’t notice the warmth.

My mind is locked on the goal: financial freedom.

When resting: If I choose to engage (like with that YouTube video), I can feel joy—but it’s artificial, a conscious simulation of desire.

Why?

Kayf (joy) requires presence. To enjoy something, I must focus on the present moment.

But my goal requires absence. Every second spent savoring the now is a second not spent moving forward.

This isn’t self-denial. It’s strategic tunnel vision. I’m not unhappy—I’m indifferent to happiness because it’s not the priority.

4. Aggression vs. Anger: A Protective Mechanism

I still feel aggression, but it’s not the same as anger:

Aggression = "This disrupts my path. I’ll remove the obstacle."

Example: If someone interferes with my work, I’ll push back—not out of rage, but efficiency.

Anger = "The world owes me something, and it’s not delivering."

This is gone because I no longer believe in "shoulds." Reality is what it is.

Key insight:

"Aggression is a tool. Anger is a delusion."

5. The Future: Cyclical Balance of Work and Joy

I see how this will play out:

Now: Hyper-focus on work. No distractions. No "wasted" joy.

Later: Once I reach financial stability, I’ll switch modes:

Work will be automatic (like a 9-to-5 I don’t hate but don’t love).

Leisure will be intentional. I’ll finally allow myself to feel joy because the "urgent" phase is over.

This isn’t about escaping work forever—it’s about earning the right to choose. Right now, I choose to sacrifice pleasure because the alternative (stagnation) is worse.

6. The Big Picture: Meaning, Belief, and the Illusion of Control

On meaning: I don’t believe in absolute meaning, but I’ve found relative purpose:

"Why work? To do what I want later. Why do what I want? No idea—but I want it, and that’s enough."

On beliefs: My old "addictions" (social validation, quick dopamine) are gone because I no longer need them. My brain is rewired to crave progress, not comfort.

On fear: What if I never stop striving? What if joy never comes?

Reality check: My goal is finite (financial independence). Once achieved, the cycle will shift naturally.

7. The Propagation of This Mindset

This system works. It’s sustainable, rational, and free of self-sabotage. I want to share it because:

It’s a cure for depression (no more existential dread—just action).

It’s a cure for anger (no more "unfairness"—just stages).

It’s a cure for fear (no more "what if I fail?"—just "next step").

Final thought:

"I’m not happy now. But I’m not miserable. I’m in motion. And when I stop, the happiness will be real—because I’ll have earned the right to feel it."

Closing: The Experiment Continues

I’ll keep testing this. Keep working. Keep observing.

Phase 1: Build the foundation (no distractions).

Phase 2: Enjoy the results (no guilt).

For now? Full throttle ahead.

Note: This isn’t a rejection of joy—it’s a delayed gratification strategy. The joy will come. But first, the work.

A Shift in Desires: From Money to Meaning

1. The Initial Desire: Financial Independence

Yesterday, I recorded a voice note (Part 4) where I spoke about my singular focus: I wanted money, financial independence, and the freedom to do whatever I pleased afterward. That was my sole ambition—earn enough to stop worrying, then live as I wished. But this morning, I woke up with a different longing. Something had shifted overnight.

2. The Realization: A Change in State

Last night, I wasn’t in the best mental state—the kind I’d want to share with others. My mind was fixed on that one goal: make money, gain independence, then act freely. But as I reflected, I realized my state wasn’t as bad as I’d thought. In fact, it was good enough to want to spread it. I wanted to teach others how to reach this state too.

By the end of yesterday, after recording that note, my perspective had already begun to change. The moment I recognized my state was worth sharing, my desire evolved. I went to sleep with that shift brewing in my mind.

3. The New Desire: Writing, Guiding, Changing the World

This morning, I woke up wanting something entirely different:

To write a book, a guide.

To share my knowledge about the brain.

To help people change the world by becoming better versions of themselves.

The old desire—financial independence—didn’t vanish, but it faded into the background. It’s still there, but it no longer feels urgent. Now, what excites me is the idea of creating something meaningful right now, not waiting for some future freedom.

I’ve concluded that desires shift with circumstances. It’s logical. If I were suddenly on the front lines (like in the SVO), I wouldn’t be thinking about writing a guide—I’d be focused on survival. Desires are fluid: one day it’s money, the next it’s purpose, then something else entirely. That’s normal.

4. The Nature of Desires: Long-Term vs. Immediate

Some desires are long-term; others are fleeting. I’ve learned that if a desire requires prerequisites—like money—I can treat those steps as necessary stages, not burdens. For example:

If I need money to eventually do what I love, I can work toward that without resentment.

But now, with writing, I don’t need money first. I can start immediately. The desire aligns with my current capacity.

Before, I wanted to play games, relax, and enjoy life—but that required financial independence. Now, I want to write and change the world, and that doesn’t demand wealth upfront. It only needs a roof over my head, food, and time—things I already have.

5. The Joy of Doing What You Want Now

I’ve realized that true fulfillment ("кайф") comes from living in the present, doing what I genuinely want in the moment. When I first started programming, I loved going to work every day because I was doing what I wanted. I didn’t care about the salary—I just enjoyed the process. That’s how I feel now about writing.

If I take action on this desire—if I start writing the book or guide—I might find joy in the act itself, not just the eventual outcome. The "кайф" isn’t in the future reward; it’s in the doing.

6. The Adaptive Life: Letting Go of Outdated Desires

Life changes, so desires must too. Holding onto yesterday’s goals is pointless if they no longer resonate. The key is to ask:

What do I want right now?

Not what did I want yesterday, or what I think I should want.

If something must be done first (like earning money) to reach a bigger goal, I can accept it as a temporary stage, not a prison. This way, I’m always either:

Doing what I want, or

Doing what’s necessary to eventually do what I want.

Either way, there’s no friction—just progress.

7. The Absence of Distraction: A Blessing

I don’t feel the urge to constantly seek entertainment or shallow pleasure. That’s a good thing. If I only chased fun, I’d never build anything meaningful. I’d just drain my parents’ patience until they kicked me out for doing nothing.

Now, my focus is on creation and impact, not instant gratification. The joy isn’t in the high of entertainment but in the satisfaction of meaningful work.

8. Testing the New Path

I’ll start writing the book, organizing my voice notes, and experimenting with how to share these ideas. Will it bring fulfillment? I think so—especially when I see progress. The joy won’t come from money or luxury but from the act of contributing something valuable.

9. The Core Lesson: Desire as a Compass

Life isn’t static, so neither are desires. The only rule is to honor what you want in the present, not cling to the past. If circumstances change, so will your goals—and that’s not just okay, it’s how growth happens.

Final Reflection

This shift feels right. I’m not rejecting money or independence—I’m just realizing they’re not the primary drivers anymore. What matters now is the work itself: writing, guiding, changing the world one idea at a time.

And if that changes tomorrow? So be it. I’ll ask myself the same question then:
What do I want right now?

Reflections on Desire, Fear, and Living Without Guides

1. The Initial Question: Can I Want More Than One Thing?

I started thinking about how I currently have one dominant desire—writing a book, a guide, or something similar. But then I wondered: Do I really want this? Or do I want something else? Maybe I want multiple things at once? What if I could structure my life around several desires simultaneously—writing, money, relationships, sports, creativity—rather than focusing on just one?

At first, this idea triggered intense stress and fear. I didn’t understand why, so I quickly retreated, deciding to stick with simplicity: "I’ll just do what I want right now and not overcomplicate things." But the thought kept returning.

2. The Idea of a Personal Guide

I considered creating a guide for myself—a manual for how to live, balancing all my desires. I imagined designing an ideal day or week, packing it with everything I might want: writing, earning money, building relationships, socializing, resting. But then I realized: My strongest desire right now is writing the book. The other things—money, relationships, leisure—can wait. They’ll become relevant when the time is right.

I concluded: My brain already knows what I need to do now. It’s not about forcing a structure; it’s about trusting that my desires will shift naturally. When the book is written, I’ll want to monetize it. When I have money, I’ll want relationships. When I have relationships, I’ll want to travel. There’s no need to plan—my mind will guide me.

3. The Fear Behind the Stress

The stress came from questioning my desires. When I asked, "Do I really want this?", I imagined myself truly wanting something else—and that imagination felt real. Belief is the key: If I believe I want something, I also believe I must achieve it perfectly. Fear arises from the belief in obligation. It’s a control mechanism, ensuring I don’t fail at what I think I want.

If I had created a guide, I could have treated it as a neutral tool—not something to believe in, but a framework to follow, like a daily to-do list. But I realized: There’s no point. The best approach is to do what I want in the moment and trust that future desires will emerge when they’re meant to.

4. The Problem with Writing a Guide for Others

I thought about writing a guide for others, but then realized: I don’t live by a guide myself. I don’t follow instructions; I just act on my desires as they come. The closest I could offer is sharing my experience—describing my journey, my observations, my shifts in thinking. My audio recordings already do that. A "guide" in the traditional sense (a step-by-step manual) wouldn’t be authentic because I don’t live that way.

5. Desire Without Belief

I noticed a crucial difference between desires I believe in and desires I don’t. Before, my desires required belief—I had to convince myself I wanted something. Now, I can simply observe my desires without needing to believe in them. They exist whether I believe or not.

For example:

Old way: "I believe I want to write a book, so I must make it happen perfectly." (This creates pressure.)

New way: "I notice I want to write a book. I’ll do it without overthinking." (No pressure, just action.)

6. The Shift to Selfishness (and Why It Works)

A major turning point was deciding to be selfish—stopping caring about others’ interests. Now, I only think about:

What I want in this moment.

What I need to do to keep doing what I want.

For example:

If my mom asks me to mow the lawn, I don’t do it for her—I do it because it removes obstacles to my real goal (writing in peace).

I don’t think about others’ needs unless they directly interfere with my path.

Why this works:
Before, I believed (unconsciously) that life’s meaning came from serving others’ interests. But that led to meaninglessness—because living for others isn’t motivating. When I dropped that belief, I stopped searching for meaning altogether. Now, I just follow my desires without questioning their purpose.

7. The Origin of Belief in "Meaning"

Where does the belief in meaning come from? It starts with a simple desire (e.g., a child wanting a toy). To get the toy, the child learns they must earn their mother’s love. Over time, they forget the original desire and start believing "love is the meaning of life." This belief then distorts everything—if love is missing, life feels empty.

My current state:
I don’t believe in any meaning. I don’t believe my desires are "right" or "wrong." I just act on them. This removes all existential pressure.

8. Learning to Live Again (Without Past Mistakes)

Right now, I feel like I’m relearning how to live—similar to how I felt at 18–20, but with more awareness. Back then, I knew how to live instinctively, but then I got lost in:

Creating personal philosophies.

Borrowing others’ rules.

Believing in "right" and "wrong" ways to live.

Now, I’m starting fresh, but without repeating those mistakes. I don’t invent guides, morals, or systems. I don’t optimize. I don’t even choose my desires—my brain handles that. I just notice what I want and do it.

9. The Simplicity of This Approach

Life has become surprisingly simple:

No forced planning. (The future will handle itself.)

No guilt over desires. (They’re not "selfish"—they’re just mine.)

No fear of failure. (Because I’m not trying to prove anything.)

The only rule: Do what you want now. The rest will follow.

Final Thought

I used to think life required a grand design—a guide, a purpose, a moral code. Now I see: The less I interfere, the smoother it goes. My brain knows what it’s doing. My desires arise when they’re needed. All I have to do is pay attention and act.

The Desire to Publish Without Profit

I’ve been working on a guide, a book—something like that—but as I dove deeper, I realized: I don’t want to write a polished, marketable guide for everyone. What I actually want is to take my 300 audio recordings, reformat them, and publish them as they are. No frills, no profit motive. Just raw, unfiltered content for people to read, learn from, and change themselves.

At first, I thought: "If I distilled all this into a perfect, concise guide—something that cuts out the fluff and keeps only the essential—it could make more money. More people would read it. It would be more useful." And in theory, that’s true. But here’s the catch: I don’t care about that. I don’t care about the money. I don’t care about optimization. I just want to take what I have, share it freely, and let people use it to grow.

The Conflict: Selfishness vs. Selflessness

This desire feels egoistic—but in a strange way. It’s selfish toward:

My future self – The version of me who might want money later. Right now, I don’t. But if I publish everything for free, that future me won’t have a safety net. I’m ignoring his potential needs.

My family – They’ve supported me for years. They’d want me to monetize this, to secure my future (and theirs). But I don’t care. I just want to help strangers.

Is this wrong? I don’t know. All I know is that when I try to force myself to think about money or obligations, I feel stress. It’s like I’m manufacturing desires that aren’t there. I’m telling myself, "You should care about the future. You should care about others’ expectations." But I don’t. Not right now.

The Fear of "Running Ahead"

A psychologist once said: "Fear is an unjustified rush into the future." That’s exactly what’s happening. I’m worrying about a desire (money) that I don’t currently have. I’m trying to control the present based on a hypothetical future want. And that’s what’s causing the stress.

What if I regret this later? Maybe. But right now, I don’t.

What if I can’t earn money when I do want it? Maybe. But right now, I don’t.

What if my family suffers because of my choice? Maybe. But right now, I don’t care.

This is the core of it: I’m living in the present, and the present doesn’t include money.

The Illusion of "How Life Should Be"

I used to believe in the standard script:

Optimize for the future.

Secure financial stability.

Take care of others’ expectations.

Maximize pleasure, comfort, and survival.

But now I’m asking: What if all of that is arbitrary? What if the real meaning isn’t in any of those things? What if the only thing that matters is doing what I want right now—without guilt, without calculation?

I’ve spent years believing that suffering comes from not planning, not securing, not pleasing others. But what if suffering comes from clinging to those beliefs in the first place?

The Radical Idea: Life Without "Shoulds"

Here’s the thought that scares me (and excites me):
What if I just… stop caring about all of it?

Money? Not important right now.

Family obligations? Not my priority right now.

Future security? Not on my mind right now.

Societal expectations? Irrelevant right now.

I’m not saying these things are bad. I’m saying they’re not mine—not in this moment. And if I force myself to adopt them, I feel misery. But if I let go, I feel… free.

The Paradox of Selfish Altruism

My current desire is to help others for free. But is that really selfless? Or is it the ultimate selfishness—because I’m doing it purely for my own satisfaction, with no regard for:

My future needs.

My family’s wishes.

The "logical" way to live.

And yet, this feels more honest than anything I’ve done before.

The Fear of Being "Wrong"

This goes against everything I’ve been taught. What if I’m making a huge mistake?

What if I publish everything for free and later regret it?

What if I miss out on financial opportunities?

What if my family resents me?

What if I end up poor and struggling?

But here’s the thing: Those fears are based on a belief system I no longer fully buy into. They’re echoes of a past version of me who thought life was about security, obligation, and optimization.

The Alternative: Living Without Beliefs

What if I stop believing in any of it?

Belief in money? Gone.

Belief in duty? Gone.

Belief in future regret? Gone.

All that’s left is: What do I want to do right now?
And right now, I want to:

Publish my recordings for free.

Help people change their lives.

Not think about the consequences.

Is this reckless? Maybe. But is "reckless" even a meaningful word if I don’t believe in the rules it’s based on?

The Big Question: What If We’re All Wrong?

What if the entire way we’ve been taught to live—planning, saving, pleasing, optimizing—is just… a collective delusion?

What if life isn’t about:

Survival? (Dolphins survive. So what?)

Wealth? (I’ve had money. It didn’t fulfill me.)

Legacy? (I don’t even care if I’m remembered.)

Happiness? (I don’t chase it. I just do.)

What if life is just… doing what you want in the moment, without apology, without justification?

The Experiment: Living Without a Net

So here’s what I’m going to do:

Publish everything for free. No paywalls, no monetization.

Help as many people as I can. Not for recognition, not for profit—just because I want to.

Stop worrying about the future. If future-me wants money, he’ll figure it out.

Stop feeling guilty about not caring. My family, society, my past self—they all have expectations. But they’re not mine right now.

Will this work? I don’t know.
Will I regret it? Maybe.
Do I care? Not right now.

The Final Thought: What If This Is the Point?

Maybe the point isn’t to live a "good" life by someone else’s standards. Maybe the point is to live a life—any life—fully, without reservation.

And if that means:

Being called selfish? Fine.

Risking poverty? Fine.

Disappointing others? Fine.

Because the alternative—living in fear, obligation, and calculation—feels like a slower kind of death.

Closing Reflection

I don’t know if this is wisdom or madness. But for the first time, I feel like I’m not lying to myself. And that’s worth more than money, security, or anyone’s approval.

So I’ll proceed. And we’ll see what happens.

The Crisis of Purpose: A Struggle Between Desire and Justification

1. The Collapse of Motivation

I recorded this update because, after my last audio entry (Part 7), I lost my footing. Two things happened:

Stress overwhelmed me. Not just ordinary stress—it was paralyzing.

My desire to act vanished. Not my wishes themselves (those remained), but the will to pursue them.

I realized why: I had stopped thinking about the future and others’ interests—something I’d been conditioned to do my entire life. The last time I lived so freely was in childhood, when my parents provided for everything, and I could act purely on impulse. Since then, I’ve operated under the assumption that responsibility—planning for the future, considering others—was the only valid way to live.

But when I tried to live differently—following my desires without that burden—I hit a wall. I couldn’t justify it.

2. The Impossible Question: "How Should I Live?"

I faced a dilemma:

Option 1: Keep living as I always had—stressed, future-focused, people-pleasing.

Option 2: Abandon that entirely and act only on my desires, free from guilt or calculation.

But I couldn’t choose without an answer to the question: Which way is correct?

If I choose desire, what’s my justification? Why is it okay to ignore the future and others?

If I choose responsibility, why? Is it just habit, or is there a deeper truth?

I realized: This question has no answer.
There is no objective standard for "how to live." Yet my brain demanded one. I couldn’t move forward without resolving it—but it’s unresolvable.

3. The Trap of Self-Justification

Desperate for resolution, I tried to invent reasons to live by desire alone. I told myself:

"Nothing truly matters, so my choices don’t either."

"If everything is meaningless, why not live as I please?"

"Stress is the only result of thinking about the future—so avoiding stress is rational."

But these were empty words. They didn’t prove anything. They were just attempts to quiet the discomfort of acting without permission.

Worse, I started to believe them.
And believing them destroyed my motivation entirely. If nothing matters, why do anything? Why write, help others, or create? The words I’d used to justify freedom became a prison of nihilism.

4. The Illusion of the "Future Self"

I realized the question wasn’t mine—not really. It belonged to a hypothetical future version of me, judging my present choices:

"Will Future-Me resent that I didn’t plan for stability?"

"Will others call me selfish for ignoring their needs?"

"What if I regret this?"

But Future-Me doesn’t exist yet. The question was a mental construct, a ghost I’d invented to police my present. The fear wasn’t real—it was self-created.

5. The Only Way Out: Accepting the Absurd

I saw two paths:

Keep searching for an answer that doesn’t exist, paralyzed by the need for justification.

Stop asking the question entirely.

The second path terrified me. It meant:

Acting without justification.

Living by desire without apology.

Accepting that no grand reason would ever validate my choices.

But here’s the truth: I’d been living without justification my whole life.

I’d thought I had reasons to plan for the future and care for others—but those were just stories I’d believed, not objective truths.

Now, I’d have to live by desire the same way: not because it’s "right," but because it’s what I want.

6. The Fear of Judgment (From Others and Myself)

I imagined confrontations:

A future, destitute version of me, asking: "Why didn’t you prepare?"
My answer: "I didn’t want to."

Others, accusing me of selfishness.
My answer: "I didn’t want to prioritize you."

These aren’t reasons—they’re honest admissions. And that’s the point: I don’t need a reason beyond my own will.

7. The Choice That Isn’t a Choice

I realized: There is no alternative.

I could force myself back into old patterns, but that would require believing in justifications I know are hollow.

I could keep searching for meaning, but the search itself is the problem.

The only way forward is to act.
Not because it’s "right," but because it’s all there is.

8. Testing the New Reality

So I’ll try it:

Write the book I want to write.

Help others without calculating the return.

Live without demanding permission from my future self or society.

It feels strange. Unsettling. But the alternative is paralysis.

I don’t know if the desire will stay. I don’t know if I’ll regret it. But I do know this:
The question was the problem, not the answer.

Final Thought: The Paradox of Freedom

Freedom isn’t the absence of doubt—it’s acting despite it.
I don’t need to solve the question of how to live. I just need to live.

And maybe, in time, the discomfort will fade.

Structure Notes:

Bold = Key realizations or contradictions.

Italics = Internal dialogue or hypothetical scenarios.

Headers = Thematic breaks to trace the emotional/logical progression.

A Guide to Doing What You Want: Overcoming the Paradox of Future and Others’ Interests

1. The Core Problem: The Conflict Between Desire and Overthinking

I’ve been struggling with a fundamental issue: when you do what you want, you stop thinking about the future or others’ interests. But the moment you start thinking about those things—future consequences, what others expect, or even the guilt of ignoring them—you lose the ability to even see what you truly want.

In my previous recording, I described this dilemma in detail. The problem isn’t just that these thoughts distract you; it’s that they actively block your awareness of your own desires. You can’t simultaneously focus on:

What you want right now,

What your future self might need,

What others expect or desire.

These three things contradict each other, and the mind can’t reconcile them. The more you fixate on the future or others, the more your present desires vanish from view. It’s not just distraction—it’s erasure.

2. The Failed Attempts: Why Rationalizing Doesn’t Work

After my last recording, I tried to "just start doing what I want." But it didn’t work. Why?

I kept overanalyzing: Even as I acted, I was still mentally debating the future and others’ interests. The thoughts didn’t stop—they just layered over my actions, draining their meaning.

The paradox deepened: I realized that thinking about the problem of not thinking about the future/others is the problem itself. It’s like trying to solve a riddle that has no answer. The harder you search for a "right way" to balance these things, the more stuck you become.

Conclusion: You can’t outthink this. The mind can’t hold both your desires and these external concerns at once. One will always cancel the other out.

3. The Solution: The Art of Not Thinking

The only way forward is radical simplicity:

Stop thinking entirely. Not just about the future or others—about anything. Empty the mental slate completely.

From that blank state, let your desires surface naturally. They’ll emerge when there’s no noise competing with them.

Believe in what arises. This isn’t about blind faith, but about choosing to trust the desire you’ve uncovered, even if it feels uncertain. (I don’t claim this is "true belief"—it’s more like agreeing to act as if it matters, without second-guessing.)

Begin acting. With the mental clutter gone, action becomes straightforward. You’re no longer paralyzed by "shoulds" or "what-ifs."

Key Insight: The "belief" step isn’t about conviction—it’s about permitting yourself to proceed without demanding proof that your desire is "correct."

4. Handling Intrusive Thoughts: The Discipline of Redirection

Of course, the mind will wander:

"What about money?"

"Will this hurt someone?"

"Is this selfish?"

The rule: Notice these thoughts, but do not engage. Treat them like background noise. Why?

They’re unsolvable questions. There’s no perfect answer to "How much should I care about others?" or "How do I guarantee my future?" The search for balance is the trap itself.

Engaging reinforces the cycle. Every time you entertain these thoughts, you strengthen their grip and weaken your connection to your desires.

Practical tactic: When a thought pulls you toward future/others, physically sense the tug (like a mental gravity), then gently turn back to your desire. Over time, this becomes automatic.

5. Obstacles as Part of the Path

Reality will present challenges—tasks you don’t enjoy, compromises, or friction. Here’s how to reframe them:

They’re not detours; they’re steps. If an obstacle stands between you and your desire, it’s part of the process. Example: If you want to paint but need to clean your brushes first, the cleaning isn’t a chore—it’s phase one of painting.

There’s nothing else to consider. The only things that exist are:

Your desire,

The reality in front of you (which may require action to align with that desire).

Past/future/others’ opinions are illusions. They have no tangible presence in the moment you’re acting. They only exist in your mind.

6. The Final Framework: A Minimalist Approach to Living

This is how life looks now:

Empty the mind. No thoughts about anything—just stillness.

Ask: What do I want? Wait for the answer to emerge.

Trust it enough to act. No need for absolute certainty.

Move forward. When obstacles appear, see them as part of the desire’s unfolding.

Repeat. If thoughts intrude, return to step 1.

What disappears:

The weight of the future,

The guilt of others’ expectations,

The paralysis of "but what if…?"

What remains:

Your desire,

The next right action,

The freedom to live instead of debate.

Closing Reflection: Why This Works

This isn’t about selfishness or recklessness. It’s about recognizing that the alternative—constant mental negotiation—is unlivable. You can’t split your focus infinitely. You have to choose where to place your attention, and the only place that leads to action is the present desire.

Is this the "right" way to live? I don’t know. But it’s the only way I’ve found to actually live at all.

The Core Struggle: Fear of Abandoning the Future and Others

At first, everything felt paralyzed. I’d start by trying to focus on what I want—what truly matters to me in the moment—but almost instantly, my mind would spiral back to the same terrifying problem: I’m not taking care of my future. I’m not taking care of others. The fear wasn’t just about neglect; it was about the permanence of that neglect. The thought that I might never care again—that I was making an irreversible choice to abandon my future self and the people around me—was what made it unbearable.

The Flawed Assumption: "Never" as a Prison

I realized I’d framed the problem wrong. My initial description was absolute, rigid: "I will never think about my future. I will never care about others. I will never take responsibility." But that’s not true. The real truth is far more fluid: I will care about my future when I want to. I will care about others when I want to. These things aren’t erased from my life forever—they’re simply not priorities right now.

The terror came from the illusion of a final, binding decision: "If I don’t care now, I’ll never care again." But that’s a lie. My desires shift. Today, I don’t feel the need to plan ahead or tend to others. I don’t see the point in it—not because it’s meaningless, but because right now, my energy is elsewhere. And that’s okay.

The Liberation: Permission to Want (or Not Want)

The breakthrough was reframing the problem as a matter of choice, not condemnation. The old fear whispered: "What if you need to care later, but you’ve already decided not to?" But the reality is simpler: I’m not deciding for all time. I’m deciding for this moment.

If tomorrow (or next year) I want to plan for my future, I will.

If I want to help someone, I’ll act.

If I don’t? Then I won’t—and that doesn’t make me broken.

This isn’t neglect. It’s honesty. My brain was rebelling against the idea of a permanent vow of indifference. But once I clarified—"I’m not closing doors; I’m just not walking through them right now"—the fear dissolved. The pressure vanished.

The Mind’s Hidden Logic: Fear of Self-Betrayal

I suspect my brain was terrified of a scenario where:

Future me would desperately need to care about something (my health, a relationship, a goal).

But present me had already "decided" to never care again—leaving future me helpless.

That’s the real horror: the idea of trapping myself in a life where I’m powerless to adapt. But the fix is obvious: I’m not trapping myself. I’m trusting myself. My wants aren’t static. Today’s disinterest doesn’t predict tomorrow’s passions.

The Resolution: Flow Over Force

Now, the problem doesn’t just feel smaller—it ceases to be a problem. There’s no conflict between "what I should do" and "what I want to do" because what I want is what I should do. Not out of selfishness, but out of respect for the natural ebb and flow of my own motivation.

Right now, I don’t want to obsess over the future. So I won’t.

Right now, I don’t feel called to put others first. So I don’t.

Later? Who knows. And that’s the point.

The fear was never about the actions themselves. It was about the illusion of permanence—the lie that a single choice today could chain me forever. But life isn’t a contract. It’s a series of moments, each with its own wants and needs. And in every one of them, I’m free to choose.

Final Thought:
The brain relaxes when it realizes: You’re not abandoning your future. You’re just living your present. And the future? It’ll take care of itself—when you’re ready to care for it.

The Core Problem: Stress and Avoidance of Automatic Thoughts

I find myself in the same state I was in four years ago—before I quit my job. The pattern is this: I start thinking about what I want, I begin acting on it, and within 30 seconds, intense stress floods in. This stress is tied to automatic, uncontrollable thoughts about the future—thoughts that try to control my present actions. They’re not just random worries; they’re directives: "Don’t forget this," "Plan for that," "Do it the right way." I can’t stop them, and I can’t ignore them without consequences.

For years, I’ve tried techniques to manage this, but nothing worked. The stress always returned because I was avoiding these thoughts. I’d start doing what I wanted, the controlling thoughts would emerge, and I’d push them away—refusing to engage, refusing to let them guide me. But the more I resisted, the stronger the stress became. It was as if my brain was punishing me for ignoring its instructions.

The Experiment: Embracing the Controlling Thoughts

So I tried an experiment: What if I stopped avoiding these thoughts? Instead of resisting, I let them in. I treated them as part of what I wanted—not as enemies, but as allies. These thoughts weren’t just anxieties; they were guidelines from my brain, telling me how to achieve my desires correctly.

For example:

Desire: "I want to write a book."

Automatic Thought: "But you must outline it first, research thoroughly, and edit carefully—otherwise, it won’t succeed."

Before, I’d ignore the second part and just write, which led to stress. Now, I follow both: I write and I plan. I don’t separate "want" from "should"—I merge them. The result? The stress vanished. The thoughts didn’t disappear, but they stopped hurting me. They became like guardrails: not restrictions, but support.

The Theory: Purpose as a Brain-Designed System

This led me to a bigger idea: What if my brain has a "purpose" for me? Not in a cosmic sense, but in a neurological one. My brain decides:

What I want (e.g., write a book, help others).

How I should achieve it (the automatic, controlling thoughts).

This "purpose" isn’t mine to debate—it’s given. My brain selects the desires and the methods. When I fight this system (by ignoring the "how"), my brain reacts with stress, fear, or even anger. It’s like a warning: "You’re deviating from the plan."

Three Possible States:

Ignoring Purpose Completely

I don’t think about what I want or what I should do.

Result: I do nothing. I’m stagnant.

Following Desires but Ignoring the "How"

I focus only on what I want (e.g., writing) but reject the controlling thoughts (e.g., planning, editing).

Result: Massive stress. My brain punishes me for half-following its design.

Full Alignment with Purpose

I accept both what I want and how my brain says to do it.

Result: No stress. The system runs smoothly.

Why Stress and Fear Arise

I used to think stress came from having controlling thoughts. But now I see: Stress comes from ignoring them.

Example 1: I want to write, but my brain says, "First, outline!" If I resist, stress spikes.

Example 2: Someone asks me to do something (e.g., help with a task). My brain says, "Do this first—it’s part of your purpose." If I refuse, I feel anger or frustration.

The emotion isn’t about the task—it’s about disobeying the system. My brain has a path, and when I stray, it triggers alarms (stress, fear, anger) to pull me back.

The Role of Emotions as Feedback

Fear/Stress: "You’re avoiding part of your purpose."

Anger: "You’re resisting a necessary step."

Sadness: "You failed to follow through on your purpose."

These aren’t enemies—they’re signals. My brain isn’t trying to hurt me; it’s trying to guide me. When I listen, the emotions dissolve.

The Cost of Alignment: Hard Work and Neutral States

This approach isn’t always fun. My brain might demand:

Tedious work (e.g., editing a book for hours).

Delayed gratification (e.g., planning instead of creating).

Selfless actions (e.g., helping others without immediate reward).

I won’t always feel happy or excited. Sometimes, it’ll feel like obligation—neutral, even boring. But that’s okay. Purpose isn’t about constant joy; it’s about fulfillment.

Old Habits: Addiction as Avoidance

Before, I had addictions (e.g., binge-watching anime, YouTube). These were escapes from my brain’s purpose. I’d think, "I want to work," but then ignore the automatic thoughts ("Stop watching—go work!"). The result? Guilt-ridden procrastination. I was doing what I craved (entertainment) while my brain screamed at me to do what I needed (work). The stress was unbearable because I was in direct conflict with my purpose.

The Shift: From "I Want" to "The Brain Wants"

I used to believe in "my" desires—as if I could choose independently. But now I see: My brain chooses for me. It selects:

The goals (what I "want").

The methods (what I "should" do).

When I accept this, everything simplifies. There’s no more:

"Do I really want this?"

"Why do I have to do it this way?"

I just follow the system. The brain knows best.

The Outcome: Peace Through Surrender

Now, when I act, I:

Identify what I want (brain-given desire).

Listen to the automatic thoughts (brain-given instructions).

Do both without resistance.

Result:

No stress.

No fear.

No internal conflict.

Even if the work is hard or unexciting, I trust the process. My brain’s purpose isn’t up for debate—it’s a machine I operate.

Final Thoughts: The Illusion of Choice

I used to think I could pick and choose:

"I’ll take the desire but skip the rules."

"I’ll do what I want, not what I ‘should.’"

But that’s like trying to bake a cake while ignoring the recipe. The brain’s "shoulds" aren’t optional—they’re part of the desire. Ignore them, and the cake burns. Follow them, and it’s perfect.

So now I don’t ask, "What do I want?" I ask, "What does my brain want me to do?" And then I do it—all of it.

The New Normal

Hard work? Normal.

Neutral or boring tasks? Normal.

Sacrificing short-term pleasure for long-term purpose? Normal.

This isn’t a life of constant happiness—but it’s a life of clarity, direction, and peace. And for the first time, it’s working.

A Life Between Desire and Purpose: The Collapse of Consciousness

1. The Current State: A Mind Fixed on a Single Goal

Right now, my life is defined by two things: a desire and a goal. I want only one thing—to write a book, to spread everything I know about the brain, reality, and existence. That’s it. No other desires, no distractions. I think about this desire constantly. I think about what it will lead to, what I must do to reach it, and how to get there. My mind is consumed by these two things: the desire itself and the path to its fulfillment.

But here’s the strange part: I feel nothing else. No joy in the process, no awareness of the present, no emotions—good or bad. I don’t notice the world around me. I don’t care about pleasure, sensations, or the act of being. My only motivation is the goal. Everything else—awareness, attention, emotion—seems irrelevant because it doesn’t help me reach it.

I eat, but I don’t taste. I walk, but I don’t see. I exist, but I don’t feel existence. My mind treats everything outside the goal as noise.

2. The Absence of Joy: A Life Without Sensation

I used to live differently. I craved awareness—I wanted to notice everything, to feel every sensation, to extract pleasure from life. I believed meaning came from experiencing: emotions, love, beauty, the richness of being alive. Now? I don’t care.

I don’t even want to care. My brain has decided that none of that matters. It’s not that I’m unhappy—I’m not. I’m just… empty. No highs, no lows, no texture to life. Just the mechanical pursuit of a goal.

Sometimes, I remember how it felt to be alive before. The depth, the vibrancy, the way the world seemed full. Now, it’s like living with my eyes closed. I could open them—I know how—but why? It doesn’t serve the goal.

3. The Question: Is This a Life Worth Living?

I ask myself: What’s the point of a life without feeling?

If I achieve everything—write the book, change minds, reach my goals—but feel nothing in the process, was it worth it?

If I’m just a biological machine, executing tasks without awareness, am I even alive?

Is this how humans are meant to exist? As vessels for genes, blindly following programmed desires?

I compare it to sleepwalking. A sleepwalker moves, acts, even completes tasks—but are they there? Do they experience their life? Right now, I’m the same. I function, but I don’t live.

And yet… I don’t feel distressed by this. It doesn’t bother me. My brain is content. It’s efficient. But my old self—the one who believed in consciousness, in meaning—whispers: This isn’t enough.

4. The Illusion of Consciousness: Are We Just Gene Machines?

I think about evolution. The brain wasn’t "designed" for happiness, for awareness, for us. It was designed to survive and reproduce. Everything else—love, joy, meaning—is just a byproduct, a trick to keep the machine running.

Consciousness? An illusion. A story the brain tells itself.

Free will? A myth. We’re just following genetic imperatives.

Purpose? There is none beyond survival.

I used to resist this. I wanted to believe I was more than my genes. Now, I see the truth: I’m not. And neither is anyone else.

But if that’s true… then what’s the difference between me and an ant? An ant doesn’t question its existence. It just does. Am I any different?

5. The Paradox: Wanting to Want

The strangest part? I miss wanting.

I don’t actually want pleasure anymore—but I wish I did. I remember how it felt to crave joy, to seek beauty, to feel alive. Now, that desire is gone. And I mourn its loss, even though I don’t feel the mourning.

It’s like being a ghost in my own life. I watch myself move, but I’m not there.

6. The Future: A Cycle of Empty Goals?

What happens when I finish the book? Will another goal replace it? Will I just keep chasing, achieving, moving forward—without ever feeling anything?

I see people like this. Neighbors, colleagues—always working, always improving, always doing. Never stopping. Never feeling. Is that my fate?

And if it is… is that okay?

7. The Unanswerable Question: What Is a Life Well Lived?

I don’t know if there’s a "right" way to live. Maybe a life without feeling is just as valid as one full of joy. Maybe normalcy is the only measure—if it doesn’t hurt, if it doesn’t feel wrong, then it’s fine.

But part of me rebels. Part of me screams: This isn’t living. This is existing.

Yet I have no choice. My brain has decided. And I—whatever I am—am powerless to change it.

8. The Only Path Forward: To Keep Going

So I’ll keep writing. I’ll keep pursuing the goal. Maybe something will change. Maybe, after achieving this, my brain will want something else. Maybe I’ll wake up one day and feel again.

Or maybe not.

Maybe this is just what it means to be human: a machine, executing tasks, unaware of its own emptiness.

And if that’s the case… then so be it.

Final Thought: The Silence of the Self

I used to believe in me. In my desires, my consciousness, my right to choose. Now, I see that there is no "me"—just a brain, following its programming.

And the scariest part? I don’t even care anymore.

The Old State: Living by "I Want" and "I Should"

For a long time, I lived in a state where I thought about what I wanted and did what I thought I should do to get it. My mind was filled with automatic thoughts—commands, obligations, and the belief that if I followed them, I would achieve my desires. I obeyed these thoughts, even though I didn’t truly believe in them.

But the more I lived this way, the more I realized how empty it felt. My face was expressionless, my days joyless. Why? Because I was acting on desires I didn’t actually believe in. I was doing things I didn’t truly want, chasing goals that felt meaningless. It was like working a job I hated—one that paid nothing, drained me, and gave me no satisfaction. I kept going only because I felt a desire, but deep down, I knew it wasn’t real.

The Breaking Point: Questioning the "I"

I retreated to my room and lay down, trying to understand why this way of living felt so wrong. I realized:

I was constantly thinking about myself—about what "I" wanted, what "I" should do.

But this "I" was a construct. It wasn’t real. I had invented it, believed in it, and now, I no longer believed in it.

When I thought, "I want X," I was just recalling past desires—things I used to believe I wanted. But now, I didn’t believe in them anymore.

Yet, I kept thinking about them. Why? Habit. Fear. The illusion that I had to think about myself to function.

The Experiment: Stopping the Thoughts

I decided to stop. Completely.

I stopped thinking about what I wanted.

I stopped thinking about "I" altogether.

I cleared my mind of all self-referential thoughts.

At first, it felt like surfacing from deep water. Before, I had been trapped in my head, drowning in thoughts about myself. Now, I was present—observing, sensing, but not thinking in the usual way.

The New State: Living Without the "I"

What changed?

No More Self-Obsession

I realized that 99% of my thoughts had been about "me"—my wants, my needs, my obligations.

When I stopped, my senses sharpened. I noticed the world around me. I felt alive in a way I hadn’t before.

No More Forced Desires

Before, I would think, "I want to write a book," but it felt hollow. It was a leftover desire from an old version of myself.

Now, I didn’t search for desires. Instead, I imagined what I might want—what would feel good, meaningful, or joyful in the moment.

I didn’t believe in these new desires (because belief was part of the old problem), but I felt them. They were lighter, freer.

The End of Internal Chatter

Most human thinking is self-talk: "I should do this," "I want that," "What do I need?"

When I stopped, my mind went quiet. I still solved problems, but without the constant noise of "I."

The Key Insight: "I" Is Just a Word

The breakthrough came when I realized:

Thinking about "I" is just thinking about a word—the word "I."

It’s like thinking about the word "tree." You picture something, but it’s just a symbol.

The same is true for "I want" or "I should." These are just words, not truths.

Before, I had believed in these words. I had treated them as real. But now, I saw them for what they were: mental constructs, no more real than a story I told myself.

The Result: Freedom

Now, I live differently:

I don’t think about "I" unless I’m communicating with others (where words like "I" are useful).

I don’t search for desires in my head. Instead, I imagine what might feel good—what I’d enjoy doing—and I do that.

My mind is quiet. My senses are alive. I’m no longer trapped in the prison of my own thoughts.

Final Thought: The Illusion of Self

The "I" was never real. It was a habit—a story I kept telling myself. When I stopped believing in it, I stopped being its slave.

Now, I just am. And it’s enough.

The Illusion of the "I": A First-Person Account of Self-Dissolution

1. The Birth of the "I"

I realized something profound: the concept of "I" is an invention. At some point, the human mind created the word "I", and in that moment, the illusion of a self—existing inside the head—was born. What does it mean for the "I" to appear? It means a word emerged in my mind, just like any other word. I could think about "I" the same way I think about "tree" or "sky". But here’s the twist: when I think about "I", I mistakenly believe that I exist inside my head.

I began to associate myself not with my body or my organism, but with this word floating in my mind. Because the word "I" was in my head, I concluded that I must be in my head. The body became secondary—just a vessel. The "I" in my head, this phantom observer, became the real me.

2. The Split: What the Body Wants vs. What "I" Wants

Once the "I" was born, a dangerous question arose: What do I want?
Before, my organism had desires—pleasure, love, survival—but now, the "I" in my head claimed those desires as its own. I observed my thoughts, my cravings, my aversions, and declared: "This is what I want." But here’s the problem: the "I" didn’t actually want anything. It was just a word. The body wanted things—the brain, the nerves, the chemistry—but the "I" was a ghost, a bystander, a narrative.

Yesterday, my body wanted one thing. Today, it wants another. But the "I"? It had already believed it wanted what it wanted yesterday. So now there’s a conflict: the body changes, but the "I" clings to old stories. The more I believed in this "I", the more I accumulated contradictions—until I no longer knew what I truly wanted.

3. The Collapse of Belief in the "I"

At first, I believed the "I" was real. I believed it had desires, fears, and purposes. But then I questioned: Why do I believe this?

Because I feel like I want something? But feelings are just chemical signals—fallible, temporary.

Because I observe thoughts in my head? But observations can be misinterpretations.

Because I think about the "I" constantly? But thinking about a word doesn’t make it real.

When I stopped trusting my feelings, my observations, my thoughts—the entire structure of the "I" crumbled. The "I" wasn’t a conscious entity. It was just a word I had mistaken for myself.

4. The Madness of Thinking About "I"

Even after I stopped believing in the "I", I kept thinking about it. And that was the real problem.

Imagine if I spent 99% of my time thinking about the word "tree".

"What does the tree want?"

"Does the tree exist?"

"Am I the tree?"

It would be absurd. Yet that’s exactly what I was doing with "I". The word had no more meaning than "tree", but I was obsessed with it. I couldn’t stop thinking about it—even though I no longer believed in it.

This was the root of my suffering: not belief, but obsession. The constant mental chatter about a word that meant nothing.

5. The Liberation: Stopping the Thought of "I"

The breakthrough came when I realized:
I don’t have to think about "I" at all.

Just as I don’t spend my days pondering "What does the tree want?", I could stop pondering "What do I want?" The moment I did, everything changed.

No more internal conflict – There was no "I" to argue with my body’s desires.

No more emotional turbulence – Emotions arise from thinking about "I". Without that, there’s only calm.

No more existential angst – The "I" was the source of all my questions about purpose, meaning, and suffering. Without it, those questions vanished.

6. Life Without "I": A New Way of Being

Now, my experience is radically different.

I don’t think in words most of the time. Just as you don’t walk around narrating "tree, tree, tree" in your head, I no longer narrate "I, I, I".

I live in sensations. My reality is a stream of physical experiences—sight, sound, touch, taste. When I rake leaves, I feel the muscles in my arms. When I listen to music, I hear the vibrations. Every activity is a unique combination of sensations, and that’s enough.

I have no "desires" in the old sense. My body still moves toward pleasure and away from pain, but there’s no "I" claiming those impulses as mine. There’s just the natural flow of existence.

I am not "happy" or "sad" in the way I used to be. Those emotions required an "I" to feel them. Now, there’s just a quiet, relaxed presence. Sometimes I laugh at humor, but it’s automatic—like a reflex—not tied to any self-narrative.

7. The Paradox: The "I" That Realizes It Doesn’t Exist

Here’s the final irony:
The "I" that understood it was an illusion was itself the illusion.

But now, there’s no one left to be confused by that. There’s just life—unfiltered, unmediated by a phantom in the head.

8. The Guide for Others

I see now how to explain this to others. The key is simple:

Stop believing in the "I". It’s just a word, not a conscious entity.

Stop thinking about the "I". Obsession is worse than belief.

Live in sensations, not stories. The body knows what it needs. The "I" only gets in the way.

Most people spend their lives trapped in the first step—believing in the "I". Few reach the second—doubting it. Almost no one reaches the third: forgetting it entirely.

But that’s where freedom lies.

Final Thought

I used to think my purpose was to find out what "I" wanted. Now I know:
There is no "I". There is only this.

And this—this moment, these sensations, this quiet—is enough.

The Problem: The Illusion of the "I" in the Mind

I find myself trapped in a cycle of thought about the "I"—that sense of self I perceive inside my head. After my last recording, my state worsened because I started doubting my own theory about how the brain works. If I’m wrong, and this "I" does exist separately from the brain—if I am real, residing in my mind—then everything I believed before collapses.

When I associate myself with this "I", I stop believing in my earlier ideas. And if I don’t believe in them, I lose all desire, all motivation. My own wants feel false because I no longer trust the "I" that supposedly wants them. I’m left empty, paralyzed, thinking only about how to stop thinking about "I".

But how? The paradox is this: To stop thinking about "I", I must believe in what I said before—but who is supposed to believe it? The "I" in my head? Or the brain?

The Core Realization: The "I" Cannot Believe

The "I" in my head cannot believe in anything—not in words, not in theories—because it demands proof. It needs certainty that its beliefs aren’t mistakes. But proof doesn’t exist in the world, so the "I" remains stuck in disbelief.

Yet the brain can believe. The brain believes in observations, sensations, and direct experience by default. It doesn’t need proof for what it perceives. So if the "I" is just an illusion—a word, a construct—then the brain can choose to stop identifying with it. The brain can realize: "When I think of ‘I,’ I’m only thinking of a word, not myself."

This is the key: The brain must stop believing that the "I" is real.

The Mechanism: How the Brain Creates the "I"

Observation → Description → Belief
The brain starts with raw experience: sensations, desires, aversions. It then describes these experiences with words: "I want this," "I feel that." Initially, these words are just labels—neutral, detached.

The Trap: Identifying with the Description
But then the brain makes a critical error: it starts believing that the description is the self. The word "I" becomes more than a word—it becomes me. The brain begins to think: "This ‘I’ that wants, fears, and desires is who I truly am."

The Consequence: Living as a Word
Once the brain identifies with the "I", it starts living inside that word. It stops being an organism with instincts and becomes a disembodied voice in the head, endlessly narrating its own story. It says, "I must do this," "I should feel that," and believes these commands are absolute truths—even though they’re just descriptions it once made.

The Collapse: When Belief in the "I" Fades
If the brain later realizes that the "I" is just a word—if it sees that its desires, fears, and duties were all self-created fictions—then the "I" loses its power. Without belief, the "I" cannot function. It cannot want, cannot fear, cannot be. And the brain is left in a void, because it no longer knows what to trust.

The Solution: Seeing the "I" as a Word

The way out is observation without identification. The brain must look closely at what happens when it thinks of "I":

What am I actually thinking about?
Not a self, but a word—the sound "I," the concept of a separate entity. There is no "I" behind the word, only the word itself.

What does the brain observe?
It observes that when it thinks "I want X," it’s not the "I" that wants—it’s the organism. The "I" is just a story the brain tells itself. The real desires come from the body, the instincts, the physical brain—not from a ghost in the machine.

What happens when the brain stops believing in the "I"?
It stops needing to think about it. Just as you don’t constantly think about a tree unless you believe you are the tree, the brain can stop fixating on "I" once it sees the illusion. The compulsion fades because the brain no longer mistakes the word for reality.

The Two Levels of Belief

The "I"’s Belief (Illusory)

The "I" believes it exists.

It demands proof for everything because it’s insecure—it needs to know it’s real.

It cannot stop believing in itself because, to it, ceasing to believe is ceasing to exist. This is why logic fails here: the "I" cannot argue itself out of existence.

The Brain’s Belief (Real)

The brain believes in direct experience: sensations, perceptions, instincts.

It doesn’t need proof for what it feels—it just knows hunger, pain, or joy.

It can choose to stop identifying with the "I" because it doesn’t depend on the story. It can say: "This ‘I’ is just a word. I am the organism that observes it."

The Shift: From "I" to Organism

When the brain realizes:

"I am not the word ‘I.’ I am the thing that observes the word."

"My desires are not commands from a voice in my head—they’re signals from my body."

"Thinking about ‘I’ is like thinking about a mirror: the reflection isn’t the real thing."

…then the obsession with "I" dissolves. The brain no longer feels compelled to be the story. It can simply live—respond to the world directly, without the intermediary of a narrating self.

The Final Question: What Remains?

If the "I" is just a word, what’s left?

The organism. The brain, the body, the instincts.

Direct experience. Sensations, perceptions, actions—without the layer of self-referential commentary.

Freedom from the loop. No more "I should," "I must," "I fail." Just doing, feeling, being.

The brain doesn’t need to believe in anything new. It only needs to stop believing in the old illusion—the idea that the word "I" is who it is.

How to Make the Shift

Observe the Thought
When you think "I," ask: What am I actually experiencing? Is it a self, or just the word "I"?

Notice the Absence
The "I" has no substance. It’s not a thing you can point to—it’s a label for a process (thinking). Like calling the sky "blue" doesn’t make the sky the word "blue."

Let the Brain Believe in Reality
The brain already trusts its senses. Let it trust that too: The "I" is not real. What’s real is the organism, the world, the present moment.

Stop Feeding the Illusion
The "I" persists only because the brain keeps thinking about it. If the brain sees it as just a word, it will stop giving it energy. Like ignoring a echo in a cave—eventually, it fades.

The Paradox of Faith

The "I" cannot choose to stop believing in itself—because it doesn’t exist. Only the brain can make that choice. And the brain can make it by seeing the truth:

"I am not the voice in my head. I am the one who hears it."

"The ‘I’ is a tool, not a master."

Once the brain sees this, it no longer needs to believe it. The seeing is enough.

Conclusion: The Way Out

The problem was never the "I" itself—it was the brain’s identification with it. The solution is not to fight the "I", but to stop mistaking the map for the territory.

When the brain realizes:
"I am not the word. I am the thing that observes the word."
…the spell breaks. The "I" stops being a prison and becomes what it always was: a tool, a story, a passing thought.

And then, finally, the brain is free to live—not as a narrative, but as an organism, fully present in the world.

Final Note:
This isn’t about denying the self—it’s about seeing it clearly. The "I" isn’t destroyed; it’s just no longer confused for the whole. The brain can still use the word, but it no longer is the word.

And in that space, life becomes lighter. The weight of the "I"—its demands, its fears, its endless chatter—dissolves. What remains is simple, direct, and real.

The Collapse of Meaning in Words

I find myself in a state where words mean nothing to me. Not in the sense that I dismiss them, but in the sense that I no longer believe they carry truth. I do not trust that words accurately reflect reality—that they are free from error, that they describe anything concrete. For me, words are just a way to attempt description, but the description itself holds no weight. It is hollow.

The Paradox of the Self as Words

When I think about myself, I realize something disturbing: I try to define "I" through words. But if words mean nothing to me, then the "I" I construct from them is built on emptiness. I am trying to create myself out of tools I do not trust.

This leads to a fundamental impossibility:

If I believe "I" is made of words,

And words mean nothing to me,

Then "I" cannot exist in any meaningful way.

I cannot live like this. To function, to move through the world, I must believe in some words about myself. I must assign them meaning, weight, truth. But how?

The Necessity of Delusion

The only way to believe in words—whether about myself, my mind, or my consciousness—is to believe they correspond to reality. Not as approximations, but as absolute truths. I must convince myself that these words are not mistakes, that they are proven, anchored in undeniable observations, sensations, and emotions.

But here’s the catch: I must also believe that my observations, sensations, and emotions are not errors. I must treat them as infallible, as direct windows into reality. Only then can I trust the words built upon them.

The Fragility of the Foundation

If I cannot trust my perceptions—if I allow doubt to creep in—then the words collapse. And if the words collapse, so does the "I" constructed from them. Without this absolute, unshakable faith in the connection between words and reality, I cannot believe in anything, least of all myself.

Thus, to live, I must choose delusion. I must willfully ignore the possibility that my perceptions are flawed, that my words are inadequate. I must pretend that some things are certain, even when I know, deep down, that certainty is an illusion.

The Impossible Choice

If I refuse to delude myself, I am left with no self, no foundation, no way to exist.

If I embrace delusion, I live—but on a lie.

And yet, the alternative is nonexistence. So I am forced to cling to the lie, to treat my words and perceptions as sacred, as real, even when I suspect they are not.

This is the paradox: To live, I must believe in the unbelievable.

Final Reflection

The author’s struggle is not just about language—it’s about the human need for meaning in a world where meaning is inherently unstable. The only escape from this trap is to act as if the unstable is stable, to treat the uncertain as certain. But the cost is a quiet, gnawing awareness that the entire structure of the self might be built on sand.

The Search for Self: A Journey from Certainty to Uncertainty

1. The Initial Question: What Should I Do?

I found myself asking: What should I do now? What is the key, the core of what I must or must not do? At first, I reasoned: Should I believe that I am not the words describing me? Or should I believe that I am just a brain and a body? Or perhaps I should simply stop believing in something—like the idea that I am the words that define me.

But I couldn’t decide. I tested it: I tried to believe—to believe that I am not the words, that I am a brain, an organism. But belief didn’t come. The moment I attempted to hold a conviction, doubt crept in: Why should I believe this? What grounds do I have? Trying to force belief felt hollow. It didn’t stick.

2. The Failure of Belief and Disbelief

I thought: Fine, if I can’t believe, maybe I can just disbelieve. So I tried not believing that I am the words. But even that became a loop—I kept thinking, "I am not the words," which meant I was still fixated on the words. It was the same trap, just inverted.

Then I considered: What if I return to how I felt yesterday, before all these recordings? I tried to recapture that state. But something felt off. I realized I had been approaching this wrong.

3. The Revelation: What I Am Not

I understood one thing clearly: I am not the words that describe me. That much was certain. But then a new question arose: If I’m not the words, then what am I? The first answer that came to mind was: I am a brain and a body. It seemed logical. But I didn’t believe it—not truly. It was just an idea, not a conviction.

And then, the uncertainty deepened. I realized: I cannot say for sure who or what I am.

Am I the words that describe me?

Am I a brain and a body?

Am I the tree outside my window?

Am I the entire universe? Or something beyond it?

The more I thought, the more I saw that I lack any foundation for certainty. I cannot believe or disbelieve anything with conviction. Before, I had an unexamined certainty: When I think of "me," it must be me. But now, that certainty is gone.

4. The Abandonment of the Search

Once I accepted that I cannot define myself, something shifted. I stopped trying to pin down what I am. I stopped striving to believe or disbelieve. I let go of the need for certainty.

And in that release, I returned to the state I was in yesterday—a state of pure sensation, without labels.

5. The Three States: Belief, Disbelief, and Beyond

I experienced three distinct phases:

Attempting to Believe ("I am the brain/body")

At first, this felt exhilarating. Everything I feel—this is me! Life seemed vibrant, if only briefly. But the belief was fragile. I couldn’t sustain it because I didn’t truly know why I should believe it.

Attempting to Disbelieve ("I am not the words")

This was exhausting. I was still trapped in the same mental loop, just negating instead of affirming. It drained my attention without giving anything in return.

Letting Go of the Question Entirely

Neither belief nor disbelief worked. The third option was: Stop caring about the question. Stop trying to define myself. Stop thinking about "I" at all.

In this third state, I found myself back in yesterday’s mindset—a place of no emotions, no mental chatter, just raw perception. No words, no self-referential thoughts. Just existence, unfiltered.

6. The Conclusion: Uncertainty as Freedom

I realized that thinking about this pulls me out of certainty. When I don’t examine it, I default to the old assumption: I am the words that describe me. But when I observe closely, the assumption crumbles. I can no longer claim to know what I am.

And that’s okay. I don’t need to know. The state beyond belief and disbelief is the most peaceful—where I don’t think about "I" at all, where I simply experience without the noise of self-definition.

Final Reflection

All my earlier reasoning still holds. I can’t say I’ve found a solution, but I’ve found a way to stop searching. The act of questioning itself dissolves the illusion of certainty. And in that dissolution, there is quiet.

The Realization: Beyond the Illusion of "I"

At first, I spoke about not thinking—specifically, about not thinking of myself in terms of words or labels. My initial understanding was this: if you stop defining yourself through language—if you cease to see yourself as a collection of descriptions, traits, or narratives—then everything falls into place. The mind settles. The struggle dissolves.

But then, a deeper layer unfolded.

It isn’t just about words. It’s about any conception of "I" at all.

What It Means to Stop Thinking of "I"

Not as Words or Stories
I used to believe the problem was framing myself in language—"I am this, I want that, I feel this way." But the issue runs far deeper. Even if you strip away the words, the habit remains: the mind still clings to the idea of a self, whether it’s articulated or not.

Not as a Brain
It’s not just about rejecting verbal labels. You might think, "Okay, I won’t call myself ‘smart’ or ‘anxious’—I’ll just observe my brain’s activity." But even that is a trap. The moment you identify with the brain—"This is my mind at work"—you’re still reinforcing the illusion of a separate "I" observing it.

Not as a Body
The same applies to the physical form. You might shift focus to the body—"I am this organism, these sensations, this breath." Yet here, too, the "I" persists. The body becomes another object to claim as mine, another boundary to defend.

Not as the Universe
Some expand the self to cosmic scales—"I am the universe, I am everything." But this, too, is just another concept of "I," now inflated to grandiosity. The ego doesn’t disappear; it merely dresses in larger clothes.

Not as Any "I" at All
The core insight? There is no "I" to think about. Not as words, not as a brain, not as a body, not as the void or the infinite. The moment you fixate on any version of "I"—even the most abstract or expansive—you’re still trapped in the same cycle.

The Freedom in Non-Identification

The liberation comes when you see that there is no center to return to, no "self" to improve or understand. Not because you’ve dissolved into nothingness, but because the question itself—"Who am I?"—is built on a false premise. It assumes an entity that was never there to begin with.

You don’t stop thinking about yourself.

You see through the thought that there ever was a "yourself" to begin with.

This isn’t nihilism. It’s the opposite: a radical yes to experience, unfiltered by the lens of "me." The world doesn’t become meaningless—it becomes direct, unmediated by the ghost of a separate observer.

Closing Reflection

The mind will resist this. It will try to turn even this insight into another identity—"Now I’m the one who doesn’t believe in ‘I’!"—but that, too, is just another story.

The only way out is to stop looking for a way out.

The Illusion of Believing in Descriptions

I’ve noticed something strange: I keep thinking about the things I’ve said in my recent voice recordings. Not just thinking—believing in them. And because I believe in these words, my state of mind shifts. It changes me, simply because I treat these descriptions as if they are me.

I realized that when I believe the words describing me are me, I can’t stop thinking about them. To stop thinking about them, I have to stop believing they define me. The same goes for reality. If I believe my description of reality is reality, I’ll keep obsessing over that description, mistaking it for reality itself. But if I stop believing that, the obsession fades.

The Trap of Describing Reality

For hours today, I recorded my observations—how the mind works, how reality seems structured. I described my experiences, my thoughts, my perceptions. And then I kept thinking about them. Why? Because I had fallen into the same trap: I was treating my description of reality as if it was reality.

But here’s the truth: A description of reality is not reality.

When I want to think about reality, I don’t actually think about reality—I think about words that describe it. The same way when I think about "myself," I’m not thinking about me; I’m thinking about words that claim to define me. The problem isn’t just that I’m thinking about descriptions—it’s that I’m mistaking them for the real thing.

The Liberation of Letting Go

When I stopped believing that my words were reality, something incredible happened. I stopped thinking about the descriptions. And when I stopped thinking about them, I saw reality as it truly is—not filtered through language, not distorted by belief, but raw, direct, alive.

It’s like looking at the sun. Normally, I’d see the word "sun" in my mind, a label, a concept. But when I stop thinking about the word, when I stop describing it, I see the sun—not as an idea, but as this blazing, unfathomable thing in the sky. The same goes for everything. The moment I stop naming, stop defining, stop believing in the descriptions, the world becomes stunningly beautiful in a way I’d forgotten.

The Emptiness of Words

All the words I’ve spoken—about myself, about reality—they’re just words. They don’t mean anything beyond themselves. They’re not truth; they’re not me; they’re not the world. They’re just sounds and symbols I’ve learned to associate with experiences.

When I think about "reality," I’m not engaging with reality—I’m engaging with a story about reality. And that story is limited, incomplete, often wrong. The same goes for "myself." The moment I realize that the words I use to describe myself are just fictions I’ve invented, they lose their power over me.

The Cost of Thinking About Reality

But here’s the catch: when I do think about reality—when I believe in my descriptions, even a little—my state changes. Not always for the worse, but it does change.

Thinking about myself usually makes me feel bad because I don’t believe in any of those descriptions. They feel hollow.

Thinking about reality, though, can feel good—at first. It gives me a sense of meaning, of control. But it’s an illusion. Because the moment I start believing in my descriptions, I stop seeing reality as it is. I see only the description, and that’s a pale shadow of the real thing.

And there’s a physical cost: stress, tension, psychosomatic symptoms. My body reacts because, deep down, I know I’m not engaging with reality—I’m engaging with a fantasy of control.

The Choice That Isn’t a Choice

So which is better—thinking about reality or not?

The truth is, there is no choice. Either I see reality directly, or I don’t. If I’m seeing clearly, I’m not thinking about descriptions. If I’m thinking about descriptions, I’m not seeing clearly. It’s that simple.

When I stop thinking about reality, what remains?

Pure sensation.

Direct perception.

The raw experience of existence—undiluted by words.

And in that space, everything is incredibly beautiful. The sun isn’t just "the sun"—it’s this living fire in the sky. The world isn’t a collection of labeled objects; it’s a mysterious, vibrant presence.

The Paradox of Observation

Here’s the irony: the moment I try to describe this experience, I’m back in the trap. The words I use to capture it are not the experience itself. They’re just more descriptions, more illusions.

So what’s left?

Not knowing.

Not defining.

Not believing in any story—about myself, about reality, about anything.

Because the second I believe in a description, I stop seeing what’s actually here.

The Final Realization

All my words—about the mind, about reality, about myself—they’re made up. They’re based on observations, but observations can be flawed. They’re based on perception, but perception is limited.

I invented "myself." I invent "reality" every time I describe it.

But when I stop inventing, when I stop describing, when I stop believing in the descriptions—what’s left is indescribable.

And that’s the only thing worth seeing.

Closing Thought

There’s no need to choose between thinking or not thinking about reality. The moment I see clearly, the question disappears. The mind either rests in direct experience or gets lost in its own stories.

And the stories?
They were never real to begin with.

The Core Realization: Words Are Not Me

I began by recording hours of explanations about how the brain works, why things are the way they are, and so on. At some point, I veered off course. The first thing I realized was that I had started trying to argue why I don’t think about myself. I was fixated on the idea that thinking about reality is trivial—the real problem is thinking about myself. So I focused on that.

For three hours, I talked about the brain’s structure, but then I shifted. I stopped just explaining and started trying to prove—to construct an argument for why I shouldn’t think about myself. Why don’t I think about myself? I searched for some valid reason, some logical foundation. I thought: "If I think about myself, I feel bad. So why think about myself at all? When I think about myself, I’m not really thinking about myself—I’m just thinking about words. Why think about myself if I don’t even believe in any of those words?"

But in trying to build this argument, I ended up believing that such an argument could exist. And that belief led me to constantly think about words—words describing my brain, reality, or anything else. I became obsessed with descriptions, with believing in descriptions, all because I thought there might be a reason why I shouldn’t think about myself. I convinced myself I had found that reason.

And then I saw the truth: There can be no argument against thinking about myself, because any argument is just words. And when I saw that, I saw something else: When I think about myself, I’m not thinking about myself—I’m just thinking about words.

The Collapse of Meaning: Words Are Empty

Once I saw that, I understood: All words mean nothing to me. They lost all significance because I stopped identifying them as me. I didn’t just decide they meant nothing—I saw it. And after that, words couldn’t control me anymore.

Before, I believed words were me. So if I wanted to do something—like go for a walk and enjoy it—I needed a word-based argument to justify it. I needed to believe in some verbal reasoning for why I should want that. But now? I don’t need arguments. I don’t need words to tell me why I should or shouldn’t do something. My mind is free to be whatever it wants.

I might believe I want something, or that I enjoy something—but those beliefs aren’t arguments. They’re just beliefs. And they don’t need justification. I can believe in any feeling, any desire, without needing words to validate it.

Freedom from the Tyranny of Words

Before, words controlled me because I thought they were me. Even if I didn’t believe in them, they still dictated my state. I was trapped in a loop: I needed words to justify my actions, but I didn’t believe in any words, so I was paralyzed.

Now? Words don’t manage me. I don’t need them to live how I want. I don’t need to prove why I should listen to music, or dance, or enjoy something. I just do it. If I want to feel joy, I feel joy. If I want to feel nothing, I feel nothing. There’s no internal debate, no need for justification.

The Automatic Shift: Thinking Without Words

The moment I realized words are not me, something automatic happened: I stopped thinking in words. Not because I forced myself, but because the need vanished. Before, I thought about words because I believed they could be arguments—for or against something. But now? Words are just descriptions. They don’t compel me.

I can think about anything—fantasize, imagine, feel—but I don’t get stuck in words about those things. For example, when I was washing dishes and listening to music, I didn’t think, "I should enjoy this because X, Y, Z." I just enjoyed it. My brain knew it was capable of joy, so it chose joy. No arguments needed.

The New Reality: Living Without Justification

Now, I don’t need reasons to feel or act. If I want to believe I love music, I do. If I want to believe I’m happy, I am. There are no forbidden beliefs. Words don’t limit me because they’re not me.

Before, I was depressed because I couldn’t find any valid words to justify my existence or desires. Now? I don’t need validation. I can feel whatever I want, whenever I want. If someone asks me to describe myself, I can’t—because I don’t think about myself in words. I can describe my actions, my habits, but not me. There’s nothing to say.

The Final Insight: Words Are Just Words

Words are not reality. They’re not my mind. They’re not me. They’re just… words. And because of that, I can use them however I want. I can believe in any description of myself or the world, or none at all. I can feel anything, want anything, without needing words to explain it.

Before, I was a slave to language. Now? I’m free.

Key Takeaways (In the Author’s Words)

"Thinking about myself" was the real problem—not reality.

Arguments are just words, and words mean nothing. They can’t justify or control me.

Freedom comes when words stop being "me." Then, I don’t need them to live.

Joy, desire, and action happen automatically—no verbal reasoning required.

I can believe in anything or nothing. Words are tools, not masters.

Describing "myself" is impossible because I don’t think in words anymore.

The Paradox of Words and Self-Responsibility

My Realization About the Trap of Language

I’ve been trying to record guides—audio or text—for others, hoping that the right words would transport them (and me) into a specific state of mind I’ve experienced. But every time I do this, I fail to reach that state myself afterward. I’ve been stuck in a loop, and today, I think I finally understood why.

1. The Illusion of Words as Levers

I believed—unconsciously—that words could carry the responsibility for shifting someone’s state (including my own). Here’s how it played out:

For others: I’d record a guide, thinking, "If I say this exact phrase, the listener will automatically enter the state I’m describing." I assumed words alone could force a transformation, as if they were a switch.

For myself: After recording, I’d replay my own words in my head, waiting for them to pull me into that state. I treated my own speech like a spell—if I just thought about the words hard enough, they’d work their magic.

But the state I’m describing cannot be reached this way. It’s the opposite of relying on words. It’s about taking full ownership of your mind, ignoring words entirely, and directing your own state without mediation.

2. The Core Contradiction

The state I’m in when I truly feel aligned has these qualities:

No dependence on words: I’m not thinking about myself, reality, others, or any words. I’m just acting—managing my brain directly, like a driver steering a car.

No outsourced responsibility: I’m not waiting for words (mine or others’) to "fix" me or tell me how to feel.

Yet when I record guides, I immediately fall back into the old pattern:

I assume my words can cause this state in others (or myself).

I start obsessing over the words—analyzing them, tweaking them, hoping they’ll finally be the "right" ones.

I outsource my state to the words again, defeating the entire purpose.

The irony: I’m trying to use words to teach people not to depend on words. It’s like trying to drown by drinking water to quench your thirst.

3. Why This Never Works

Words reinforce dependence: If you believe words control your state, you’ll always be thinking about words—either searching for the "perfect" ones or blaming the "wrong" ones. This keeps you trapped in a mental loop.

The state requires the opposite: To reach the state I describe, you must stop looking to words (or anything external) for permission, guidance, or change. You have to take the wheel yourself.

My personal proof: Yesterday, after recording, I tested this. I spent hours thinking about my words, waiting for them to "work." Instead, I felt worse. Only when I stopped fixating on them did I return to the right state—by choice, not by words.

4. The Two Impossible Tasks

I now see two things I cannot do with words:

Explain the un-explainable: I can’t put into words why I no longer think about myself or words in this state. The moment I try, I’m back to depending on words.

Teach non-dependence via dependence: I can’t use words to make someone stop relying on words. That’s like using a ladder to teach someone to fly—eventually, they have to let go.

5. The Only Way Out

For myself: I must catch myself when I start believing my words have power over my state. The second I notice I’m waiting for words to "save" me, I know I’ve lost the plot.

For others: I can describe the state, but I can’t deliver it. The best I can do is:

Warn them about the trap of outsourcing their state to words.

Encourage them to experiment with taking direct control—without waiting for permission or a "magic phrase."

6. The Final Paradox

The state I’m in now is good not because of words, but because I chose it. The words I’ve spoken today are just observations—they didn’t create the state. They’re like fingerprints on a window: evidence of touch, but not the touch itself.

The lesson:

Words can describe the path, but they are not the path.

Responsibility cannot be delegated. The moment you try, you’re no longer in the state you seek.

The only "right" words are the ones you stop obeying.

Closing Thought:
I’m not sure how to share this without falling into the same trap. Maybe the answer is to stop trying to share it perfectly—and just live it.

Structure Notes:

Bold headers mark key themes for readability.

Italics emphasize the author’s original phrasing and contradictions.

Bullet points break down complex loops (e.g., the cycle of word-dependence).

The "Final Paradox" section ties the insights into a concise takeaway.

The State of Pure Perception

Right now, I find myself living in the state I originally discovered—a state where I don’t think about anything. There are no emotions, no feelings, only sensations. My senses are open, unfiltered by words or thoughts about words. It’s pure perception: pleasant or unpleasant sensations that I experience without labeling or analyzing them.

I’ve returned to this state, and in it, there’s no "high" (кайф). There are pleasant sensations, but I don’t call them кайф because кайф, to me, is what you feel when you believe in something—when you receive something connected to that belief. Here, there’s none of that. Just sensations.

The Contrast with Yesterday’s State

I recall yesterday’s state—the one I experienced while washing dishes and listening to music. That was intense: a surge of кайф, emotions, and feelings. I wanted to return to it, so I tried to replicate the thoughts I had then. Yesterday, I realized that no words can serve as arguments—not for stopping thoughts, not for anything. I believed those words, and that belief gave me кайф.

But today, when I tried to recreate it, I only ended up thinking about words I don’t believe in. Those thoughts clouded my pure perception, making my state worse. I understood: the only way to "improve" my state is to believe in certain words—but I can’t force belief.

The Paradox of Belief and Words

Yesterday, I believed that "words cannot be arguments"—and that belief itself became an argument. I felt responsible to those words, as if they held the key to my state. I rushed to record them, thinking they’d help others (or me) achieve the same clarity. But the moment I tried to use those words as tools, the belief vanished. The words lost their power because belief is fleeting.

Now, I see: words only work if you believe in them. Without belief, they’re just noise. I can think about them endlessly, but they won’t change my state. The кайф from yesterday came from accidental belief—not from the words themselves.

The Futility of Seeking Improvement

I’ve spent years trying to intentionally recreate states of belief and кайф. It never works. Belief only arises accidentally—when I overlook a contradiction, like forgetting that "words can’t be arguments" applies even to that statement itself. The moment I realize the inconsistency, the belief collapses.

My current state—pure perception without thoughts—is stable. It’s not as ecstatic as yesterday’s, but it’s clean. The mistake is trying to "improve" it with words. That only drags me back into thinking, which ruins the clarity.

The Nature of Faith and Kayf

Faith gives кайф, but it’s always temporary. I’ve never sustained it longer than a day or two before reality dissolves it. I can’t manufacture belief; it only happens by chance, when I fail to see the flaws in my own reasoning.

Do I miss кайф? Not really. This pure state is enough. I don’t feel like I’m lacking anything. Before, I might have chased кайф because I couldn’t imagine another way—but now, I don’t need it.

Conclusion: Accepting the Present State

The lesson: Stop trying to improve what’s already whole. My current state—free of thoughts, emotions, or the need for кайф—is sufficient. The moment I reach for words to "enhance" it, I lose it. Belief is a trap; clarity lies in perception alone.

Final Thought:
"I don’t need to think about myself, about words, or about anything. There are only sensations. And that’s okay."

A Fresh Perspective: Re-examining My Own Mind

I’ve been trying to explain to others—and to myself—what’s happening inside my head. But the explanations I’ve given so far don’t truly capture the reality of my experience. So I decided to step back, forget everything I’ve said before, and look at the situation with fresh eyes. I examined all my past words, observations, and everything I’ve learned about how the brain works. I asked myself: What does all of this mean for me, for my life, for my mind?

And the answer that emerged was this: I can live exactly as I want, without any limitations.

Before, I was constrained by words—by beliefs like "everything is meaningless," "I don’t believe in anything," or "I don’t want anything." These words acted as barriers, preventing me from living or feeling the way I truly desired. But now, when I reflect on what all of this means, something shifts. I don’t see specific, concrete meanings. Instead, my state changes. My mood lifts, my emotions shift dramatically for the better. It’s not that I understand what it all means in a verbal or logical sense—it’s that my brain processes it, and my entire being transforms.

The Illusion of Explanation

If I try to put into words what my brain has "understood," the closest I can get is something like:
"I can live however I want, and nothing—not my brain, not words, not external forces—can stop me, control me, or limit me."

But I don’t actually believe these words are the precise meaning. I don’t think any words could fully capture it. The truth is, I can’t see the meaning directly. It’s hidden from me. Yet when I think about what it all means, my state improves, and that’s what matters.

There’s another state I experience—a pure, wordless state where I stop thinking entirely. No thoughts, no self-reflection, just sensations. This state is neutral in terms of emotion or pleasure; it’s simply a blank slate. I can enter it at will by consciously halting all thought. But the state I’m describing now is different. It’s the state where I look at everything I know about the brain, about words, about reality—and I ponder what it all means.

It’s like seeing a car pull up and instantly knowing it’s my grocery delivery before consciously articulating it. My brain processes the meaning first, and only later do I try to verbalize it. The verbalization doesn’t matter. What matters is the shift—the fact that my state improves, and I start living with a sense of freedom and joy.

The Paradox of Meaning Without Words

This state doesn’t require belief. It doesn’t require faith in any idea or explanation. And yet, there’s an undeniable pleasure in it—a deep, intrinsic satisfaction.

I used to think that to consider what something "means," I needed to believe in that meaning. I needed arguments, proof, logical justification. If I couldn’t prove something to myself, I’d dismiss it. I’d tell myself, "I don’t believe this means anything because I can’t verify it." But now, I don’t need any of that. I don’t need words to justify my existence or my choices. I don’t need to believe in meaning—I can simply experience it.

My brain operates like a machine, a computer running code. For years, it followed one path, one set of instructions. But now, it’s as if a neural network has rewritten its own code and discovered: "I can live in a completely different way." The brain realizes that if words hold no inherent power—if they’re not arguments, not constraints—then I am free. Intuitively, automatically, it understands: I can live as I please, and no words can restrict me.

The Evolution of My Understanding

First Breakthrough: The Silence of Non-Thinking
My initial discovery was that thinking about myself is just thinking about words—not about my actual self. When I realized this, I simply stopped thinking altogether. This gave me a neutral, sensation-based state—no thoughts, no emotions, just pure presence. It wasn’t ecstatic, but it was clean, freeing.

Second Breakthrough: The Illusion of Arguments
After that, I began studying why I had been thinking the way I did. I noticed that I was searching for arguments in words—trying to justify my thoughts, my beliefs, my limitations. Then I realized: no word can ever be a true argument for anything. Words are just symbols; they don’t compel reality.

Third Breakthrough: The Freedom of Meaning
Now, I’ve found something even better. In this state, I don’t think about myself at all. Instead, I think about what all of this means—my discoveries about words, about the brain, about reality. When I do this, my state shifts dramatically. There’s joy, emotion, a sense of boundless possibility—and no negativity at all.

It’s as if I’ve spent my whole life believing I was a slave—bound by words, by beliefs, by invisible chains. And then, suddenly, I realize: there was never any slavery. The chains were an illusion. I was always free. The moment I see that words mean nothing, I understand: I can live however I want.

The Core Insight: Words Are Not Masters

Before, I needed to believe in the meaning of words to engage with them. I needed arguments, proof, justification. Now, I don’t need any of that. I can think about what everything means without requiring words to validate it.

My brain has rewritten its own rules. It has realized:

Words are not arguments. They don’t control me.

Meaning doesn’t need proof. It’s experienced, not debated.

Freedom is inherent. The moment I see that words are powerless, I am liberated.

This isn’t about faith. It’s not about convincing myself of anything. It’s about direct knowing—the kind of knowing that happens when you see a car and instantly recognize it as your delivery, before words even form.

Final Thought: The Joy of Unlimited Living

When I think about what all of this means, my state becomes one of pure, unbounded freedom. There’s no need to explain it, to justify it, or to put it into words. The brain understands it on its own terms, and that understanding transforms everything.

I am no longer a slave to words. I am no longer limited by the need for arguments or proof. I can live as I choose, and nothing—not my mind, not language, not old beliefs—can stop me.

And that, in itself, is the greatest meaning of all.

The Journey Through States of Mind: A Personal Exploration

1. The Two Initial States

I discovered two distinct mental states that brought me profound clarity and peace.

The First State: Pure Sensation
I learned how to exist without thinking about anything—no words, no concepts, just raw sensation. This state emerged when I realized that all words are just words—empty symbols. I stopped believing that thinking about "myself" meant I was actually engaging with my true self. Instead, I saw that I was only thinking about labels ("myself," "thoughts," "meanings"), and these labels had no inherent power. This became my argument for not thinking at all. The moment I embraced this, I entered a state of pure, wordless presence. It felt incredible—better than anything I’d experienced before.

The Second State: Thinking About Meaning
Later, I found a second state where I still avoided thinking about "myself," but instead, I focused on what things meant. I questioned: What does it mean that words have no power? What does it mean that I’m not my thoughts? This state was also powerful, but it relied on a different kind of belief—faith in the idea that meaning itself was worth exploring.

Both states were fragile. They depended on my belief in an "argument" for why I should stay in them. The first state required me to believe that words were meaningless. The second required me to believe that meaning was worth contemplating. But when I tried to explain these states to others, I realized something devastating: there was no real argument for either state. Words couldn’t justify them because words, by definition, were just words—they couldn’t prove anything.

And so, the states collapsed.

2. The Collapse and the Search for Stability

When I lost the ability to sustain these states, I panicked. For a full day, I tried to force myself back into them. I replayed the logic in my head:

"Words are meaningless, so I don’t need to think."

"Meaning is worth exploring, so I should focus on that."

But each time, I hit the same wall: there was no foundation. No argument could hold up because all arguments were just words. And if words couldn’t justify my states, then what could?

I realized I had been dependent on the illusion of argument. My mind had been clinging to the idea of a reason, not an actual one. Once that illusion shattered, the states vanished.

3. The Default State: A New Reality

After struggling, I accepted that those states were gone. But then, something unexpected happened: I noticed I was already in a new state—one that didn’t require any effort to maintain.

This state was different:

No forced absence of thought. I wasn’t trying to not think about myself or meanings.

No reliance on arguments. I wasn’t searching for justification.

No manipulation of my mind. I wasn’t following a "guide" or a set of steps.

It was simply… there.

At first, I didn’t understand it. I had spent years believing that my default state was bad—that I needed to change it through mental tricks, arguments, or beliefs. But now, my default state was good. Not because I had done anything, but because I had stopped doing things to it.

4. The Nature of Desire in This New State

In this state, I observed something fascinating about my desires:

They were spontaneous. I didn’t decide to want something—I just noticed that I wanted it.

They were selective. Some things I wanted intensely (playing Dota 2, writing a book, going for a walk). Others held no appeal at all (earning money for its own sake, socializing out of obligation).

They were fluid. A desire could appear or disappear without warning. One moment, I had no interest in walking; the next, I was craving it—and when I did, the experience was euphoric.

This was unlike my past, where I had tried to force myself to want things (e.g., "I should enjoy nature," "I should want to socialize"). Now, desires arose naturally, without coercion.

5. The Power of Indirect Motivation

The most striking feature of this state was how it handled unwanted but necessary tasks. For example:

I didn’t want to eat, but I knew food would give me energy to play games later.

I didn’t want to work, but I knew work would fund future projects I did want.

I didn’t want to do chores, but I knew they’d clear mental space for what mattered.

I did these things not because I enjoyed them, but because they were steps toward what I truly wanted.

This created a laser-like focus. I moved through unwanted tasks with unprecedented speed and efficiency, because my mind was fixed on the end goal. There was no resistance—just action.

6. The Absence of Discipline (And Why It Doesn’t Matter)

In the past, I had struggled with "discipline." I thought I needed willpower to force myself to do things. But in this new state, discipline was irrelevant.

There was no internal conflict. If I wanted something, I pursued it. If a task was necessary for that pursuit, I did it without hesitation.

There was no need for self-control. Resistance dissolved because my actions aligned with my desires—even if the intermediate steps weren’t inherently enjoyable.

This wasn’t discipline. It was alignment.

7. Rediscovering Joy in the Mundane

One of the most surprising shifts was how I experienced ordinary moments. For example:

I used to listen to music while walking because the walk itself wasn’t enjoyable. But one day, my music cut out, and I heard birds, wind, distant cars—sounds I’d tuned out for years. Suddenly, the absence of music made the walk exhilarating.

I realized I had been blocking natural joy by relying on external stimuli (music, thoughts, arguments). Now, joy arose spontaneously, without effort.

This state didn’t require me to seek happiness. Happiness found me.

8. The Roadmap of Desires

Looking ahead, I saw my life as a chain of desires, each leading to the next:

Short-term: Playing a game, finishing a task.

Long-term: Writing a book, contributing to humanity’s future.

The key insight? I didn’t need to want every step. I only needed to want the destination. The steps became effortless because they were means to an end I truly craved.

9. The Illusion of the "Self"

Reflecting on my past, I saw that my suffering came from a single belief: that I was my thoughts.

I used to think, "I am thinking about myself," and believe that was me.

Now, I see that "I" was never the thoughts. The thoughts were just words—empty labels. The real "me" was the awareness behind them.

When I stopped identifying with the words, my default state shifted from anxiety to ease.

10. Can This State Be Taught?

I don’t have a step-by-step guide for others. My transformation came from years of realizing:

Words are not reality. They’re tools, not truths.

You are not your thoughts. The "self" that observes thoughts is separate from them.

Arguments are illusions. No word can prove why you should be in any state.

Desire is natural. You don’t need to force it—just notice it.

The state I’m in now isn’t something I do. It’s something I stopped doing. I stopped fighting my mind, stopped searching for arguments, stopped believing I needed to change anything.

And in that surrender, I found peace.

11. Final Thoughts: A Life Without Struggle

This state feels like coming home.

I no longer need to manage my mind.

I no longer need to justify my existence.

I no longer need to force happiness.

It’s already here.

And the best part? It can’t be lost. Because it’s not something I achieved—it’s what remains when I stop trying to achieve anything at all.

Closing Reflection

If I had to summarize the essence of this journey:

"I spent years trying to fix my mind. But the fix was never in the trying—it was in the seeing. Seeing that I was never broken. Seeing that the struggle was the illusion. And seeing that life, as it is, is already enough."

The Shift: From Action to Stillness

1. The Initial State of Productivity

I had reached a state where I was living very actively—not in the sense of physical busyness, but with a sharp, almost mechanical focus. I had desires, though I can’t recall their specifics now. What mattered was this: I did what I didn’t want to do if it was a necessary step toward what I did want. There was no resistance, no emotional attachment to the process. If a task was a bridge to my goal, I crossed it quickly, indifferently, like a tool fulfilling its function.

And so, in half a day, I accomplished an extraordinary amount. Tasks piled up, were sorted, completed—one after another. Then, abruptly, I declared: "It’s time. Time to work on the book." Not because of an external deadline or obligation, but because the moment had arrived. I sat down, opened my old notes, and began to shape them—not by writing anew, but by feeding them through a neural network, reformatting fragments into something resembling a book. Twenty seconds in, the stress hit like a wave.

2. The Paradox of Wanting

Before that moment, everything had been effortless, even joyful. So why the sudden tension? I traced it back to a critical realization:

Right before I sat down to "write," I had asked myself: "Do I actually want to write this book?"
And for the first time, I saw it clearly: Yes. I did.
Not just my mind, not just some abstract part of me—I, the speaking, thinking "I," wanted it. I believed it. And in that belief, something broke.

Here’s the irony: I had always operated on the principle that thinking about what you want brings it closer. If you focus on a desire, you manifest it faster. So naturally, I began to think about wanting the book. But this time, the familiar mechanism failed. The act of thinking about wanting triggered controlling, automatic thoughts—like a feedback loop of pressure. "You must do this right. You must not fail." The stress wasn’t about the work; it was about the thinking itself.

3. The Illusion of Non-Action

I had believed I was doing nothing—just existing in a state where desires arose spontaneously. But now I saw the truth: I had been doing something all along. Unconsciously, I was thinking about my past words—the recordings, the notes, the fragments of my own voice preserved in earlier entries. Not analyzing them, not judging them, but holding them in my mind like a silent hum.

These words, though meaningless in isolation, shaped my desires. They were the substrate from which my wants emerged. The moment I recognized this, the spell broke. I could no longer return to that effortless state because I now knew it required an action: the act of not-acting—of passively revisiting my past words.

But I rejected that. "Why should these empty words—the echoes of a self I no longer am—dictate my state?" I refused to let them linger. I stopped thinking about them entirely.

4. The New State: True Stillness

Now, I am in a place where I do not think about my words at all. Not the past ones, not the present ones, not even the idea of "I" that wants or resists. There is no internal dialogue, no silent repetition of old scripts. Thinking itself is a form of doing, and I have ceased to do even that.

What remains?

No desires. Before, I mistook the quiet presence of wants for spontaneity, but they were just the residue of my unexamined thoughts.

No automatic thoughts. The controlling voice that once "helped" me achieve goals by policing my actions has dissolved.

No past. I do not summon old words to fuel the present. If I glance backward (as I am now, in this retelling), the desires reappear instantly—proof that they were never mine, but artifacts of memory’s surface tension.

This is not emptiness. It is pure presence. A state where nothing is done, nothing is wanted, and nothing is avoided. What is, simply is.

5. The Mechanism Laid Bare

The experiment revealed a hidden law:

Thinking about past words ≠ remembering. It is recreating. When I held my old notes in my mind, I wasn’t just recalling—I was reactivating the self that spoke them.

Desires are not innate. They are constructed—assembled from the raw material of attention. Focus on a word, a goal, a memory, and the mind weaves a want around it.

True non-action requires the cessation of even silent thought. Not repression, but non-engagement. Like a mirror that reflects nothing because it is turned away from all light.

Final Observation

I once believed I was free because I acted without resistance. Now I see that even "not resisting" was a kind of doing. The real freedom is in not feeding the machine at all—not with actions, not with thoughts, not even with the ghost of old desires.

The question now is: What happens to a mind that no longer thinks about itself?

The Shift in State: From Desire to Pure Experience

1. The Absence of Desire

I used to think about my past state—how my thoughts and memories shaped me, how I was influenced by what I once wanted. But then I realized: to be in that state, I had to actively think about something, to do something. When I stopped, my state changed entirely.

Now, there are no clear desires. Not in the way I used to know them. The old cravings are gone. There are other sensations, but I can barely call them "desires." They feel different—indistinct, hard to name. If I had to put it bluntly, I’d say: there are no desires in this state at all.

Instead of a framework of "I want this, I don’t want that," there’s only this: things that bring me pleasure. I ate a delicious nectarine. I didn’t want to eat it—I didn’t think, "I desire this." I just ate it, and it felt amazing. That’s how it is now: no premeditated longing, just the direct experience of pleasure. Some things bring more, some less. That’s all there is.

I don’t choose based on "should" or "shouldn’t." I don’t weigh options like before. I simply observe: This brings pleasure. That doesn’t. And I move toward what feels good—not because I’m pulled by desire, but because my brain, in its own way, just does it.

2. The Dissolution of Boundaries

Lately, I’ve noticed something strange: everything merges into one.

Me, reality, sensations, joy, actions, other people—it’s all a single, indivisible whole. I can’t separate myself from the world, or my feelings from my actions. There’s no "me vs. reality," no "pleasure vs. pain," not even "life vs. death." It’s all the same continuum.

Before, there were divisions: me and others, my wants and my aversions, life and death. Now? Death doesn’t scare me because it’s not opposite to life—it’s part of the same thing. There’s nothing to fear when there’s no separation to create conflict.

This isn’t some grand philosophical stance. It’s just how I perceive things now. And because of that, emotions—especially fear or anxiety—don’t arise. They require distinction, judgment, a sense of lack. But here? There is no lack.

3. The Mechanics of Action Without Motivation

In my old state, I was driven. Hyper-efficient, motivated, always doing—washing dishes not because I wanted to, but because I knew it needed to be done. I optimized everything, raced toward goals, even if I didn’t consciously "desire" them.

Now? That motivation is gone. Not because I’m lazy, but because the need for it is absent. I don’t feel like I’m missing anything. I could sit on this couch forever and feel no loss, no regret. Yet—I still act.

Why? Because I know certain things bring pleasure. Writing a book? The idea of it thrills me. Not because I want to write, but because I see the joy in it. Same with programming, or walking outside on a sunny day. I don’t crave these things—I just recognize their potential for pleasure, and my body moves toward them.

It’s not a choice. It’s not a struggle. It’s just what happens.

This state feels freer. Lighter. Before, even with all that motivation, there was always a subtle tension—the gap between now and what I want. Now? There is no gap. Only the present, and the quiet pull of what feels good.

4. The Problem with "Guides" and Old Beliefs

I used to think: "To reach my state, just realize what I’ve realized, and you’ll automatically get here." But now I see it’s more complicated.

Yes, you have to realize the things I’ve realized—let go of beliefs, let your mind restructure. But then? You have to stop thinking about the very things that changed you.

Because those thoughts create the change. And if you keep thinking them, you stay in a loop. You might end up in my old state—the one with desires and motivation—not this new one.

I tried going back to my old recordings, my past words. But when I do, the desires return. And with them, the risk of stress. Because if I start believing in those desires—even just entertaining the thought that "this is what I want"—the tension comes back. The fear of failure. The pressure to achieve.

I don’t want that. So I stopped.

Now, I don’t think about my past realizations. I don’t need to. This state is self-sustaining. It doesn’t require maintenance, just… being.

5. The Paradox of Satisfaction

The biggest difference? I no longer think about the future.

Before, I worked for future rewards: "I’ll earn money to buy X." Now? I don’t care. If I imagine writing a book, I don’t think, "This will bring me success." I think: "This feels amazing right now." The joy is immediate. No schemes, no delayed gratification.

This isn’t laziness. It’s pure presence. And it’s liberating.

In my old state, I was always running—chasing desires, inventing motivations, afraid to stop. Now? I could do nothing for the rest of my life and feel no dissatisfaction. But when I do act—when I write, or walk, or program—it’s because the act itself is joy.

And that joy is deeper because it’s unburdened. No "shoulds." No "what ifs." Just: This feels good. I do it.

6. Why This State Feels Better

Both states—the motivated one and this one—are "fine." But I prefer this one.

Because not wanting anything is peaceful. Because being 100% content with this moment—not satisfied in the clichéd sense, but completely free of dissatisfaction—is a quiet kind of bliss.

Before, I was always needing to want something. Now? I don’t. I can do anything, or nothing, and the core of me stays untouched. No stress. No lack. Just… this.

And when I do things I love? It’s not an escape. It’s not a chase. It’s just life, unfolding exactly as it is.

Final Thought: The Illusion of Desire

I used to believe my desires were mine—that they came from some deep, authentic part of me. But now I see: they were just echoes of my own words.

I’d think about my past recordings, my old ideas, and suddenly I’d feel desire. But that desire wasn’t real. It was a construct—a reaction to thoughts I no longer even believe in.

So I stopped feeding it. And in the silence that followed, I found this:

A life without wanting is not empty. It’s full—full of exactly what’s here.

Reflections on Writing a Book: The Trap of Desire, Interest, and Pleasure

1. The Initial Mistake: Believing I "Want" to Write

I realized that when I sat down to write my book, I made a critical error: I started believing that I wanted to write it. At first glance, this seems harmless—even motivating. "What’s wrong with thinking I want to write? Won’t that push me to finish faster?" But this belief triggered something deeper: automatic, controlling thoughts—the kind that manifest as fear, stress, and self-doubt.

My brain is wired to react to fear with psychosomatic symptoms. I can’t just feel fear; my body has to translate it into physical tension, nausea, or restlessness. The stress of "I must do this right" or "What if I fail?" became unbearable. The more I thought "I want to write this book," the more my subconscious generated controlling thoughts—invisible scripts dictating how I should feel, what I should achieve, and how I should perform. The pressure was paralyzing.

2. The Illusion of Interest

I tried a different approach: instead of thinking "I want to write," I focused on "I’m interested in writing." This felt safer, less demanding. But I soon discovered a cruel truth:
Interest is just desire in disguise.

When I told myself, "I’m interested in what happens when I finish this book—how it might change people, the world, my life," my brain still interpreted this as:
"You want the outcome. You want the validation. You want the impact."
The cycle repeated. The stress returned. The controlling thoughts resurfaced, now cloaked in curiosity rather than raw desire.

The problem wasn’t the content of my thoughts (wanting vs. interest) but the act of fixating on the future. Whether I framed it as desire or curiosity, my mind was still anchored to a goal—and that anchor dragged me into anxiety.

3. The Collapse of Motivation

When I finally stripped away both layers—

"I want to write this book."

"I’m interested in writing this book."
—something unexpected happened: the pleasure vanished.

Without the illusion of desire or interest, writing felt mechanical. The "high" of imagining the book’s future impact disappeared. I sat at my laptop, fingers on the keys, and thought:
"Why am I doing this? Watching YouTube is more enjoyable right now. Eating something tasty is more enjoyable. Why force myself to do something less pleasant?"

For hours, I abandoned the book. I consumed easy, immediate pleasures—YouTube, streams, snacks—because, in that moment, they felt better. But by the next morning, I realized:
This was a trap too.

4. The Flaw in the "Pleasure Principle"

I had unconsciously adopted a rule:
"I always choose what’s most pleasant in the moment."
But this was a self-imposed prison.

If I only did what felt good right now, I’d never:

Work through discomfort.

Build anything meaningful.

Endure the boring, frustrating, or difficult phases of creation.

Example: Writing a book is rarely as pleasurable as watching YouTube. But writing a book can change lives (including mine). If I only followed pleasure, I’d never finish—and I’d never grow.

I realized: I don’t actually live by the "pleasure principle." It was just a story I’d told myself (and others) to explain my behavior. But stories like this become self-fulfilling prophecies. By believing "I only do what’s pleasant," I limited myself to only pleasant things—even when they led nowhere.

5. The Breakthrough: Letting Go of All Patterns

The solution wasn’t to replace one rule ("I want this") with another ("I’m interested in this") or to declare "I choose pleasure." The solution was:
Stop imposing rules altogether.

When I sat down to write for the third time, I didn’t think:

"I want to write."

"I’m interested in writing."

"This is more/less pleasant than X."

I just… worked.

And something magical happened:

The stress disappeared.

The controlling thoughts vanished.

The process became effortlessly engaging.

It reminded me of my first year as a programmer—when I coded not because I wanted to or because it was the most pleasant option, but simply because the work itself was absorbing. I didn’t overthink it. I didn’t compare it to other activities. I just did it, and the satisfaction came from the act of creation, not the anticipation of results.

6. The New State of Mind

Now, my mental state feels:

Neutral but alive. Not high on desire, not low on avoidance—just present.

Curious without attachment. I’m not fixated on outcomes, but I’m still engaged in the process.

Free from comparison. I’m not weighing "Is this more pleasant than X?" I’m just doing what feels right in a deeper, less calculative way.

Key Insights:

Desire and interest are the same trap. Both anchor you to a future outcome, which breeds stress.

Pleasure isn’t the point. Meaningful work often isn’t the most pleasant option—but it’s the one that matters.

Patterns are prisons. The moment you declare "I live by X rule," you’ve boxed yourself in. True freedom is having no rule at all.

7. The Final Realization

I don’t need to:

Want to write.

Feel interested in writing.

Compare writing to other activities.

I just need to write.

And when I do, the right feelings follow—not because I chased them, but because I stopped resisting the process.

Closing Thought

This isn’t about discipline or forcing myself to work. It’s about unlearning the habits of overthinking. The mind is a strange machine: it sabotages itself when it clings to desires, interests, or pleasure. But when it stops clinging, the work flows—and the joy comes not from the idea of the book, but from the quiet, steady act of making it.

Reflections on Thoughts, Belief, and Patterns of Mind

1. The Aftermath of the Previous Recording

After my last recording—where I explored the idea of pre-set patterns, how I choose them, and the logic behind my decisions—I went about my day. For about two hours, I did chores around the house, but my mind kept returning to that recording. I wasn’t just replaying what I’d said; I was thinking about what it meant. The words I’d spoken—about correcting errors, about freedom from patterns, about the ability to focus on pleasure or work without constraint—felt significant. They weren’t just words; they were ideas that, when I dwelled on them, made me feel better.

But "better" isn’t quite the right word. It was more like I started to enjoy everything—the music I listened to, thoughts about the future, even the present moment. There was a surge of what I’d call kayf (a deep, effortless pleasure). Normally, this happens when I believe in certain words or meanings, but this time, it wasn’t just about belief. It was about the act of thinking itself—about the good words I’d used, words that suggested freedom, that I could do anything, that I wasn’t bound by old patterns. My brain seemed to respond positively to these words, even though I didn’t necessarily believe them in a rigid sense.

2. The Paradox of Enjoyment Without Measurement

Before, when I focused on maximizing pleasure, I’d listen to music and evaluate it: How much enjoyment am I getting? Is this enough? I was comparing, measuring, always chasing more. But this time, I listened to music and didn’t ask those questions. I didn’t rank the pleasure or demand a certain amount. It just was. And yet, I was still aware of the pleasure I was feeling—aware, but not obsessed with quantifying it.

This shift made everything more enjoyable. But there was a catch: while I was reveling in this state, I also felt a low-grade stress. Not full-blown anxiety, but a nagging thought: What if I’m wrong? What if the ideas in my last recording—the ones that were making me feel so good—were flawed? What would that mean for my state of mind, my future, my understanding of myself? The uncertainty was unsettling.

I also worried about how others would perceive my recording. What if they find a mistake in my logic? I tried to preemptively spot my own errors before anyone else could. This line of thinking added tension, though it was subtle—more like a background hum than a scream.

3. The Realization: Thinking as a Self-Fulfilling Loop

At some point, I noticed that my stress came from thinking about my own words—from treating them as if they were objectively true or false, as if they held the key to my well-being. But then I reminded myself: I don’t actually believe these words. Not in the sense that they’re absolute truths. So why was I giving them so much power?

I realized I had no real reason to keep thinking about the recording. No argument, no proof that it was worth my mental energy. The same went for thinking about pleasure. Why should I fixate on it? There was no inherent need. This led me to a strange place: I stopped thinking about the recording and about pleasure. Not because I forced myself, but because I saw that there was no basis for those thoughts.

The result? My state changed. The kayf from thinking faded, but so did the stress. I wasn’t evaluating, comparing, or chasing anything. I was just present—seeing, feeling, existing without the layer of mental commentary. The intensity of emotions lessened, but so did the sense of being pulled in any direction.

4. The Question: To Think or Not to Think?

Now I faced a dilemma: Should I think about these things or not? If I decided to keep thinking about my words or about pleasure, I’d be limiting myself to that mental loop. If I decided not to think about them, I’d be cutting myself off from potential experiences. But why choose at all?

I saw that there was no "correct" pattern—no rulebook for what to think or believe. Any pattern I imposed would be arbitrary, based on nothing but a fleeting preference. The idea of having to choose felt like a trap. Why constrain myself? Why not just… let thoughts come and go as they will?

I remembered how exhausting it was to constantly chase kayf—how it led to burnout, to a sense of never being satisfied. Now, in this quieter state, I felt lighter. No pull, no demand, no evaluation. Just existence.

But I also acknowledged that thinking could bring pleasure—just a different kind. It could add motivation, direction, even a sense of meaning. But it could also bring stress, doubt, and the fear of being wrong. Neither state was inherently better; they were just different.

5. The Illusion of Control Over Belief

Then I thought about belief. Could I choose to believe in anything? To disbelieve? To believe in some things and not others?

I realized that my old way of believing—treating ideas as proven truths—was gone. I couldn’t force myself to believe in something as if it were objectively real. But perhaps there was another kind of belief: a subjective trust in words, in meanings, even if I knew they weren’t "true" in an absolute sense.

For example, I could believe in the idea that I want something, even if I couldn’t prove that desire was rational or permanent. I could believe in the feeling of motivation, even if it was fleeting. This wasn’t about truth; it was about engagement—about letting myself interact with ideas without demanding they be perfect or eternal.

But even this felt optional. I didn’t have to believe or disbelieve. I didn’t have to think or not think. The absence of rules was freeing, but also disorienting. How should I live? The answer, it seemed, was that there was no answer—no single way to be. Any pattern I adopted would be a choice, not a discovery of truth.

6. The Freedom of No Pattern

In the end, I saw that the stress came from trying to predetermine how I should think or feel. The moment I stopped imposing rules—stopped demanding that I think this way or believe that—the tension dissolved.

Now, I’m in a state where nothing pulls me. I’m not drawn to think about my recordings, or pleasure, or meaning. But I’m also not forcing myself to avoid those thoughts. If they come, they come. If they don’t, that’s fine too.

This feels like a kind of freedom. Not the ecstatic kayf of before, but a quieter, more stable peace. No demands, no evaluations, no fear of being wrong. Just… being.

And if I start believing in something again? If I start thinking about pleasure or meaning or patterns? That’s okay too. There’s no need to resist it or cling to it. It’s all just part of the flow.

Final Observation

The core insight is this: There is no "right" way to think, believe, or live. Any pattern I adopt is a choice, not a discovery. The moment I try to fix myself into a way of being—whether it’s constant thought, constant pleasure, or constant detachment—I create tension. But if I let go of the need to predetermine, if I allow thoughts and beliefs to arise and pass without judgment, then there’s no conflict. There’s just experience, in all its shifting forms.

And that, perhaps, is the only "pattern" worth keeping: the absence of one.

A New State of Being: The Collapse of Patterns and the Birth of Flat Pleasure

1. The Beginning: Losing All Patterns

Yesterday, I recorded a reflection about a revelation: the idea of patterns—predefined ways I describe myself, my choices, and my actions. I realized that these patterns no longer exist. There is no longer a script for what I do or don’t do, what I think or don’t think. I am stripped of any preconceived framework.

After recording, I went about my day, worked, but felt nothing. No joy, no engagement—just emptiness. So I defaulted to the only thing that made sense: chasing the simplest pleasures—YouTube, junk food, mindless distractions. I fell asleep, and when I woke up today, everything had changed.

2. Waking Up Without Words

This morning, I didn’t remember yesterday’s thoughts. I didn’t revisit my own words. I simply woke up wanting. Desires flooded in—strong, immediate, and varied. I wanted sweets, entertainment, to play with my cat, even to write a book. But the urge to write felt just as shallow as the urge to eat candy.

I spent the entire day indulging these desires. And yet, no matter how much I consumed—whether food, videos, or games—I never felt satisfied. The pleasure was there, but it was flat.

3. The Nature of Flat Pleasure

This flat pleasure is strange. It’s intense in the moment, but it leaves no trace. It’s like looking at the Alps—beautiful, awe-inspiring, but the moment you turn away, it’s as if you never saw them. There’s no aftertaste, no lingering fulfillment. It’s pleasure that doesn’t stick.

I remembered feeling this way before—when I was a teenager obsessed with video games. Back then, games gave me deep satisfaction, but real-world beauty (like the Alps) felt hollow. Now, everything feels like that. All pleasure is flat, endless, and unsatisfying.

4. The Problem: Chasing What’s Gone

I spent the day trying to recapture the "old" pleasure—the kind that felt voluminous, the kind that left me fulfilled. But no matter what I did—eating, watching, playing—I only got the same flat high.

I realized: I was refusing to live in the present because I was clinging to the past. I kept comparing today’s flat pleasure to yesterday’s rich experiences, and that comparison made me miserable. The moment I stopped comparing, the moment I accepted that the old way is gone forever, everything shifted.

5. The Solution: Letting Go of the Past

I had to release the memory of how things used to be. The old patterns, the old beliefs, the old ways of deriving meaning—they’re not coming back. Once I stopped resisting, once I stopped trying to force depth where there is none, I found peace.

Now, I don’t care that the pleasure is flat. I don’t judge it. I don’t long for what was. I just live—following desires as they come, without expectation.

6. The Absence of Words

Something else changed: I no longer think in words. Before, my mind was full of self-descriptions—"I am someone who does X," "I believe Y," "I choose Z." Now, those words are gone. There’s no internal narrative. No labels. No patterns.

Without words, desires arise purely. They’re not filtered through some mental framework. They just are. And because they’re not tied to any story, they’re endless—always shifting, never fully satisfied.

7. The Energy of Awareness

I discovered that if I force myself to describe my experience in words—"I am watching this video," "I am eating this food," "I feel this way"—the pleasure gains depth. But it takes effort. And I have no motivation to make that effort because I no longer believe in words.

Words used to feel like truth. Now, they feel like arbitrary labels. Why should I trust them? Why should I use them to define my reality? The moment I stopped believing in words, the moment I stopped using them as a crutch, I entered this new state.

8. The Childlike State

This feels like being a child again—endless cravings, no self-control, no deeper meaning. But now, I understand it. Before, I’d binge on candy or games, always chasing a satisfaction that never came. Now, I see the pattern: the brain tricks you into thinking the next hit will be the one that fulfills you. But it never is.

The difference? Now, I’m aware of the trick. I don’t resist it. I don’t fight it. I just let it be.

9. The Final Acceptance

I don’t need to fix this. I don’t need to force depth. I don’t need to cling to old ways of being. This is my reality now: flat pleasure, endless desires, no words, no resistance.

And strangely, it’s freeing. There’s no pressure to be anything. No need to justify my choices. No need to seek meaning. I just exist—watching, eating, feeling, without the weight of the past or the illusion of the future.

10. What’s Next?

I don’t know where this leads. Maybe nowhere. Maybe everywhere. But for the first time, I’m not fighting it. I’m not trying to "fix" myself. I’m just here—alive, aware, and at peace with the flatness of it all.

And that’s enough.

Key Takeaways (In the Author’s Words)

"Flat pleasure" = Intense in the moment, but leaves no lasting fulfillment.

"No words" = No self-narrative, no patterns, no mental filters—just pure experience.

"Endless desires" = Cravings arise naturally, without attachment or satisfaction.

"Letting go of the past" = The only way to accept the present.

"No need to force depth" = The struggle to recapture old joy was the real suffering.

The Shift in States: A Retrospective of Desire, Awareness, and Acceptance

1. The Initial State: Unconscious Desire and Disappointment

For a long time, I woke up with desires—strong, unshakable cravings—that seemed to emerge from nowhere. I didn’t question where they came from; they simply were. I’d wake up already thinking about them, as if my mind had been chewing on them in my sleep. These desires were tied to a very specific kind of pleasure: a deep, volumetric satisfaction, the kind that left me feeling fulfilled in a way nothing else could. But here’s the catch: when I acted on these desires, the pleasure I actually experienced was flat, hollow. It never matched the intensity of what I expected. I’d chase it, again and again, only to be met with disappointment. The pleasure I craved was unattainable in the present, yet my mind kept reaching for it like a ghost limb.

In my previous recording, I talked about this cycle—how I was trapped in wanting something I couldn’t have, how the pursuit itself was exhausting. I concluded that I needed to stop thinking about that "ultimate pleasure" entirely. But even then, I didn’t fully grasp how to do it.

2. The First Awakening: Consciousness Without Desire

Then, the morning after that recording, something shifted. I woke up without those desires. Not because they were gone forever, but because I hadn’t yet thought about them. It was as if my mind was a blank slate. I realized: To feel those desires, I had to actively think about the pleasure I once craved. And in that moment, I chose not to think about it.

This was revelatory. Before, I’d assumed my desires were default—inevitable, like gravity. But now I saw the mechanism: Desire wasn’t automatic. It was a choice. A choice to recall past pleasures, to imagine their return, to crave what was no longer accessible. And if I didn’t make that choice? The desires didn’t arise.

But here’s the paradox: I still knew how to summon them. I could think about that old, volumetric pleasure—the way it used to fill me—and the desires would rush back. But why would I? I already knew the outcome: chasing it would only lead to flat, unsatisfying substitutes. The motivation to even want that pleasure was gone.

3. The Struggle to Return (And the Realization That I Didn’t Want To)

For two days, I tried to force the old state back. I thought, "Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I need those desires. Maybe life is empty without them." I tested every mental trick I could think of—trying to recreate the conditions, to slip back into that unconscious craving. Nothing worked.

And then, on the second evening, I noticed something: I didn’t actually want to go back.

The state I’d been mourning—the one with the relentless, future-oriented desires—wasn’t better. It was just familiar. In its absence, I’d spent two days doing whatever I felt like in the moment: watching Dota 2 tournaments, bingeing YouTube videos, eating ice cream and pastries. And here’s the shocking part: I enjoyed it. Not in the way I used to crave, but in a lighter, more immediate way. The pleasure was there, but it wasn’t burdened by expectation. I ate food and it tasted good. I watched a video and it was entertaining. No grand narrative, no unmet promises—just simple, present satisfaction.

I realized: This new state isn’t worse. It’s just different.

4. The Nature of the New State: Presence Without Projection

In this state:

Desires are short and self-contained. They don’t stretch into the future like they used to. Before, my wants were like arrows shot toward a distant target—always aiming for something more. Now, they’re more like sparks: brief, localized, and fulfilled in the moment. I want to watch a video? I watch it. I want to eat something tasty? I eat it. The satisfaction is immediate and exactly what I expected.

There’s no gap between expectation and reality. In the old state, I’d crave that "volumetric" pleasure, but reality could only offer me the flat version. Now, I crave only what reality can deliver—and so I’m never disappointed.

I don’t obsess over the "why." Before, I was fixated on understanding where my desires came from, as if solving that puzzle would fix everything. Now, I don’t care. The desires (or lack thereof) just are, and that’s enough.

Pleasure is noticed, not sought. It’s like walking down a street and seeing trees. You don’t try to see them; you just do. Similarly, I don’t aim for pleasure—I just notice it when it arrives. It’s a side effect, not a goal.

This state survived sleep. I went to bed in it and woke up the same way. That stability was new. Before, my mental states were fragile, shifting with my dreams. Now, there’s a quiet consistency.

5. The Turning Point: Embracing the Present

For two days, I resisted this state. I kept trying to "fix" it, to return to the old way of being. But on the second evening, I finally asked myself: What if this isn’t broken? What if this is just… life, unburdened?

I tested it intentionally. I did chores. I cooked myself a gourmet dinner—not because I was chasing a high, but because I wanted to. And the dinner was exactly as good as I’d hoped. No more, no less. The satisfaction was pure, untainted by the ghost of some greater pleasure I’d never attain.

I realized: This is healthier. My mind isn’t exhausted from constantly straining toward an impossible ideal. It’s not relaxed in a lazy sense—it’s efficient. It does what it needs to do, feels what it feels, and moves on.

6. The Future: A Willingness to Repeat

Now, I want to stay here. I want to repeat this experience—not because I’m escaping, but because it works. I’m willing to do the practical things (earn money, plan for the future, take care of my health) for the sake of this. Not for some abstract "happiness," but for the simple, reliable pleasure of a well-made meal, an engaging video, a task completed without mental friction.

The old state was a hamster wheel: desire → pursuit → disappointment → repeat. This new state is more like a river: flowing, present, carrying me along without the need to force it.

7. Final Observations: The Paradox of Awareness

There’s an irony here. The old state thrived on unawareness—on not questioning where the desires came from. The new state requires the opposite: I had to see the mechanism clearly to step outside of it. But now that I see it, I can’t unsee it. I can’t go back to unconscious craving, because I know it’s a trap.

Yet, this state isn’t cold or empty. It’s alive in a different way. The pleasures are smaller, but they’re real. They’re not promises; they’re deliveries.

And perhaps that’s enough.

Closing Thought

I don’t know if this state will last. Maybe I’ll wake up tomorrow and everything will be different again. But for now, I’m here—and for the first time in a long time, here feels like exactly where I’m supposed to be.

The Collapse of the Previous State

I used to exist in a state where my mind was fixated on receiving sensations—not abstract ones, but tangible, real experiences. For example, I would think about delicious food, and by imagining the pleasure it would bring, I would start wanting it. The act of thinking about obtaining something—whether it was taste, comfort, or any sensory reward—created a desire in me. This desire wasn’t just passive; it was a pull, a craving that felt urgent and real.

At first, this worked. I would think about pleasure, want it, and then—when I finally got what I craved—I’d feel a rush, a high from the fulfillment. But over time, this cycle started to fail. The satisfaction faded, and the cravings left me empty. My brain shifted: instead of chasing abstract pleasure, it latched onto concrete sensations—things I could actually obtain. This was better. No disappointment, just the pure, unadulterated joy of getting what I wanted.

But then, I realized the mechanism. One morning, I woke up and saw it clearly: I was the one creating the desire. The cravings weren’t natural; they were self-generated. I would think, "I want this," and only then did the wanting appear. Before, I believed desires just existed inside me, independent of my thoughts. But now, the illusion shattered.

When I tried to recreate the old cycle—thinking about pleasure to spark desire—it didn’t work. I saw the gears turning: "If I think about wanting something, I’ll want it." But why? What was the point? The motivation vanished. If I had to manufacture the desire, why bother? The high was gone. The magic was broken.

The Void: Everything as White Noise

For three days, I was stuck in a state of utter emptiness. I called it "white noise"—not just metaphorically, but literally. Every sensation, every observation, every thought felt like static. The world became a flickering screen of black-and-white pixels, meaningless and indistinguishable.

Sights? White noise.

Sounds? White noise.

Feelings? White noise.

I couldn’t think about anything. Not because I was depressed or numb, but because thinking itself had no anchor. Before, my mind was always occupied with getting something—pleasure, distraction, meaning. Now, there was nothing to grasp. The question "How do I live if everything is white noise?" looped endlessly.

I tried everything to escape:

Believing in words (e.g., "I just need to feel X")—useless.

Forcing thoughts—impossible.

Recalling past states—hollow.

Nothing worked. I was trapped in a loop of observing the problem without solving it.

The Breakthrough: Stopping the Struggle

Then, a realization hit me: I couldn’t change my state.

All my old methods—believing in certain ideas, tricking myself into feelings, analyzing my thoughts—were exhausted. The last tool I had was the ability to think about obtaining something, and even that was gone.

So I thought: What if I stop trying to change it?

First step: I stopped labeling everything as "white noise." I stopped describing my state.

Second step: I stopped trying to fix my state. If I couldn’t change it, why obsess over it?

At first, this was just resignation. But then, something unexpected happened.

The Return of Experience: The Film

Out of nowhere, I felt a random urge—not a manufactured desire, but a spontaneous one. I wanted to watch a cartoon. Not because I thought I should, but because I just did.

I sat down and watched it. And for the first time in days, I enjoyed something.

The colors felt vivid.

The emotions—sadness, joy, excitement—were real.

I wasn’t analyzing. I wasn’t trying to feel. I was just experiencing.

Afterward, I spent the evening watching YouTube, eating, playing with my cat. Everything felt light, effortless. I wasn’t chasing pleasure; I was just living, and it felt good.

The Core Insight: The Illusion of Thinking About "Real" Things

That night, I tried to understand what had changed. The answer was shocking:

When I think about my "state," I’m not thinking about my state.
I’m thinking about words—labels, descriptions, narratives.

If I say, "I feel empty," I’m not feeling emptiness. I’m repeating a phrase.

If I say, "I want to change," I’m not engaging with change. I’m manipulating language.

This was the same illusion as thinking about "myself." Before, I realized that when I think "I am X," I’m not observing my true self—I’m just playing with concepts. Now, I saw that all internal dialogue is this way:

Thinking about feelings? Just words.

Thinking about sensations? Just words.

Thinking about reality? Just words.

I cannot think about real things. I can only:

Observe them (feelings, sights, sounds).

Describe them (using words).

But describing isn’t the same as experiencing. Words are separate from the actual sensations.

The Default State: Pure Observation

Now, I wake up without thinking. Not in a meditative sense, but in a literal one:

I don’t think, "How do I feel?"

I don’t think, "What should I want?"

I don’t think, "How can I change this?"

I just observe.

If I eat, I taste.

If I watch a film, I see and hear.

If I pet my cat, I feel the fur.

No commentary. No analysis. Just raw experience.

The Two Modes of Being

Now, I have two ways of existing:

Passive Observation (Default Mode)

I see, hear, feel—but without attachment.

No emotions, no cravings, just neutral awareness.

Like watching life through a clear glass.

Active Immersion (Focus Mode)

I dive into an experience.

If I watch a film, I become part of it. The emotions flow naturally.

If I eat, I savor the taste fully.

This isn’t forced; it’s a shift—like stepping from a room into a pool.

The key? I don’t "try" to immerse. I just stop resisting the experience.

Why This Works

Before, I was stuck in a loop:

Observe my state (e.g., "I feel bad").

Describe it ("This is white noise").

Try to change the description ("I need to feel good").

Fail, because I was only changing words, not reality.

Now, I skip the description. I don’t label. I don’t judge. I just live, and the experience unfolds naturally.

The Paradox of Description

Ironically, I’m describing this now—but only because I’m recording it. Normally, I don’t describe anything. Why?

Describing is thinking in words.

Thinking in words is not experiencing.

Experiencing requires no words.

So most of the time, I don’t think. I just am.

Final Thoughts: The State I Can’t Describe

If I had to say how I feel now, I’d call it liberating. But here’s the catch:

I can’t believe my own description.

The moment I say "I feel good," I know it’s just words.

The real state is beyond words—it’s the direct experience.

So I won’t claim it’s "better" or "worse." I’ll just say:
This is how it is.

And for the first time, that’s enough.

End of Retelling

Key Takeaways (Structured Summary)

Concept

Old Mindset

New Realization

Desire

"I naturally want things."

"I manufacture desire by thinking about it."

State Change

"I can fix how I feel by thinking."

"Thinking about my state ≠ changing it."

Thinking About Self

"I’m analyzing my real feelings."

"I’m just playing with words, not reality."

Experience

"I need to feel a certain way."

"Feeling happens when I stop describing."

Default Mode

"I must always be doing/fixing something."

"I can just observe without judgment."

The Paradox of Living by Plans vs. Living by Desire

1. The Problem: Two Unlivable States

I noticed something strange about myself: I can’t live in two ways that seem fundamental to existence.

State 1: Living by a Plan
When I try to live by a plan—even a simple daily to-do list—my mental state deteriorates. It feels like I’m forcing myself into a rigid, joyless routine. The act of planning itself makes me feel like I’m doing work, not living. It’s as if I’m obeying some external authority, not my own will. The moment I write down tasks, I feel trapped, like I’m betraying my true desires.

State 2: Living in Hyperfocus
On the other hand, when I don’t plan at all, I sometimes slip into a state of hyperfocus—like when I watch a movie. In that state, I’m completely absorbed, unable to think about or do anything else. It’s a kind of prison too, because while it’s immersive, it’s also limiting. I can’t function normally in it. I can’t make choices, can’t switch tasks, can’t live a full life. I’m just… stuck in one thing.

Neither state works. Planning feels like a chore; hyperfocus is too narrow. So what’s left?

2. The Discovery: The Perfectionism Trap

I lay there for hours, trying to understand why I can’t just do what I want. Then it hit me: I don’t actually know how to want something simply.

Here’s what happens in my head:

I identify a desire (e.g., "I want to play Warcraft").

Instead of acting on it directly, my brain immediately starts calculating the "best" way to achieve it—not the fastest or simplest, but the "optimal" path.

"First, I need to earn money, so I should write a book."

"But writing a book takes time, so I need to plan it perfectly."

"I should also do chores so my parents don’t get mad and kick me out."

"I should check my health, build a career, save for emergencies…"

The "best" path becomes a nightmare: A year of doing things I don’t want to do (writing, chores, stressing) just to maybe get what I want later.

Problem: The thought of this year-long slog fills me with dread. It feels like a prison sentence. I’d rather not play Warcraft at all than endure that.

The core issue: My brain isn’t asking, "How can I get what I want?" It’s asking, "How can I get what I want in the most perfect, risk-free, future-proof way possible?"—and that’s paralyzing.

3. The Root Cause: Fear Disguised as "Optimization"

Why do I do this? Because I’m terrified.

The Origin: When I was 20, I lived with my parents and had to do things I hated (chores, obligations). I felt trapped, angry, and powerless. I blamed myself: "If I had planned better in the past, I wouldn’t be stuck now."

The Shift: I decided that to avoid ever feeling that way again, I had to control everything. I had to think ahead, optimize every choice, and ensure no future version of me would suffer.

The Result: Perfectionism as a survival strategy. Now, every desire triggers a frantic search for the "best" path—not because I care about excellence, but because I’m trying to outrun my own fear of failure, dependence, or pain.

The irony: This "optimization" doesn’t make me happy. It just makes me miserable now in the name of avoiding misery later.

4. The Breakthrough: The Shortest Path is the Only Path

Then I realized: What if I just… took the shortest path?

Instead of:

"How can I play Warcraft in the most perfect, secure, future-proof way?"
I asked:

"What’s the fastest way to play Warcraft right now?"

The answer:

Get any job (not the "best" one).

Move out of my parents’ house (even to a cheap place).

Buy a computer and play.

Why this works:

No perfectionism: I’m not waiting for ideal conditions. I’m acting now.

No self-betrayal: Every step is something I want to do (or at least, don’t hate).

No stress: I’m not trying to control the future. I’m just moving toward what I want, one simple step at a time.

The revelation: The "best" path is a lie. It’s not about what’s truly best for me—it’s about what my fearful, traumatized past-self thinks is best to avoid pain. But that pain isn’t even real anymore. I’m free to choose differently.

5. The New Rule: "No" Unless I Mean "Yes"

Now, when someone asks me to do something (even my parents):

I check in with myself: Do I actually want to do this? If not, I say no—immediately.

I accept the consequences: If they get angry, that’s their problem. If they threaten me, then I can decide if I want to comply (e.g., if they say, "Do this or we’ll kick you out," I might say yes—but only because now I have a real reason, not out of fear or obligation).

I refuse to "optimize" my life for others: If my mom would prefer I cook a fancy meal, but I just want to fry chicken simply, I fry chicken simply. Her preferences aren’t my problem.

Key insight: Fear of saying "no" is fear of death. It’s the fear that rejecting a request will lead to abandonment, poverty, or suffering. But if I’m not afraid of those things, "no" becomes effortless.

6. The Big Picture: Perfectionism is a Disease

Perfectionism isn’t about excellence. It’s about control. It’s a desperate attempt to guarantee that life will never hurt me again. But life can’t be controlled that way. Trying to do so is like trying to outrun your own shadow.

The cure:

Stop believing in "shoulds": There’s no cosmic law that says I must optimize my life. That’s just a story I tell myself to feel safe.

Embrace the shortest path: If I want something, I go for it directly. No detours, no "just in cases."

Accept uncertainty: Maybe I’ll fail. Maybe I’ll suffer. But I’d rather live authentically and risk suffering than live in a cage of my own making.

7. The New Way of Living

Now, my life operates on two principles:

Do what I want—not what’s "best," not what’s "optimal," not what others expect.

Say "no" to everything else—unless someone gives me a real reason to say yes (e.g., a genuine threat or incentive).

Result:

No stress: I’m not constantly calculating the future.

No resentment: I’m not doing things I hate out of obligation.

Freedom: For the first time, I feel like I’m actually choosing my life, not just reacting to fear.

Final thought: Maybe I’ll die younger. Maybe I’ll be poorer. But I’d rather live a short, authentic life than a long, miserable one spent chasing ghosts.

Closing

This isn’t about laziness or recklessness. It’s about honesty. For years, I lied to myself, pretending that my perfectionism was rationality, that my fear was wisdom. Now, I see the truth: The only thing worth optimizing is my own happiness in this moment. Everything else is just noise.

1. The Illusion of the "Guide" and Its Consequences

I noticed something troubling after my last recording: my left eye began to ache. This is a familiar psychosomatic signal for me—it usually means I’m fixating on some kind of guide, a rigid set of rules for how to live. In my previous recording, I had shared an observation with others, almost like a life manual: "If you do what you want without overthinking what’s ‘better,’ everything will be fine." But I also saw the opposite: if you constantly obsess over what’s "better" and only act accordingly, your life becomes miserable.

At first, this seemed like an obvious truth, a clear guide: "Just do what you want, and don’t worry about what’s better." I even started following it myself, believing it would work. But then my eye began to hurt again. I realized that even in the most seemingly logical situations—where one path leads to happiness and the other to suffering—no true guide can emerge. Just because one way feels better doesn’t mean it’s the right way to live. No observation, no matter how clear, can dictate how we should exist.

The moment I understood this—that no guide is inherent in any experience—my mind shifted. I stopped obsessing over how to live "correctly." And the pain in my eye disappeared.

2. The Trap of "What’s Better" and the Freedom of Desire

I saw two key things:

When I think about what I want, I immediately start questioning what’s better. My mind twists desire into optimization.

When I ignore "what’s better" and just do what I genuinely want, I feel alive, motivated, and at peace. But when I fixate on "what’s better," I lose all drive and end up doing nothing.

This isn’t about creating a new rule ("Always do what you want!"). It’s about not needing any rule at all. I don’t have to justify my actions with logic or morality. I can simply act from desire—or not—without explanation.

I used to think I should help others, write guides, change the world, or study the brain because it was the "better" thing to do. But when I asked myself, "Do I actually want this?" the answer was no. I never truly wanted those things—I only wanted them because they seemed better. Once I admitted that, the compulsion vanished. My state improved immediately.

Now, I only do what I want—not what’s "better," not what’s "expected," not what’s "useful." And paradoxically, when I stopped forcing myself to act from obligation, I started wanting to do things again. For example, I didn’t want to record this very update at first because I was stuck in the "better" mindset ("People need this correction!"). But when I let go of that, I realized: I do want to record this. And so I did—freely, without pressure.

3. The Fear of Letting Go of "Better"

Some things are harder to release than others. For me, the idea of writing guides, recording insights, or "saving humanity" felt impossible to abandon—even when I didn’t truly want them. Why? Because I was afraid.

Afraid of not doing what’s better.

Afraid others would suffer if I didn’t share my thoughts.

Afraid the world wouldn’t improve if I didn’t act.

But the key wasn’t to force myself to stop. It was to see that I didn’t actually want these things. Once I recognized that, the fear dissolved. I didn’t have to reject the idea of helping others forever—I just had to admit: "Right now, I don’t want this." And that was enough.

Now, if I ever do want to write a book or give advice, I’ll know it’s genuine—not just another "should."

4. The Irrelevance of Belief

Sometimes I question: "Do I really want this? Or is it just another illusion?" But I’ve realized: it doesn’t matter.

There’s no "true self" behind my desires.

There’s no ultimate meaning to verify them.

"I want" is just a useful phrase for something I feel—not a metaphysical truth.

If I start overanalyzing ("Is this my real desire? Who is the ‘I’ that wants?"), I paralyze myself. So I don’t. I act on what feels like desire, regardless of whether it’s "real" or "justified." What works is what matters.

Final Summary: The Three Realizations

No guide is valid. No observation—no matter how clear—can dictate how to live. The idea that "doing what you want leads to happiness" is not a rule; it’s just an observation. And even that doesn’t mean you should follow it.

I don’t want "what’s better." I only want what I actually want—not what’s optimal, moral, or useful. When I accept this, I stop forcing myself and start acting freely.

Belief is unnecessary. I don’t need to prove my desires or fear they’re "fake." I just act on what feels right in the moment.

Now, I live without guides, without "shoulds," and without the burden of "better." And for the first time, I feel truly free.

The Realization: Losing and Rediscovering Desire

I started recording this update because I realized something profound. After my last entry, I stopped thinking about what was better—what I should want—and instead focused only on what I actually wanted. Or rather, I tried to focus on it. But at some point, I lost my desires entirely. I couldn’t find a single thing I wanted to do.

I’d ask myself: What do I want right now? The usual answers came to mind—eat, go for a walk, read a book, think about the future, work, socialize, play games, watch a movie—but none of them felt compelling. I’d list them out, and nothing resonated. Why have all my desires disappeared? I couldn’t feel any of them. Nothing interested me. I tried to force myself to want something—anything—but nothing worked. All my attempts to manufacture desire failed.

Then, after lying there for hours, overthinking, I stopped trying to want the things I used to want. I stopped trying to want the things that were logical to want, or beneficial to want, or socially approved to want. I stopped digging through my memory for past desires. And in that moment, I realized: the only thing I actually wanted was to play video games.

It was strange. Nothing else—nothing—sparked even a fraction of the pull that games did. Games were the only thing that could make me get up, move, act. Everything else felt hollow. At first, I resisted this. It can’t be true. There must be other things I like. But no. I searched and searched, and the only thing that genuinely excited me was gaming.

The Hierarchy of Desires

I began mapping out my desires in order of priority:

Video games – The only thing that truly motivates me. The only thing I actually want.

Passive entertainment – YouTube, streams, movies, TV shows. Only after I’ve gamed enough.

Basic needs – Food (just fuel for more gaming), sleep, minimal social interaction.

Everything else – Travel, nature, relationships, family, career, self-improvement, helping others… all of it ranked far below.

I tested this hierarchy. When I played games for hours, I eventually got tired and switched to YouTube. When I was done with that, I’d eat—not because I wanted to, but because I needed energy to game again. My brain only cared about the top priority. The rest only mattered when the first was unavailable.

The Life I Want: Minimalism for Gaming

I started designing my life around this realization. What do I need to play games indefinitely?

Shelter – A roof over my head.

Food – Enough to keep me functional.

Minimal income – Just enough to cover basics.

Freedom – No obligations that interfere with gaming.

The simplest solution? Become a housekeeper for my parents. Clean the house, earn pocket money, live rent-free, and game the rest of the time. No stress, no complex responsibilities. Just a straightforward exchange: labor for gaming time.

I considered other options:

Programming – More money, but more stress, more thinking, more obligations.

Writing a book – Potential passive income, but requires effort, planning, and delayed gratification.

But why complicate things? Why chase money I don’t need? Why force myself into a career when I already have a way to sustain my only real desire? The path of least resistance won.

The Fear of "Better" Choices

At first, I hesitated. What if this is a mistake? What if I regret not pursuing programming, not writing the book, not building a "real" life? The fear was paralyzing. But then I realized: the stress only appeared when I doubted my desire. When I fully accepted that gaming was all I wanted, the fear vanished.

I tested it. I installed my favorite games and played for hours. It felt right. No guilt, no second-guessing. Just pure enjoyment. And when I stopped, I naturally moved to the next thing (YouTube, food, sleep) without force.

The Animal Brain

I think my brain is operating on a primal level. It doesn’t care about culture, society, or "higher purposes." It only cares about immediate, effortless dopamine. Video games provide that perfectly:

Progress – Leveling up, winning, achieving.

Control – I’m the hero, the king, the alpha.

Ease – No real-world consequences, no complex social navigation.

In real life, none of these feelings are as intense or as accessible. My brain, stripped of cultural conditioning, defaults to the simplest, most rewarding stimulus. And right now, that’s gaming.

The Absence of Negative Emotions

What’s fascinating is that in this state, I feel no negative emotions. No shame, no anxiety, no insecurity. Earlier in life, I believed in my desires—I believed I should want relationships, success, meaning. When those things were denied, I’d get angry or frustrated. But now? If someone stops me from gaming, I don’t rage. I just… move to the next available desire.

I’ve returned to a childlike state, but without the suffering. I’m not fighting my nature anymore.

The Future: Writing a Book?

Ironically, after accepting this, I felt a new desire emerge: writing a book. Not for money, not for fame, but because the process itself now appeals to me. It’s like gaming—something I want to do, not something I should do.

I realize that desires shift. Today, it’s gaming. Tomorrow, it might be writing. Next week, something else. The key is to stop resisting and just follow what feels right in the moment.

The Ultimate Conclusion

I’ve stopped asking what’s better and started asking what do I want? And when I do that, life becomes simple. No stress, no regret. Just pure, unfiltered experience.

If everyone lived like this, civilization might collapse. But that’s not my problem. My only responsibility is to my own happiness—and right now, that means gaming, writing when I feel like it, and ignoring everything else.

The moment I try to force a "better" choice, stress returns. So I won’t. I’ll keep following my desires, wherever they lead.

And for now? That’s the computer screen.

Key Takeaways (Structured Summary)

Theme

Author’s Realization

Desire

Only video games truly motivate me; everything else is secondary.

Life Design

Minimal effort for maximal gaming time (e.g., housekeeping for parents).

Fear & Acceptance

Stress comes from doubting my desires; peace comes from embracing them.

Brain Mechanics

My brain seeks the easiest, most rewarding stimulus—like an animal.

Emotional State

No negative emotions when I stop resisting my nature.

Future Desires

Writing a book now appeals to me, but only because I want to, not because I should.

Philosophy

"Better" is irrelevant. Only "what I want" matters.

Final Thought:
"I don’t choose my desires. I just follow them. And for the first time, I’m at peace."

Reflections on State, Desire, and Self-Observation

1. The Initial Shift: Writing a Book vs. Playing Games

I recorded an update where I described a strange shift in my priorities. At the time, I felt an overwhelming desire to write a book—stronger even than my usual urge to play games. I didn’t fully understand why, but I went with it. After finishing the recording, I did exactly what I wanted: I started writing. Everything was going well—until my eye began to hurt.

2. The Psychosomatic Pain: A Signal of Misalignment

The pain in my eye was classic psychosomatic for me. It bothered me enough that I decided to dig deeper. I realized the pain was linked to my obsession with my previous recording. I had described my state in that recording—how I felt, how I got there—and afterward, I kept comparing my current state to that description. My brain was using it as a guide, a set of instructions for how I should feel. Every time I checked my current state against that past description, my eye ached. My mind was rejecting this constant self-monitoring.

3. The Collapse of Desire

Then I noticed something else: my desire to write the book wasn’t organic. It was tied to the words I had spoken in the recording. I was thinking about those words, using them as a kind of manual, and that thinking created the desire. When I stopped fixating on the recording, the desire vanished. And with it, everything vanished.

I found myself in a strange, empty state—one where nothing motivated me. Nothing felt appealing. I was stuck in this void for nearly a full day, unable to escape. It wasn’t just boredom; it was deeper, like a complete absence of preference or direction.

4. The Root Error: Thinking About My State

I eventually realized my mistake. By making the recording, I had created a mental "guide" for how I should feel. This led to two problems:

First error: I started using my own words as a benchmark, constantly comparing my present self to that past state.

Second error: To fix the eye pain (a symptom of the first error), I had to think about my state, analyze it, and try to change it. But thinking about my state itself became the problem.

The more I focused on my state—the more I tried to "fix" it—the worse it got. The act of observing and trying to alter my state kept me trapped in dissatisfaction.

5. The Solution: Stop Observing, Stop Fixing

The breakthrough came when I remembered my earlier insight: The best state is one where I don’t think about my state at all. I had to:

Stop using past descriptions as guides (which caused the eye pain).

Stop thinking about my current state (which kept me stuck in the void).

Stop trying to change my state (which reinforced the problem).

Only then did I return to a state similar to the one I had described before—one where I wasn’t constantly self-monitoring.

6. The Nature of Desire in This State

Now, my relationship with desire is different:

Before: I wanted to write a book (a desire created by fixating on my past words).

Now: I don’t want to write a book, but I’m not against it. There’s no burning passion, just a neutral openness.

Some things still interest me (like recording these updates), while others (like eating) feel like necessary steps rather than genuine desires. It’s not that I dislike them—I just don’t care about them in the same way.

7. The Danger of Self-Description

Recording these updates forces me to describe my state, which means I have to observe it. But observation risks becoming obsession. If I start believing in my own descriptions—or worse, using them as rules—I’ll fall back into the same trap.

The key is to observe without attachment. Describe what I see, but don’t let the description dictate how I should feel.

8. The Only True Change: Subtraction, Not Addition

I’ve learned that changing my state isn’t about adding new beliefs or desires. It’s about removing what’s already there:

Removing fixations on past words.

Removing the habit of self-assessment.

Removing the urge to "fix" my state.

When I subtract these, I’m left with a neutral state—not empty, but free. The mistake would be to then try to fill it with new rules or desires. The only way forward is to stop interfering entirely.

9. The Experiment Continues

This state is still new. I don’t yet know how it will evolve—what desires (if any) will emerge naturally, what will feel meaningful without force. But for now, the lesson is clear:

Avoid self-guides. Past descriptions are not instructions.

Avoid self-observation. Thinking about my state distorts it.

Trust subtraction. The best changes come from letting go, not from adding more.

I’ll keep testing, keep observing—without obsessing.

Final Note: The Paradox of Recording This

Even now, as I describe this, I risk falling back into the trap. The act of writing this forces me to think about my state. But the difference is awareness: I know I’m doing it, and I won’t let the description become a cage.

The goal isn’t to reach a "perfect" state. It’s to live without the weight of constant self-judgment—to let experience unfold without a script.

The State of Mind: A Discovery

1. The Initial Realization

Last night, I managed to reach a state of mind that felt almost identical to the one I’d experienced recently—a good state, but not quite perfect. I went to sleep, and when I woke up today, I realized that while yesterday’s state was close to the ideal, something was still missing. The problem? A lack of desire—not a complete absence, but a distortion. Some things I should want were gone, and everything felt… off.

I spent the entire morning agonizing over it, trying to pinpoint what was missing, why things felt wrong. I racked my brain but came up empty—until, eventually, I thought of something. At first, I wondered if that something was the key. I decided to test it by going to eat breakfast. I told myself: "Maybe I don’t want to write, don’t want to play games, but at least I want to eat, right?" So I went. And almost immediately, I realized: I didn’t even want that. The hunger was an illusion. I had convinced myself I wanted breakfast only because it seemed different from the other things I didn’t want. But in reality? I wanted nothing at all.

2. The Unexpected Shift

After breakfast, something external pulled my attention away from myself—a situation involving other people. I had to focus on their problem, not mine. And in that moment of distraction, something remarkable happened: I snapped back into the good state. Suddenly, I wanted things again. I wanted to play games. I wanted to write my book. The desires returned, strong and clear, just like they had in that recent, perfect state.

I lay there, analyzing what had changed. I watched my mind closely and noticed a pattern:

When I did something, the good state vanished. I reverted to the empty, strange state I’d woken up in.

When I stopped doing that something, the good state returned.

At first, I struggled to articulate what that something was. The moment I tried to explain it, the state slipped away again. It was as if the act of describing it destroyed it.

3. The Core Insight: Thinking About Descriptions

After hours of toggling between states—losing it when I tried to define it, regaining it when I stopped—I finally saw the mechanism. The problem wasn’t just that I was thinking. It was how I was thinking.

Here’s the revelation:

Normally, when I see a beautiful sunset, I don’t just see it. I also think about the description of it—as if the words "beautiful sunset" are the sunset itself.

The same happens with my own state. I think about the description of my mind—as if the words "I feel good" are the feeling itself.

But descriptions are not reality. The word "sun" is not the sun. The phrase "I’m motivated" is not motivation. Yet my brain treats them as equivalent.

In the good state, I stop doing this. I don’t think about descriptions as if they are the things they describe. I just… observe. The words I speak or hear are tools, not anchors. I don’t cling to them. I don’t confuse them with experience.

4. The Mistake: Trying to Guide Myself (and Others) with Words

This morning, I made a critical error. I tried to create a guide—a set of words that, if I thought about them just right, would return me to the good state. I also wanted to share this with others, to give them a formula. But every time I formulated these words, I fell back into the bad state. Why?

Because the moment I think about the words as if they are the solution, I lose the state. The words become the focus, not the reality they point to. I start believing that saying "I want to write" is the same as actually wanting to write. But it’s not. The words are empty if I treat them as the thing itself.

5. The Solution: Not Thinking About Thinking

The good state isn’t about having the right thoughts. It’s about not confusing descriptions with reality. It’s about:

Seeing a sunset without mentally labeling it.

Feeling motivation without narrating "I feel motivated."

Letting words be words—tools for communication, not substitutes for experience.

When I stop treating my internal descriptions as real, the state returns. The desires come back. The emptiness vanishes.

6. The Paradox of Sharing This

Here’s the irony: The act of explaining this risks destroying it. Because to explain, I have to use words—and if I (or anyone else) start thinking about those words as the truth, the state collapses. But perhaps the key is to recognize that words are just pointers. They’re not the experience itself.

So if I had to say one thing to others, it would be this:
Stop thinking about the descriptions. Stop treating your internal narrative as if it’s real. Just observe—and the right state will follow.

7. The State Now

Right now, I feel fantastic. The desires are back. The motivation is here. Not because I told myself to feel this way, but because I stopped confusing the map for the territory. I’m not clinging to any words, any labels. I’m just… here.

I’ll keep testing this. But for now? It works.

Key Takeaways (In the Author’s Words)

"I don’t think about the description of a sunset as the sunset." → Reality exists beyond labels.

"The moment I start thinking about words as if they are what they describe, I lose the state." → Language is a tool, not the truth.

"The good state isn’t about having the right thoughts—it’s about not confusing thoughts with reality." → Observation > narration.

"If you want to help others, you can only tell them what not to do: Don’t think about the descriptions." → The rest must be felt, not explained.

The Core Revelation: Words Are Not What They Describe

1. The Breakthrough and Its Impact

I have made a profound discovery—one that feels like the root of all my problems. The state I now inhabit is the most significant I’ve ever experienced. Everything before this moment was merely a stepping stone leading to this realization.

I tested this new state, and it is, without exaggeration, the best I’ve ever known. It survived the night, grew stronger in the morning, and has remained unchanged for nearly two days. I worked for seven hours straight without fatigue, slept, and woke up with the same clarity—no, better clarity. I am motivated, joyful, and free from resistance. If I want to work, I work. If I want to rest, I rest. Everything feels effortless, natural, and healthy.

This state is eerily familiar—like something I’ve lived in before, but now without the flaws. Before, there were lingering thoughts, emotions, doubts. Now? Nothing. Only pure, untainted presence. No negativity, no distractions. Just clarity.

2. The Problem with Words: The Illusion of Meaning

The Trap of Belief
For 28 years, I believed words were the things they described. I treated them as if they held intrinsic power—as if the word "sun" was the sun, the word "pain" was pain. This belief made words sacred, terrifying, and inescapable. I obsessed over them, structured my life around them, and suffered because of them.

But now I see: words are not what they describe. They are merely symbols, empty vessels. The moment I realized this, my entire relationship with language shattered.

The Birth of Disgust
Now, when I hear words—any words—I feel revulsion. Not toward what they represent, but toward the words themselves. It’s as if I’ve been betrayed. For 28 years, I trusted words. I let them dictate my emotions, my fears, my joys. And now I see they were never what I thought they were.

It’s like discovering a loved one has lied to you your whole life. The anger isn’t just at the lie—it’s at the years wasted believing it.

The Paradox of Hate
I hate words, yet I don’t believe in that hate. I feel it, but I also see it as meaningless—because hate, too, is just another word, another empty description. The hate is a reaction to the illusion, not the truth.

3. The Mechanism: How Words Create Suffering

The Double Bind of Description

I observe the sun. I can describe it.

But my description of the sun is not the sun.

Now, I can also observe the description itself—the words in my mind.

And I can describe that observation: "Words are meaningless symbols."

But this new description is also not what it describes.

This is an infinite regress. No description is the thing itself. The moment I mistake a description for reality, I create suffering.

Emotions as Word-Based Illusions
All emotions—fear, anger, joy—are reactions to descriptions, not reality. If I describe an event as "terrible," and believe that description is the event, I will feel terror. But the event itself is neutral. Only my belief in the words creates the emotion.

Humanity suffers because we confuse words with truth. We think our descriptions are reality. But they’re not. They’re just… noise.

4. The Solution: How to Escape the Trap

Step 1: Observe the Illusion
I notice when I’m treating words as reality. For example:

I think, "This old recording is important" → I start obsessing over it.

I realize: "No, the recording is just words. The words are not the experience."

The obsession vanishes.

Step 2: Stop Validating Descriptions

If I describe my state as "good," and then believe that description defines me, I create attachment.

Instead, I observe the description ("good") and see it as separate from the experience.

The description dissolves. Only the experience remains.

Step 3: Work Without Fixation
When I write or speak, I no longer fixate on the words. I use them as tools, not truths. If I start analyzing them ("Is this word accurate? Is this phrase good?"), I fall back into the trap. So I don’t. I just use them.

Result: Freedom

No more stress over "perfection."

No more fear of judgment.

No more attachment to old ideas, recordings, or identities.

Just action, pure and unburdened.

5. The Three Pillars of the New State

Do Not Confuse Words with Reality

Never treat a description as the thing itself.

Example: If I say "I am happy," I don’t cling to "happy" as my identity. It’s just a word.

Reject "Better" – Embrace "What I Want"

"Better" is a word-game. It implies judgment, comparison, stress.

Instead, I ask: "What do I want?" and do that.

Example: Writing a book how I want, not how others might deem "better."

Never Reference Past Words as Guides

My old recordings, notes, or "wisdom" are just words.

If I treat them as rules, I re-enter the trap.

Example: I don’t revisit old audio logs to "check" my state. I just live.

6. The Ripple Effect: How This Changes Everything

Emotions Dissolve

Without belief in words, emotions lose their power.

Fear? Just a word.

Anger? Just a word.

The experience remains, but the suffering vanishes.

Work Becomes Effortless

I no longer resist tasks because I’m not judging them.

Example: Transcribing audio for 7 hours felt like nothing because I wasn’t fixating on "Am I doing this right?"

Relationships Simplify

I don’t need to explain, justify, or analyze.

If someone asks about my book, I don’t stress over "Is my answer good enough?"

I either share or don’t. No attachment.

7. The Final Realization: The Chain of Awakening

Each recording I made was a step toward this understanding. But here’s the paradox:

The last recording is the most important—because it contains the breakthrough.

But the breakthrough couldn’t exist without all the prior steps.

So which recording is "the key"? None and all.

This isn’t a linear process. It’s a spiral:

I observe a problem (e.g., stress over words).

I describe it.

I realize the description isn’t the problem.

I observe that realization.

Repeat until freedom.

8. The Challenge: Can This Be Taught?

Probably not. Because to understand this, a person would have to:

See how they confuse words with reality.

Stop believing in their own descriptions.

Repeat until the habit breaks.

But most people are deeply attached to their words. They want their descriptions to be real. They need their fears and joys to feel solid.

This isn’t knowledge to be taught—it’s an unlearning to be experienced.

9. The Current State: Living Without the Illusion

No emotional turbulence. What others call "problems" are just words to me.

No resistance to work. I act when I want to, rest when I want to.

No attachment to outcomes. Words like "success" or "failure" don’t stick.

No need to explain. I don’t justify my actions because I don’t believe in the words that would judge them.

The only "rule" now:
Do not mistake the map for the territory.

10. The Open Question: What’s Next?

I don’t know. And for the first time, that’s fine.

Before, "not knowing" was a word that triggered fear.
Now, it’s just a word.

Closing Thought

This isn’t enlightenment. It’s not a grand philosophy. It’s just seeing clearly—finally—after 28 years of confusion.

And the clarity is this:
Words are not what they describe.
Belief in words creates suffering.
Freedom is the space between the word and the thing.

The Problem: Hatred and Disgust Toward Words

I’ve been suffering from a deep, almost visceral hatred and disgust toward words. It’s not something I could ignore—it was a persistent, unsettling symptom. At first, I thought it might be connected to what I’d explained in my previous recording, but even after addressing that, the feeling didn’t disappear. I realized: This isn’t normal. I shouldn’t be experiencing this.

So I decided to dig deeper. I needed to understand why I felt this way. And, surprisingly, I think I found the root of it—because now, in this moment, I feel nothing toward words. No hatred, no disgust. Just neutrality. Words are… something I don’t even have a definition for. They’re just there, and I don’t know what they are beyond that. And that’s okay.

The Core Issue: Believing Words Were an "Indescribable Thing"

The problem was this: I believed that words were an "indescribable thing."

Let me break it down.

First-Level Observation: When I look at the sun, that’s a first-level observation—I’m directly perceiving the sun.

First-Level Description: When I say, "I see the sun," that’s a first-level description—I’m putting my observation into words.

Second-Level Observation: But then there’s a second-level observation—when I look at words themselves, not what they describe. I was observing words as if they were their own separate, mysterious entities.

Second-Level Description: And when I described that observation, I concluded: "Words are an indescribable thing."

I believed this. I saw it as a truth. And if you realize that your entire life has been shaped by—even ruined by—something you now perceive as an "indescribable thing," of course that’s going to provoke strong emotions. Not just neutral curiosity, but hatred, disgust. Because it’s not just an unknown—it’s an unknown that you’ve given power to.

The Mistake: Trusting the Observation of Words

Here’s the critical error: I treated my observation of words as if it were an undeniable fact.

I thought:

"If words aren’t the things they describe, then what are they?"

"I see something when I look at words—something indefinable. Therefore, words must be an indescribable thing."

But this is a perception error. Just because I feel like words are indescribable doesn’t mean they are. My observation wasn’t proof—it was just an observation, and observations can be flawed.

Once I recognized this, the emotional charge vanished. I can’t believe in my own observation of words as an absolute truth. And if I don’t believe it, I can’t feel hatred or disgust toward it.

Why Did This Happen Now?

I have a theory.

Earlier today, I had a thought: "My last recording—my latest realization about words—overrides everything before it. It replaces all my past conclusions."

And in a way, I believed that. Not consciously, but the idea took hold. It made me dismiss all my previous work—the ideas that I can’t trust any observations or words, that I have to question everything. I mentally discarded those principles.

And the moment I did that, the old problem resurfaced. Because when I abandon my own rules, I leave myself vulnerable to the same mistakes.

This is a pattern for me: whenever I "throw something out" of my mind, assuming it’s no longer relevant, it backfires. Nothing is extra. Everything has its place.

The Resolution: Words Are Just… Words

So where does that leave me?

Words are not an "indescribable thing."

I don’t know what words are—and that’s the only honest statement I can make.

The moment I try to define them beyond that, I risk falling into the same trap.

Neutrality is the answer. Words exist. I use them. I don’t need to feel anything about them—positive or negative. They’re tools, not mysteries.

Current State: Stability and Freedom

Right now, I feel stable. The discomfort I had this morning—the aversion to words, the urge to avoid meaning—is gone.

I can work with text effortlessly.

I can answer questions about my book without resistance.

I can think about words, hear them, write them—without flinching.

Yesterday, when this realization first hit, my eye even hurt from the strain of it. Now? No pain. Just clarity.

For the last few hours, I was avoiding the meaning of words, trying to distance myself from them mentally. But now, that’s no longer necessary. The problem wasn’t the words. It was the belief I’d attached to them.

Final Thought: Observation Continues

This isn’t the end—it’s just another data point. I’ll keep watching, keep noting how this evolves.

But for now? All signs point to progress.

A Shift in Belief: The Collapse of a Foundation

1. The Belief That Shaped My Reality

I used to believe something with absolute certainty: words are not what they describe. I didn’t just accept this as an idea—I saw it, felt its truth, and trusted it as if it were proven. This belief became my shield. Because I trusted it, I no longer looked at words as if they were the things they named. I no longer treated the word "sun" as the sun itself, the word "pain" as pain itself. This detachment made my state of mind excellent—for two reasons:

First, I wasn’t trapped in the illusion that words were reality.

Second, the act of believing itself improved my state. Belief, as I’ve said many times, has a way of making things better. Believing in anything lifts you.

But then something shifted.

2. The Trap of Second-Level Words

My belief in "words are not what they describe" was itself a belief in words about words—a second-level observation. And because I trusted this, I also became susceptible to another set of words about words: that words are meaningless nonsense, that they distort rather than describe. This new belief bred disgust. Not toward the world, not toward my feelings, but toward words themselves.

The problem wasn’t the world. The problem was that I had started to hate the descriptions.

I realized: my initial belief ("words are not what they describe") had been a crutch. It gave me a "reliable reason" to ignore words, to not treat them as reality. But now, that belief is gone. I no longer know whether words are or aren’t what they describe. I don’t believe they are, and I don’t believe they aren’t. I simply don’t know.

And without that belief, I’ve lost my reason not to treat words as reality.

3. The Return of the Problem

Now, I’m back to seeing words as if they are what they describe. And this makes my state worse—because when I look at the world through words, it appears meaningless. Not just partially meaningless, but absolutely so. Nothing matters. There’s no weight, no purpose, no motivation. The descriptions I generate—of the world, of my life, of my feelings—are bleak. They don’t inspire; they drain.

But here’s the paradox: I also see that I don’t have to look at the world this way.

4. Two Worlds at Once

Now, I live in two worlds simultaneously:

The Word-World: Where descriptions are reality. Where the world, as described by words, is hollow, absurd, and demotivating. A world in which I don’t want to live.

The Direct World: Where I experience reality without treating words as reality. Where the world is vibrant, worth engaging with, full of things I want to do.

It’s as if my right eye sees one world and my left eye sees another. Both are real to me. I can’t dismiss either.

The Word-World is depressing. The Direct World is alive. And I oscillate between them.

5. The Loss of a Crutch (and the Gain of Freedom)

Before, my good state depended on belief: "Words are not what they describe." That belief was my protection. It gave me a reason not to treat words as reality. But now, the belief is gone. I have no reason left.

Yet—here’s the surprise—I don’t need one.

I find that I can still choose not to treat words as reality. Not because of a belief, but because I can. The absence of belief hasn’t paralyzed me. It’s freed me.

Before, I was compelled by belief. Now, I’m uncompelled—and that’s lighter.

6. Motivation Without Attachment

My motivation hasn’t vanished, but it’s changed. Before, it was urgent, almost desperate: I must write the book, I must create, I must live! Now, it’s quieter. I still feel the pull to act, but I’m not gripped by it.

If I think about the Word-World, I don’t want to get out of bed. Why would I? In that world, nothing matters.

If I don’t think about the Word-World, I do want to get up. I want to live, to write, to engage.

The difference isn’t in the world. It’s in where I place my attention.

7. The New Calm

The most striking change is the calm. Before, my state was propped up by belief, by the need to avoid treating words as reality. Now, I don’t need to avoid it—I simply don’t. And that’s liberating.

I’m no longer haunted by the obligation to see the world a certain way.

I’m no longer driven by the fear of slipping into meaninglessness.

I can breathe. I can drink tea. I can notice the air, the light, the texture of existence—without the filter of having to interpret it all.

Before, I was laser-focused on my goals (the book, the work), but now I see more. The world isn’t narrower; it’s richer. I’m not less motivated—I’m less obsessed.

8. The Core Insight

The fundamental problem isn’t the world. It’s not even how I think about the world. It’s how I think about words—specifically, when I treat them as if they are what they describe.

When I think about myself through words (e.g., "I am a writer," "I must succeed"), I’m not thinking about myself—I’m thinking about a description.

When I think about reality through words, I’m not engaging with reality—I’m engaging with a map, and mistaking it for the territory.

This was always the trap. And now, without the crutch of belief, I see it more clearly.

9. The Choice Without Reason

I can’t prove that words aren’t reality. I can’t prove that they are. But I don’t need proof to act.

If I focus on the Word-World, I stagnate.

If I focus on the Direct World, I live.

The choice isn’t logical. It’s practical. And strangely, that’s enough.

10. The Final Observation

I lie here, aware of both worlds. One is a prison of meaninglessness. The other is open, inviting, full of possibility. And I realize:

I don’t have to choose between them. I only have to choose where to place my attention.

If I fixate on the Word-World, I won’t move. If I let it go, I will.

That’s all. No grand conclusion. Just a fact.

And for now, that’s enough.

The Duality of Worlds: Words and Reality

1. The Problem: Seeing Two Worlds at Once

I’ve been struggling with a strange duality: I see two worlds simultaneously.

The first world is the one without words—the world of direct experience, where life feels good, where I eat delicious food, observe beauty outside my window, and simply live.

The second world is the one seen through words—a world where everything is framed by language, by concepts, by the labels we assign to reality. And this world feels heavy. It’s a world where everything seems meaningless when reduced to words.

The problem is that I can’t stop seeing both at the same time. Even when I’m doing something enjoyable—cooking, eating, admiring nature—I’m still aware of the other layer, the one where all of this is just a series of arbitrary actions with no inherent purpose. That awareness drags me down. It makes me feel the weight of existence itself.

So the question is: How do I stop seeing both worlds? How do I live in just one?

2. The Failed Attempt: Forcing Focus on the "Wordless" World

In my last recording, I tried to explain how to shift away from the "word-world." I thought the solution was to focus on the real world—the sensations, the immediate experience. I tried to pay attention to the taste of food, the act of eating, the beauty around me. I tried to want to be present in that world.

But it didn’t work.

I realized I was making a critical mistake: I was trying to force myself to want something I didn’t actually want.

I was eating, but I wasn’t truly hungry—not in the sense that eating itself was my genuine desire. I was just going through the motions.

I was trying to convince myself to enjoy the moment, but that effort was artificial. It was still coming from the "word-world," from the idea that I should want to be present.

This approach failed because you can’t fake desire. You can’t try to want something if you don’t actually want it.

3. The Breakthrough: Desire as the Anchor

Then I had a realization: The only way to stop seeing the "word-world" is to fully immerse myself in what I truly want.

Here’s how it works:

Step 1: Ask myself: What do I actually want right now?

Not what I think I should want.

Not what would logically make sense to want.

But what genuinely pulls me forward.

For me, in that moment, it was writing a book. Not eating. Not idly observing nature. Writing. That was the only thing that felt like a real, organic desire.

Step 2: Focus entirely on that desire.

When I’m writing, I’m not thinking about the meaninglessness of life.

I’m not analyzing the world through words.

I’m just doing what I want, and that act itself crowds out the other world.

This works because desire is the only thing strong enough to pull me out of the "word-world." It’s not about distracting myself—it’s about replacing one mode of perception with another.

4. The Mechanism: Why This Works

The key insight is this:

You can’t just "stop" thinking about the word-world. The mind doesn’t work like that. If you try to suppress those thoughts, they’ll just come back stronger.

Instead, you have to replace them with something else. And the only thing powerful enough to do that is genuine desire.

Here’s the cycle:

When I’m not focused on what I want, my mind drifts back to the "word-world."

In the "word-world," everything feels meaningless, so I start to feel bad.

The only way out is to re-anchor myself in desire—to remember what I actually want and throw myself into it.

This isn’t about avoidance. It’s about redirection. Desire acts like a magnet, pulling my attention away from the abyss of meaninglessness and into the realm of action.

5. The Trap of "Why?"

But then another question arises: Why should I do this? Why should I focus on desire instead of just accepting the meaninglessness?

And here’s the catch: The question "why?" is itself part of the "word-world."

"Why?" implies a search for meaning—but meaning only exists in the world of words.

In the real world, the world of direct experience, there is no "why." There’s only what you do.

So if I ask, "Why should I focus on my desires?"—I’m already back in the trap. The answer is: There is no "why." You just do it.

You don’t need a reason to live the way that feels right.

You don’t need justification to follow your desires.

You just do it, because the alternative is paralysis.

6. The Two Steps to Freedom

So the solution boils down to two steps:

Stop treating words as if they are reality.

Words are just labels. They’re not the things they describe.

The "word-world" is a map, not the territory. And the map is not the place you actually live.

Anchor yourself in desire.

Find what you truly want in the moment.

Focus on it completely.

Let it pull you forward.

If you do these two things:

You won’t have time to dwell on meaninglessness.

You won’t be split between two worlds.

You’ll just be, and that’s enough.

7. The Warning: Never Stop

But there’s a catch: You can’t stop.

The moment you stop focusing on what you want, the "word-world" creeps back in.

The moment you pause, you start questioning, analyzing, and suddenly everything feels heavy again.

So you have to keep moving.

Always have a desire to pursue.

Always be doing something that matters to you.

Never let yourself stagnate.

Because stagnation is death. Not literal death, but the death of living—the death of being fully present in the real world.

8. The Paradox: No Reason, Just Action

The final irony is this:

There is no logical reason to do this. From the perspective of the "word-world," it’s all meaningless anyway.

But that doesn’t matter. Because the "word-world" isn’t where you live. It’s just where you think.

So you don’t need a reason. You just need to choose to live in the world of desire, of action, of direct experience.

And if you do?

You’ll write your book.

You’ll enjoy your food (when you actually want to).

You’ll look out the window and see beauty, not just a "concept of beauty."

You’ll live, instead of just observing.

9. The Conclusion: A Life Without "Why"

In the end, the answer is simple:

Don’t ask "why."

Don’t wait for a reason.

Just do what you want.

Because the alternative is to be trapped in a world where everything is meaningless—and that’s no way to live.

Final Thought:
The "word-world" will always be there, lurking. But you don’t have to live in it. You can choose, moment by moment, to live in the world of desire instead. And that’s enough.

The Collapse of Faith in Words: A Journey Through Layers of Belief

1. The Loss of a Fundamental Belief

For days, I’ve been trapped in what might be the worst state I’ve ever experienced. It began when I uncovered—and then lost—a belief so foundational I hadn’t even realized it was holding me together. This belief was faith in second-level words: words that describe other words, not just observations or sensations.

Let me explain the hierarchy I saw:

First-level words: Words that describe direct observations, sensations, or material things. For example, "pain," "red," or "cold." These words claim to be what they describe.

Second-level words: Words that describe first-level words. For instance, statements like "No word is what it describes" or "Descriptions are not reality." These are words about words.

Third-level words (and beyond): Words that describe second-level words, and so on.

At some point, I stopped believing that first-level words were "real"—that they were what they claimed to describe. I rejected the idea that any word could capture truth. But unknowingly, I replaced this with a new belief: faith in second-level words. I began to trust statements about words—like "All words fail to describe reality"—as if those words were infallible. This became my new foundation.

But then, I lost that belief too.

Now, I no longer trust any words at any level. I don’t believe that words are what they describe, nor do I believe they aren’t. I’ve lost the core human faith: the assumption that some words—whether about sensations, emotions, or other words—must align with what they represent. Without this, everything collapsed.

2. The Void: Two States of Being

After losing this faith, I found myself in a void. For three days, I existed in a state so alien I could barely move. There were only two modes available to me:

State 1: The Null State

I did nothing. Not because I was depressed, but because nothing compelled me to act.

I didn’t want to watch YouTube, eat, or even speak. The only "comfort" was inertia—lying still, doing nothing.

This was the first time in my life where action itself felt wrong. Even talking was unbearable.

State 2: The Ghost State

I wanted things—playing games, writing, eating—but when I acted, I felt almost nothing.

Sensations, emotions, observations: all reduced to 0.1% of what they once were.

I’d compare this to my past (when words still had power), see the 99.9% deficit, and immediately retreat back to State 1.

For three days, I oscillated between these two horrors. Neither was livable.

3. The Breakthrough: Acceptance as Recalibration

On the fourth day, something shifted. I realized:

Comparison was the poison. By measuring my current state against the past, I ensured it would always feel like nothing.

What if I redefined 0.1% as 100%? Not as a fraction of what was lost, but as the new whole.

I forced myself to accept:

"This is my reality now. This 0.1% is not a deficit—it’s my maximum. This is 100% of what life offers me."

The moment I stopped comparing, the state transformed.

The faint sensations I still had—once invisible—became vivid.

Playing a game, writing, even eating: these acts, previously hollow, now felt rich because I wasn’t measuring them against a ghost.

I started to enjoy again, not despite the emptiness, but within it.

Key Insight:
The brain adapts. When you accept a "low" state as your new baseline, it expands to fill that space. What was 0.1% becomes enough—because it’s all you allow yourself to perceive.

4. The Mechanism: Why Words Fail and Desire Returns

Now, I’m left with questions:

Where do desires come from in this wordless state?

Before, desires were tied to beliefs in words (e.g., "I am a writer" → "I want to write").

Now, I don’t trust any words, yet I still want things. How?

Hypothesis: Desires arise only when I stop analyzing them.

If I think, "Do I really want to play this game, or is this just another word-trap?"—the desire vanishes.

But if I act without questioning, the desire feels real. It’s as if thought kills sensation, while action revives it.

The Rule:

Avoid thinking about words as if they’re real. The second I treat a word (even "I want") as true, the system collapses.

Live in the ghost state, but don’t examine it. The moment I ask "Why do I feel this?", the feeling dissolves.

5. The Fear of Hidden Delusions

Today, I woke up haunted by a fear:

Is this new state just another illusion?

Am I secretly believing in some "third-level" words without realizing it?

I spent the day dissecting my mind, searching for hidden beliefs. What I found:

No lingering faith in words. I don’t trust any words to be what they describe—not first-level, not second, not any.

But: I sometimes think as if words are real—briefly, unconsciously. For example:

"I want to play" might flicker in my mind, and for a second, I treat it as true.

But I don’t believe it’s true. I don’t cling to it. The thought arises and passes like a shadow.

Conclusion:

The old me needed words to feel alive. Words gave depth, emotion, meaning.

The new me lives without them—but only if I don’t focus on their absence.

Desire exists in the gaps between thoughts, not within them.

6. The Final Paradox: A Life Without Words

What remains when all faith in words is gone?

A flicker of sensation—so faint it’s almost nothing.

Action without justification—doing things not because they "mean" something, but because the alternative is stagnation.

A fragile peace—maintained only by not asking how it works.

The Lesson:

Suffering comes from comparison. When you measure your current state against the past, it will always feel lacking.

Freedom comes from acceptance. When you declare "This is 100%," the mind adapts, and 0.1% becomes everything.

Words are traps. The second you believe a word is what it describes—even the word "I"—you’re back in the illusion.

The Warning:
This state is unstable. If I start believing in any words again—even the idea that "I should accept my state"—the cycle will repeat. The only safety is not thinking about it at all.

7. The Unanswerable Question

Do I need to understand this? Or can I just… live?

For now, I choose to live. The alternative is paralysis.

But the fear lingers:
What if this is just another layer—and beneath it, another void?

Epilogue: A Recommendation

Despite the emptiness, I’d recommend this state to others. Not because it’s "good," but because:

The mind recalibrates. What feels like 0.1% becomes enough.

You stop needing words. And in that silence, something new might emerge.

But be warned:
You’ll have to stop asking questions to keep it.

Final Thought:
"I used to live in words. Now I live in the spaces between them."

The Nature of Desire: How I Rediscovered Motivation

1. The Collapse and the Search for Stability

For nearly a day after my last recording, I was unable to return to a stable state. The stress was overwhelming, and for a long time, I couldn’t understand what was happening. Everything felt tangled, chaotic—until now. Slowly, things are beginning to untangle. I think I’ve identified where my desires come from: the desire to play games, to write a book, to eat breakfast, to get up from bed. These desires don’t arise from nowhere. They emerge when I start thinking about what is better—not better for others, not better for my future, but better for me, in my own eyes.

Here’s how it works: I lie in bed, unwilling to move. I feel nothing. Then, I begin comparing: Is it better to stay here, or to get up, eat, and play a game? I weigh the options, and if the latter seems better, a desire forms. The act of comparing—of deciding what feels better—ignites the will to act. But this wasn’t always the case.

2. The Two Sources of Desire

I used to believe in words. Not just any words, but words about words—second-level abstractions. When I believed in these words, desires flowed naturally. If I told myself, "I am a writer," the identity itself generated motivation. But I’ve lost that. I no longer believe in any words, not even meta-words. That source of desire is gone.

Yet I’ve found another: comparison. When I compare two options and conclude that one is better, desire arises. It’s not about faith in the words "this is better"—it’s about the raw, direct sense that one path feels more aligned with what I want right now. This is crucial: the desire isn’t tied to belief in the words themselves. I don’t need to believe that "playing games is better"; I only need to feel that it is.

3. The Stress of "Better" and How to Avoid It

At first, thinking about what’s better triggered immense stress. Why? Because the world is infinite. There are a million "better" things I could be doing—for others, for my future, for some idealized version of myself. Perfectionism kicks in. The fear isn’t just about choosing wrong; it’s about the weight of choice itself.

But I noticed something: the stress only appears when I think about "better" while also thinking about the words. That is, when I take the phrase "this is better than that" and start analyzing it as a statement—as if the words themselves have power—then the anxiety spirals. The words become a cage.

The solution? Think about what’s better without thinking about the words. Compare the options directly, feel which one pulls me, and act—without labeling it, without dissecting the thought. The moment I stop treating the words as real, the stress vanishes.

4. The Freedom of Not Believing in Words

This realization brought a strange freedom. I can think about anything—desires, comparisons, even abstract concepts—but I no longer believe in the words I use. I can say, "I want to play," without believing that the words "I want" are binding or true. The words are just tools, not reality.

This detachment has a cost: life feels flatter. When I believed in words, emotions were intense—joy, fear, excitement. Now, without that belief, 99% of those sensations are gone. But it’s a trade-off I can live with. The remaining 1% is enough to function, and the absence of stress is worth it.

5. The Mechanics of Desire: A Hypothesis

I suspect desire operates in two stages:

Comparison: A built-in mechanism where the brain weighs options and flags one as "better." This is primal, perhaps genetic.

Verification: The brain then describes this preference with words ("I want X"), and if I believe those words, the desire solidifies.

But if I skip the second step—if I compare without verbalizing or believing—I still get the desire, just without the psychological baggage. The wanting is pure, unmediated by language.

6. The Art of Selective Attention

Now, I see that I can choose what to think about and what to ignore. I can:

Focus on what’s better without spiraling into stress.

Think about specific words only when I choose to—not as a compulsion, but as a tool.

Avoid thoughts that trigger fear or despair (e.g., existential questions, perfectionism) by simply not engaging with them.

There’s no logical reason to fixate on certain thoughts over others. Some feel comfortable; some don’t. I don’t need to justify why I think about X and not Y. I can just not think about Y, and that’s enough.

7. The Current State: A Playground of Possibilities

Right now, I’m in a space of experimentation. I can:

Think about what’s better.

Play with words without believing in them.

Focus on an activity (like gaming) without overanalyzing.

Ignore past or future states that might trigger dissatisfaction.

It’s like painting on a blank canvas. There’s no "right" way—only what feels workable in the moment. The key is to avoid the trap of why: Why do I think this? Why not that? Those questions lead to paralysis. Instead, I just do, and observe what happens.

8. The Remaining Questions

Is there still some hidden belief lurking? (I’ve checked—I don’t think so.)

Can desire exist without comparison? (Unlikely. Even "I want X" implies X is better than not-X.)

How sustainable is this flat-but-stable state? (Time will tell.)

For now, I’m content. The system works: compare, feel the pull, act—without clinging to the words. The rest is noise.

Final Note: The Paradox of Freedom

The irony? The more I don’t believe in words, the more freely I can use them. I can say "I want to write a book" without it meaning anything beyond the immediate impulse. The words don’t own me. And in that space, desire isn’t a burden—it’s just a quiet nudge toward what feels, in the moment, better.

A Shift in Perspective: From Internal Manipulation to External Reality

1. The Collapse of Internal Strategies

For years, I believed that the key to changing my emotional state lay entirely within my mind. I thought that if I could just understand what was happening in my head—if I could dissect my thoughts, beliefs, and cognitive distortions—I could rewrite my experience of life. I studied cognitive therapy, experimented with self-guides, and tried to "fix" myself by altering my internal narratives.

But now, none of it works.

I’ve exhausted every method. I no longer believe in the power of words, concepts, or mental tricks to shift how I feel. The moment I recognize that a thought is just a thought—a belief just a belief—I lose the motivation to engage with it. If I tell myself, "This will make you feel better," I immediately see through it: Why should I believe that? There’s no foundation. The moment I question it, the spell breaks, and the motivation vanishes.

I’ve reached a default state: I do nothing. Not because I’m depressed or paralyzed, but because I no longer see the point in trying to manipulate my own mind. The tools I once used—self-talk, reframing, guided introspection—now feel like empty rituals. I’ve outgrown them, or perhaps I’ve just seen them for what they are: temporary fixes built on shaky ground.

2. The Only Remaining Path: Changing External Reality

If I can’t change how I feel from the inside, the only option left is to change what’s outside.

This was my realization: The only way to alter my internal state is to alter my external circumstances.

If I’m uncomfortable, I don’t try to "think my way" into comfort. I change my environment.

If I want to feel excitement, I don’t meditate on the concept of excitement—I go play a video game.

If I want to feel relaxed, I don’t repeat affirmations—I take a walk, eat something delicious, or watch a movie.

This isn’t a new idea. Most people live this way. If they’re stressed at work, they go home, take a bath, eat comfort food, or distract themselves with entertainment. They don’t sit there trying to think their stress away. They act on the world around them to feel better.

But for years, I resisted this. I saw it as a cop-out—a way of avoiding the "real work" of fixing my mind. I thought: If I’m unhappy, the problem must be in my head. Why would I change the world when the issue is internal? So I dug deeper into my thoughts, trying to root out every flawed belief, every irrational fear, every source of discomfort.

And now? I’ve succeeded. There’s nothing left to fix. No beliefs to challenge, no distortions to correct. My mind is… empty in that sense. But the cost is that I feel nothing. No drive, no desire, no pull toward anything. Just neutrality.

So now, I’m returning to the basics: If I want to feel something, I must do something in the real world.

3. The Problem of Addiction (and Its Solution)

Here’s the catch: When I started acting on the external world again, my old addictions resurfaced.

Video games pull me in for 9-hour binges.

YouTube becomes a black hole—I click from video to video, unable to stop.

Other potential addictions (like binge-watching shows) lurk in the background.

The problem isn’t the activities themselves. The problem is that these addictions drown out everything else. I’ll skip meals, lose sleep, ignore responsibilities—all because the addictive desire feels stronger than any other motivation.

At first, I thought the solution was to eliminate these addictions entirely. Cut out games, block YouTube, force myself into a "normal" routine. But that felt like self-sabotage. These activities do bring me pleasure. Why should I deny myself the things I enjoy most?

Then I realized: The issue isn’t the addiction itself—it’s how I relate to it.

The Core Insight: Addiction ≠ Desire

Old mindset: "I feel a strong urge to play games. This must mean I want to play games. Therefore, I should play games, and nothing else matters."

New mindset: "I feel a strong urge to play games. This is my brain’s addictive response—not necessarily what I truly want. I can observe this urge without acting on it."

This shift changes everything.

Addiction is just a reaction. It’s like salivating at the sight of cake—it doesn’t mean anything beyond biology.

I don’t have to obey it. I can feel the pull of addiction and still choose to work, exercise, or socialize.

It’s normal to feel conflicting desires. A drug addict might crave a fix while still going to work. Similarly, I can want to play games and still prioritize other things.

Practical Application

Now, when I feel the urge to binge:

I acknowledge it without judgment: "This is my addiction talking."

I remind myself that the urge isn’t a command: "I don’t have to do this just because I feel it."

I redirect my focus to something else—work, a walk, a meal—while allowing the addictive pull to exist in the background.

This doesn’t mean I never indulge. It means I control the addiction instead of letting it control me.

4. The Nature of Motivation Now

Without internal manipulation, where does motivation come from?

From external rewards. If I want to feel accomplishment, I work. If I want excitement, I play a game. If I want relaxation, I watch a show.

From the anticipation of change. I don’t do things because I believe they’ll make me happy—I do them because I’ve learned, through experience, that they will shift how I feel.

This is a neutral, transactional relationship with life. I’m not chasing happiness as an abstract ideal. I’m not trying to "fix" myself. I’m simply:

Noticing how I feel.

Deciding if I want to feel differently.

Taking action in the real world to make that happen.

5. The Absence of Anger (and Other Old Emotions)

Interestingly, my old anger is gone.

Before, anger was tied to beliefs:

"They shouldn’t have done that to me!"

"This isn’t fair!"

"I deserve better!"

Now, anger (when it arises) is just a neutral reaction—like hunger or fatigue. If I don’t get what I want, I might feel a flash of irritation, but it doesn’t spiral. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s just data: "I didn’t get X. That’s unpleasant. What now?"

This detachment makes life lighter. There’s no moral weight to emotions. They’re just signals.

6. The Big Picture: What This All Means

For years, I was trapped in a loop:

Feel bad.

Assume the problem is inside me.

Try to "fix" my mind.

Briefly feel better.

Repeat.

Now, the loop is broken. I no longer believe my mind is the problem—or the solution.

If I’m bored, I don’t try to think my way into excitement. I go do something exciting.

If I’m restless, I don’t analyze my restlessness. I change my environment.

If I’m numb, I don’t search for meaning in my thoughts. I engage with the world.

This isn’t nihilism. It’s pragmatism. Life isn’t about achieving some perfect internal state. It’s about experiencing—and to experience, you have to do.

7. What’s Next? Testing the New Approach

I don’t know yet how this will play out long-term.

Will I still enjoy games and YouTube without the addictive charge?

Will other motivations (work, relationships, hobbies) grow stronger now that they’re not drowned out by compulsions?

Will this neutrality become its own kind of fulfillment?

I don’t have answers. But for the first time in years, I’m not stuck in my head. I’m moving, even if I don’t know exactly where I’m going.

And that’s enough for now.

Final Thought

I spent years trying to think my way into a better life. Now, I’m learning to live my way into one.

The irony? The moment I stopped trying to control my mind, I finally felt free to act.

The Cycle of Doubt and Self-Acceptance

1. The Repetitive Pattern

For the third day in a row, I find myself trapped in the same cycle. At night, I play games—endlessly, compulsively. It starts innocently: I want to play, so I play. But then, something shifts. I notice two states within myself:

A state of emptiness: No desires, no will to live.

A state of narrow focus: Desires exist, but they revolve almost entirely around gaming or YouTube. Even then, these desires come with stress—or sometimes without it.

When I follow these desires (gaming, mostly), stress creeps in. Not always, but often. And with it, anger. The anger isn’t the problem—it’s the doubt. I play, and at first, it feels fine. But then I think: "Is this really what I want? Shouldn’t I be doing something else—working, building relationships, living a ‘full’ life?" The moment I doubt whether I truly want this, stress floods in.

2. The Illusion of Addiction

At first, I thought the problem was addiction. I told myself:
"Addiction is the compulsive urge to play endlessly, to the exclusion of everything else. It’s not what I really want—it’s a distortion. The ‘real me’ wants balance: work, then play, then rest."
But when I tried to live by this idea, the stress didn’t vanish. Because the doubt remained: Do I actually want balance? Or do I just want to play?

I realized: Addiction wasn’t the core issue. The core issue was doubt—doubt about whether my desires were truly mine. When I stopped believing in the illusion of addiction, the stress shifted. It was no longer about dependency; it was about whether I could accept myself as someone who only wants to game.

3. The Two Modes of Being

Now, I see two distinct states in myself:

The Accepting State:

I don’t doubt my desires.

I play because I want to. I work because I need to. No internal conflict.

Stress is absent. Life feels… normal. Not happy, not sad—just lived.

Anger still exists, but it’s situational, fleeting. It doesn’t linger or poison me.

The Doubting State:

I question everything: "Do I really want this? Shouldn’t I want more? What if I’m wrong about myself?"

Stress paralyzes me. I can’t act. I can’t live.

I start inventing a "better" version of myself—someone who wants relationships, success, meaning. But this invented self is a lie. It’s built on words, not truth.

4. The Nature of the "Base Self"

I’ve come to believe there’s a base self—the person I was born as, shaped by nature and early experiences. This self:

Wants to game. That’s its primary drive.

Doesn’t care much for relationships, ambition, or societal expectations.

Is content with simplicity: work for money, game for pleasure.

When I align with this base self, life flows. When I resist it—when I try to become someone else—I fracture. The stress isn’t about external pressures; it’s about betraying my own nature.

5. The Trap of Self-Invention

For years, I tried to reinvent myself. At 20, I believed I wanted:

A career in Moscow.

Relationships.

Success.

To be "better"—kinder, more ambitious, more normal.

I chased these ideals. But they were constructs, built on words and societal scripts. Over time, the facade crumbled. I failed to sustain relationships. Work felt hollow. The "better me" was a ghost.

Now, I see: All invented selves are illusions. The only real self is the base self—the one that exists when I stop pretending.

6. The Paradox of Doubt

Doubt arises when I compare myself to others. I see people with families, careers, passions, and think: "Their lives are richer. Mine is shallow." But this comparison is the root of suffering.

Doubt is not rational. It’s a mental loop: "What if I’m wrong about myself? What if I could want more?"

Stress is the mind’s alarm. It signals: "You’re abandoning your nature. Return to it."

Acceptance is the only escape. Not forced acceptance, but a surrender to the truth: This is who I am. This is what I want.

7. The Illusion of "Should"

Society says I should want more. But "should" is a prison. The only freedom is in wanting what I actually want, not what I’ve been told to want.

Gaming isn’t a flaw. It’s a preference.

Anger isn’t toxic. It’s a reaction—pure, temporary, and often motivating.

Simplicity isn’t failure. It’s honesty.

8. The End of the Search

I spent years searching for meaning—recording thoughts, analyzing my mind, trying to "fix" myself. But all that searching led to one conclusion:
There is no "fixed" self to find.
There is only the self that exists now, with its quirks, its limits, its raw honesty.

Past recordings? Meaningless now. They were steps in a journey that ended here.

Future goals? None. I don’t need to become anyone else.

Current life? Enough. I work. I game. I feel anger, satisfaction, boredom—all of it, without resistance.

9. The Final Realization

I don’t need to prove that this is the right way to live. I don’t need arguments or justifications. I only need to stop doubting.

Doubt is a choice. I can choose to let it go.

Stress is optional. It vanishes when I accept my base self.

Life is simple. Not happy, not tragic—just lived.

I play games. I feel anger. I work for money. I sleep. I wake up. And for the first time, I don’t ask if it’s enough. It just is.

Closing Thought

This isn’t a guide. It’s not a philosophy. It’s just the end of the war with myself. No more invented selves. No more doubts. Just this—raw, unfiltered, accepted.

A Radical Experiment in Living by Desire Alone

1. The Conflict: Wanting to Play vs. "Should" Work

For the past few days, I’ve been documenting my internal struggle. After my last recording, I felt more confident in my desires—I wasn’t doubting myself as much. But then I hit a paradox: I wanted to play games, but I also knew I "should" work. Not because I genuinely wanted to write my book or earn money, but because I believed it was the "better" choice. The problem? When I forced myself to work, stress overwhelmed me.

I realized something critical: my stress wasn’t about doubt anymore. Before, I’d stress because I doubted whether I truly wanted to play—maybe I should be working instead. But this time, I knew I wanted to play. The stress came from doing what I thought was "better" (working) while my body screamed for play. I was ignoring my actual desire, and that disconnect created tension.

2. The Fear of Psychosomatics and Stress

I’ve always had a severe psychosomatic reaction to stress—crippling nasal congestion that makes it impossible to breathe or function. I thought: Maybe stress is normal when you’re doing what’s "better" instead of what you want. But the physical toll was unbearable. So I tried a new approach: stop fearing the stress itself.

I repeated to myself:

"Stop fearing stress."

"Stop fearing fear."

"Stop believing that stress will always trigger psychosomatics."

"Stop avoiding these emotions."

Ironically, by letting go of the fear of stress, my motivation to work disappeared. I realized: my desire to work was rooted in fear—fear of not securing my future, fear of failure, fear of the consequences of not working. When I stopped fearing those things, the urge to work vanished. All that remained was the pure, unfiltered desire to play.

3. The Experiment: Following Desire to the Extreme

With nothing left to lose, I decided to test what happens if I follow my desire without compromise. No "shoulds," no guilt—just pure, unfiltered wanting. I ignored:

My mom’s request to vacuum.

The fact that I hadn’t eaten.

The "better" choice (working, planning, being "responsible").

I played games for five or six hours straight, even as my body rebelled:

My head ached.

My muscles cramped from inactivity.

My focus deteriorated.

I grew exhausted, hungry, and physically drained.

But I kept playing because I still wanted to. Only when I truly didn’t want to anymore—when I was utterly spent—did I stop.

4. The Surprising Outcome: Desire Shifts Naturally

After gaming until I was empty:

I didn’t want to play anymore.

I didn’t want to watch YouTube (I’d had enough).

I didn’t even want to eat yet—until my body demanded it.

Then, something unexpected happened: I wanted to work.
Not because it was "better," but because I genuinely felt like it. I worked for 15 minutes—without stress, without doubt—and it felt good. Later, I wanted to go for a walk at 4 AM, not because it was "healthy," but because I craved fresh air and movement.

By morning, my desires had flipped entirely:

Yesterday: All I wanted was to play.

Today: All I want is to work.

I made a packed schedule—no games, no distractions—because I actually want to work now. The stress is gone because I’m not forcing myself. I’m not doing it out of fear or obligation. I’m doing it because, in this moment, it’s what I want.

5. The Core Insight: Desire is Cyclical

I realized I’d lived this way before—as a teenager and young adult:

On weekdays, I wanted to work (as a courier, at McDonald’s, as a programmer) and did so with joy.

On weekends, I wanted to play games for 10+ hours, and I did—until I was satisfied.

Then, I’d naturally want to return to work.

The cycle was organic. Desire isn’t static—it shifts when fulfilled. But somewhere along the way, I started fearing my own desires, believing they’d lead to ruin. I thought:

"If I only do what I want, I’ll play forever and starve."

"My desires won’t take care of my future—only discipline will."

So I forced myself into "better" choices, which created chronic stress.

6. The Breakthrough: Trusting the Process

The experiment proved:

Desires change when honored. If I play until I’m truly done, I’ll naturally want to work—or eat, or walk, or rest.

Forcing "better" choices backfires. It creates stress because it’s inauthentic.

Fear distorts desire. My "want" to work was just fear in disguise. True desire feels effortless.

The body knows its limits. I didn’t starve. I didn’t waste away. I played until I was spent, then my desires shifted automatically.

Now, I live by a new rule:

If I want to play, I play—no matter what. Even if the world is ending.

If I want to work, I work—without guilt. Because I know the desire to play will return when it’s time.

This isn’t irresponsibility. It’s trusting the natural rhythm of want and fulfillment.

7. The New Freedom: No More "Should"

Before, I lived by self-imposed restrictions:

"I should work now so I can play later."

"I should ignore what I want for the sake of the future."

But "should" is a prison. Now, I ask:

What do I actually want in this moment?

Can I fully commit to it without fear?

If the answer is "play," I play. If it’s "work," I work. No stress, no second-guessing.

8. The Final Realization: Desire is Self-Regulating

I used to think my desires were childish—only games, no responsibility. But now I see:

Desire includes rest, work, and even discipline—when it’s genuine.

Forcing discipline creates resistance. Letting desire lead creates balance.

The future takes care of itself when I’m present with my wants.

Today, I’m working with focus and joy because I’m not fighting myself. Yesterday, I played until I was done. Tomorrow, I might want something else entirely. And that’s okay.

Closing Thought: The Paradox of Control

The harder I tried to control my life for the "better," the more stressed and unmotivated I became. Letting go of control—trusting desire—brought the balance I’d been forcing all along.

Now, I live by a single rule:
Do what you want. Fully. Without apology.
The rest takes care of itself.

Update & Reflection: On Self-Comparison, Desires, and Authenticity

1. The Physical Manifestation of Self-Scrutiny

I wanted to add a small update after my last recording. There are two things I’ve been meaning to address.

The first is that after my previous entry, my eye started hurting. I recognize this as psychosomatic—a reaction to overanalyzing my last recording. I catch myself comparing my current state to what I described before, checking if it matches, if I’ve stayed consistent, if I’ve "gotten it right." Essentially, I’m using my past words as a guide, a benchmark for how I should feel, and measuring myself against it. This act of self-auditing triggers physical discomfort, specifically pain in my eye.

I’ve been through this before. The solution, as always, is simple: stop thinking about the previous recording. Don’t treat it as a rulebook. I know what I need to do, and others might not understand, but the pattern is clear: when I fixate on the past entry, the symptoms arise; when I don’t, they vanish. By tomorrow, I’ll likely forget about it entirely, and the issue will resolve itself. Right now, I’m still occasionally dwelling on it, but minimally—just enough to acknowledge it here.

2. The Roots of Self-Doubt and the Desire to Be "Better"

The second point is something I’ve wanted to articulate for days. It’s about the phase where I struggled with accepting my desires—specifically, my urge to only play games. I couldn’t reconcile that desire with who I thought I should be. I wanted to want more: to be ambitious like Elon Musk, to crave relationships, wealth, travel, or grand achievements. But I didn’t. And that discrepancy filled me with stress and self-doubt.

This leads me to a broader question: Where does the desire to be "better" than we are come from? Why do we reject our present selves and long to be different? I have a few theories.

Theory 1: Reactive Self-Reinvention (Trauma as a Catalyst)

Imagine a childhood experience where others—perhaps parents or authority figures—treated you poorly. In that moment, you might have vowed: "I will never be like them. I’ll be kinder, stronger, more moral." You invent an idealized version of yourself, a persona built on opposition to what hurt you. This isn’t organic growth; it’s a reaction, a defensive construct. You’re not becoming you—you’re becoming not-them.

The problem? This new "you" is a fiction, a shield against pain. It’s not authentic; it’s a rejection of parts of yourself out of fear. Now, I don’t fear resembling anyone, even those who’ve wronged me. If I ended up like them, I’d accept it. The goal isn’t to be different—it’s to be me, whatever that entails.

Theory 2: The Illusion of "Bigger" Desires

There was a time when all I wanted was to play games. But I’d look at that desire and think: "This is too small. Too trivial. I should want more." I’d berate myself for not craving grandeur—wealth, fame, love, impact. Yet those cravings weren’t mine; they were borrowed from societal expectations or the lives of others.

This raises the question: Why do we believe our desires are insufficient? Perhaps because we’ve been taught that "more" equals "better." But if your heart isn’t in it, you’re just performing—a recipe for exhaustion and emptiness.

Theory 3: The Social Bargain (Love as Currency)

We learn early that being "better" earns us love, approval, and rewards. If you’re interesting, wealthy, or accomplished, people flock to you. The inverse feels like rejection: "If I only want to play games, no one will value me—not even a partner." So we mold ourselves to fit others’ expectations, trading authenticity for connection.

But this is a trap. You might gain external validation, but internally, you’re starving. You’re living for others’ scripts, not your own. The stress and depression that follow aren’t random; they’re the cost of betraying yourself.

3. The Paradox of Self-Improvement

The core issue isn’t wanting to grow—it’s why we want to grow. If it’s to escape shame, to prove something, or to earn love, it’s built on sand. True growth comes from curiosity, not fear.

I no longer care about differentiating myself from "bad" people or emulating "good" ones. Those labels are meaningless. My only question is: Who am I? The rest is noise.

4. Current State: Harmony Without Struggle

Despite the eye pain (which I’ve addressed), everything else is functioning smoothly. I’ve spent hours working with genuine enjoyment, free from doubt or stress. My walks at night remain a source of peace. The urge to play games hasn’t resurfaced—I’m still driven to work, even now, late in the evening.

Anger? It arises occasionally (e.g., if I drop something), but it’s neutral—no lingering discomfort, no resistance. I don’t fight it or judge it. It’s just a passing emotion, like weather.

5. The Takeaway: Acceptance as Freedom

The throughline here is acceptance:

Accepting my desires, even if they seem "small."

Accepting my emotions, even the uncomfortable ones.

Accepting that I don’t need to be better—just true.

When I stop fighting myself, life flows. The stress, the eye pain, the self-doubt—they’re all symptoms of resistance. The antidote? Let go.

Final Note:
This isn’t a declaration of perfection. It’s a snapshot of a process—one where I’m learning to trust myself, even when it defies logic or others’ expectations. And for now, that’s enough.

A Journey of Trusting My Own Desires

Reflections on Fatigue, Stress, and the Art of Doing Nothing

1. The Problem: Forcing Productivity When Exhausted

I’ve noticed a recurring issue in my life—moments when I’m exhaustedly drained, physically and mentally, to the point where even the simplest activities feel impossible. The other day, late at night, I was so tired that I couldn’t work, play games, or even watch YouTube. All I could do was lie down, staring at the ceiling, paralyzed by the absence of desire.

In those moments, I’d panic:
"What am I supposed to do for the next five hours until sleep? Just lie here? That’s wasting time!"
I’d force myself to want something—anything—to avoid the terror of inaction. I’d convince myself:
"Fine, if I can’t work, at least I’ll watch YouTube. It’s better than doing nothing."
But even then, I didn’t actually want to watch YouTube. I was just terrified of the void. So I’d watch with crippling stress, torn between the guilt of "wasting time" and the exhaustion that made everything feel meaningless.

The cycle was vicious:

I’d watch YouTube without desire → stress would build → I’d hate myself for not stopping → but stopping meant facing the emptiness again.

Eventually, I’d collapse into sleep, waking up just as drained, repeating the pattern.

2. The Breakthrough: Letting Go of Artificial Desires

Then, something shifted. I realized:
The stress wasn’t from exhaustion—it was from resisting my own state.

I was afraid of not doing anything because it felt like failure. But what if I trusted the exhaustion? What if, instead of fighting it, I just… lay there? No YouTube, no games, no work—just resting until my body or mind naturally wanted something again?

I tested it. One afternoon, utterly spent, I thought:
"All I want is to lie under a blanket for a few hours."
So I did. No guilt, no second-guessing. And after two hours, something remarkable happened:

My energy returned slightly.

I felt a real desire—to eat, to stretch, to do something small.

The panic of "wasting time" vanished because I’d proven to myself: this state wasn’t permanent.

3. The Core Lesson: Waiting for True Desire

I learned a critical rule:
If I don’t want to do something, I won’t do it—no matter how "productive" it seems.

Before, I’d override my exhaustion with logic:
"I should work because it’s better for my future."
But that "should" was a fake desire, invented out of fear. My brain would resist, and stress would skyrocket.

Now, I wait. I trust that my mind will eventually want something—and when it does, I’ll act without hesitation. No second-guessing, no "but should I be doing X instead?" Just pure, stress-free engagement.

Examples:

Fatigued but restless? I might order groceries (easy, low-effort) instead of forcing work.

Zero energy? I lie down. No phone, no distractions—just resting until a genuine urge arises.

A sudden desire to play games at 4 AM? I play, then stop when I naturally want to stretch or eat.

4. The Fear of "Wasting Life" vs. The Reality

The old me believed:
"If I’m not optimizing every second, I’m failing at life."
But that mindset was the real waste—because it filled my time with stress and resistance.

Now, I see:

Desires are temporary. Wanting to play games for hours doesn’t mean I’ll always want that. Eventually, I’ll crave movement, work, or socializing.

Exhaustion is a signal, not a flaw. Pushing through it only deepens the crash.

My brain knows what it needs. It’s not "lazy"—it’s calibrating. If I’m too tired to work, my brain isn’t broken; it’s saying: "Rest first."

5. The Perfectionism Trap

I used to think:
"If I follow my desires, I’ll never accomplish anything important."
But that was a lie. My brain isn’t reckless—it’s balanced. Yes, sometimes it wants games or naps, but it also wants:

Productive work (when energy allows).

Physical activity (when the body is rested).

Social connection (when I’m emotionally available).

The key? Trusting the process.

If I play games for 6 hours, I don’t spiral into guilt. I know the desire will shift.

If I nap at 2 PM, I don’t call myself "unproductive." I wake up refreshed and actually capable.

6. The New Rule: No Artificial Motivation

I no longer:

Invent desires ("I should want to work").

Fear inaction ("Doing nothing is failure").

Rush my brain ("Hurry up and decide what’s best!").

Instead, I:

Observe. "What do I genuinely want right now?"

Act—or don’t. If the answer is "nothing," I rest.

Trust. My brain isn’t broken. It’s recalibrating.

7. The Result: A Life Without Stress

Since adopting this approach:

My energy levels are more stable (because I’m not burning out).

My work is more focused (because I only do it when I truly want to).

My leisure is more joyful (because I’m not guilt-tripping myself).

I still have goals, but I no longer fight my humanity to achieve them. If I’m exhausted, I rest. If I’m inspired, I create. No force, no stress.

8. The Final Realization: My Brain Is Not My Enemy

I used to treat my brain like a rebellious employee—constantly overriding its signals with "better" plans. Now, I see it as a wise partner:

It doesn’t care about "perfection" or "productivity metrics."

It cares about survival, balance, and momentary fulfillment.

When I trust it, life flows. When I fight it, life becomes a battle against myself.

So now, I surrender.

If I want to play, I play.

If I want to rest, I rest.

If I want to work, I work with full presence.

And for the first time, I’m not at war with my own existence.

Closing Thought:
"I don’t know where this path will lead. But for the first time, I’m not afraid of the unknown—because I’m no longer fighting the only guide I’ve ever had: myself."

The Core Problem: Words Becoming Reality

I began by recording an update about my state, which had shifted—first worsening slightly, then dramatically. The root cause? My previous recording, where I tried to create a "guide" for others (and myself) on how to achieve my mental state. The guide was incomplete. I described how to trust your brain’s desires, to act without questioning them, to avoid forcing or overanalyzing wants—but I missed a critical first step.

The Trap of Self-Description

After writing, I did what I always do: I compared my actual state to my written words. But this time, I made a fatal mistake. I started treating the words as if they were the reality they described. For example:

I wrote: "There is a ‘me’ and a ‘brain,’ and the ‘me’ trusts the brain’s desires without doubt."

Then I looked at those words and thought: "But if ‘me’ is separate from the brain, why should I obey the brain? Are its desires really mine?"

Suddenly, the words created a false division:

A "me" (a verbal construct) that doubts and resists.

A "brain" (another construct) that supposedly generates desires.
This split made me question everything. If my desires aren’t mine—just the brain’s—why follow them? The verbal "me" demanded its own desires, but those don’t exist. The result? Paralysis. No motivation. A state where nothing matters because I couldn’t believe in any desire.

The Solution: Rejecting the Illusion of Words

The missing step in my guide was this:

Stop treating any words as if they are the things they describe.

This applies to:

Words describing me ("I," "my state," "my desires").

Words describing reality ("brain," "trust," "doubt").

Even words describing other words (meta-thoughts like "This sentence is true").

Why? Because when you believe words are reality, you become a verbal ghost—a construct trapped in language. The "me" that questions desires is just a word-game. The brain’s desires aren’t "yours" or "not yours" until you label them. The labeling breaks everything.

How It Works in Practice

Before the fix:

I’d think: "I’m doing what my brain wants, but is that really me?"

This creates resistance, suffering, and a sense of meaninglessness.

After the fix:

I observe desires arising (e.g., "I feel like playing a game").

I don’t ask: "Is this truly my desire?" (That’s a verbal trap.)

I either act on the desire or do nothing if no desire arises.

No analysis. No doubt. Just movement or stillness.

The Paradox of Description

Even now, as I describe this, I risk falling back into the trap:

If I say, "I trust my brain’s desires," and then believe the words, I’ll start questioning: "But who is ‘I’? Who is ‘trusting’?"

The fix? Don’t look at life through the lens of descriptions. Words are tools, not mirrors. The moment you confuse them for reality, suffering begins.

Real-World Example

Take the phrase: "Nobody loves me."

If I treat it as mere words: It’s just noise. No emotional charge.

If I treat it as truth: Suddenly, it feels true. I become sad, hopeless, stuck.
The difference? Belief in the words’ power.

The Final Guide (Corrected)

Step 0 (Critical): Stop treating any words—about yourself, your state, or reality—as if they are what they describe. They’re not.

Step 1: Observe desires as they arise (e.g., "I feel like walking").

Step 2: Act on them without questioning ("Is this really me?" is a verbal trap).

Step 3: If no desire arises, do nothing. Rest. Exist without force.

The Result

Without the fix: A fractured mind, endlessly debating "me vs. brain," trapped in verbal loops.

With the fix: Fluid action or stillness. No resistance. Life as it is, unmediated by language.

Closing Thought

This isn’t about suppressing thoughts or desires. It’s about seeing words as words—not as cages. The moment you stop confusing the map (words) for the territory (experience), everything simplifies. You’re no longer a "self" struggling with a "brain." You’re just here, moving or still, as life unfolds.

The Trap of Words: A Cycle of Belief and Liberation

1. The Problem: Obsession with Words as Reality

I found myself trapped in a state where I couldn’t stop thinking about words as if they were the things they described. It wasn’t just abstract—it was compulsive. My mind latched onto words, treating them like tangible truths, and this made my mental state deteriorate. For days, I struggled to understand why this was happening.

At first, I thought I could fix it by writing a guide—a step-by-step instruction for others (or myself) to reach a "correct" state. I believed that if I described the process precisely enough, anyone (including me) could follow it and arrive at the same clarity. But the more I tried, the more I realized: a guide built on words can never work if the words themselves are the problem.

I saw the paradox:

I knew that following words as literal instructions would fail—because words are just symbols, not reality.

Yet I kept trying to write the guide anyway, convinced that the right words must exist.

And the harder I clung to this belief, the worse I felt.

I was stuck in a loop: I wanted to change others (and myself) through words, but words were the very thing distorting my perception.

2. The Root Cause: Faith in Observations (and Their Descriptions)

Then I asked myself: Why do I believe these words are "correct"?
The answer was simple: Because I trusted my observations. I had spent so much time analyzing my mind, my states, my patterns—and the words I used to describe them felt accurate. They matched what I saw. So I clung to them, assuming they were true.

But here’s the breakthrough:
What if my observations themselves were flawed?
What if the way I perceived my own mind was just another layer of illusion? If my observations could be wrong, then the words describing them were meaningless—not because they were poorly chosen, but because they were built on a shaky foundation.

The moment I accepted that all observations (and thus all words) could be errors of perception, my faith in them collapsed. And with that collapse came relief.

3. The Three Stages of Liberation

Stage 1: Stop Believing in Words

Problem: I was treating words as if they were reality—my identity, my state, my rules for living.

Solution: Realize that no word is inherently "correct" because the observations they describe might be wrong.

Result: The compulsion to think in words vanished. I no longer needed to analyze, describe, or follow them.

Stage 2: Stop Acting Like Words Are Reality

Even after losing faith in words, old habits lingered. I’d catch myself slipping back into treating descriptions ("I am X," "My state is Y") as truths.

Key Insight: This isn’t about logic or arguments. It’s about not engaging with the thought process at all. No debate, no analysis—just dropping the habit.

Result: The mental chatter quieted. I stopped identifying with descriptions of myself.

Stage 3: Trust Your Desires (Without Second-Guessing)

Now, free from the tyranny of words, I could finally feel my actual desires.

Problem: I’d still sometimes try to "optimize" my desires—doing what I should want instead of what I actually wanted.

Solution: Stop interfering. Let desires arise and pass without judgment. If I feel nothing, I rest. If I feel a pull, I follow it—no questions, no "but is this the best thing?"

Result: Life flows. Stress disappears. I’m no longer at war with myself.

4. The Danger of Guides (and Why They Fail)

I used to think:
"If I describe my state perfectly, others can replicate it."
But now I see:

A "guide" is just another set of words—and words are the problem.

Following a guide means treating words as reality, which distorts experience.

The only "guide" that works is no guide at all: Stop believing in words. Stop trying to describe or control your state. Just be.

Paradox: The moment you try to package your state into instructions, you’ve already lost it. The state isn’t in the words—it’s in the absence of them.

5. The Aftermath: Freedom and Lingering Shadows

Now, I don’t think in words the way I used to. My mind is quiet. I act on desires without overanalyzing. But there’s a catch:

The old patterns are still close.
If I recall how I used to see the world—how words warped my reality—I feel a flicker of that old distress. But it’s faint, like a ghost. I know now:

That world was built on a belief in words.

This world is built on direct experience.

The choice is always mine: Engage with the description (and suffer) or let it go (and live).

6. Final Realization: There Is No "Me" Outside the Mind

Before, I split myself in two:

"I" (the word-based identity, the analyzer, the guide-writer).

The brain (the raw, wordless experience of desires and sensations).

This split caused conflict: "Are my brain’s desires really mine?"
But now, without belief in words, the split is gone. There’s just one thing: the brain, acting. The "I" was always just a story—a useful fiction, but not real.

Now, when I say "I want X," it’s just the brain speaking about itself. No deeper meaning. No debate. Just life, unfolding.

7. The Only "Advice" That Isn’t a Trap

Can I help others reach this state? Maybe. But not with words-as-instructions. Only with words-as-pointers—hints to look beyond the words.

Here’s the closest I can get:

Stop believing any word is "true." (Including these.)

Stop treating descriptions of yourself as you.

Let desires move you. (If none arise, rest.)

Never second-guess the process.

But remember:
This isn’t a guide. It’s just what happened to me.
If you turn it into rules, you’re back in the trap.

8. The Fear of Backsliding

I know how easy it is to fall back. The mind loves words. It loves control. It loves the illusion of certainty. But now I see:

The "stressful world" was just the world as described by words.

The real world doesn’t need describing. It just is.

So I won’t fight the old patterns. I’ll just notice them—and let them go.

Closing Thought

For days, I was miserable because I believed in words. Now, I’m free because I don’t. It’s that simple.

(And if I ever forget? I’ll read this again—and laugh.)

The Paradox of the "Guide" and the Illusion of "Better"

1. The Trap of Self-Imposed Guides

At first, my state improved slightly after the last recording, but something was still off. There was an unpleasant, lingering anger—a sense that things weren’t as they should be. I realized I was still trapped in the same cycle: following a guide, thinking about a guide, and in doing so, limiting myself with it. Even when I told myself, "Don’t limit yourself with any guide," that very thought became another guide—a rule about not having rules.

I kept circling back to the same broken record: the recording where everything fell apart. No matter how many times I tried to write a guide on how to restore my state, or a guide on how to stop following guides, nothing worked. The more I tried to fix it, the worse it got.

2. The Obsession with "Guiding" Others

Then I understood the root of the problem: my compulsive urge to give others a guide. The moment I thought about sharing "how to live better," my own state deteriorated. Why? Because the act of believing I knew how to live better was itself the corruption.

I traced it back: It started with the belief that my way of living was better—that the state I’d reached was the ideal. I’d convinced myself that if you only do what you want, avoid what you don’t, and trust your desires, life becomes effortless, motivating, and perpetually joyful. But why did I assume this was better?

There’s no objective basis for it. Who says a life of constant pleasure, motivation, and "adequacy" is superior? Maybe living in chaos, duty, or even suffering is better for some. The idea that my state was better was just a delusion—a faith built on nothing.

3. The Collapse: When "Desire" Became "Should"

The moment I believed my state was better, I stopped living by what I wanted and started living by what I thought was better. I began following my own guide—a set of rules derived from my past happiness—and in doing so, I lost the very state I was trying to preserve.

I became obsessed with fixing it, with crafting the perfect guide for others (and myself) to return to that "better" place. But the more I focused on how to live better, the further I drifted from actually living. The guide itself was the poison.

4. The Realization: There Is No "Better"

The breakthrough came when I stopped believing my state was better than any other. The moment I accepted that it was just a state—not superior, not inferior—my compulsive urge to create guides vanished.

I no longer felt the need to tell others how to live because I no longer believed I knew what was better. And paradoxically, that was what restored my original state. The pressure to perform, to optimize, to be better—it all dissolved.

5. The False Question: "How Do I Reach Your State?"

If someone asked me now, "Give me a guide to reach your state," I’d say the question itself is flawed. It assumes that states are achieved through guides—that there’s a method to reach "better." But there isn’t.

My state isn’t the result of a guide. It’s the result of not having one. Of living without the burden of better, without the obsession with how things should be. If you listen to my recordings or read my words, you might stumble into a similar place—but not because you followed steps. Because you stopped looking for them.

6. The Core Error: Comparing "Want" and "Better"

The mistake was comparing—asking, "Is my state better than others’? Better than my past?" The moment I did that, my pure experience turned into a guide, a should, a rule. And rules, even self-made ones, strangle the very life they claim to improve.

Now, I don’t care about better. I don’t ask why I do things. I don’t wonder if my way is superior. I just do what I want, and the rest—what others think, how they live, whether they read my words—is none of my concern.

7. The Way Out: Letting Go of the Guide

I’ve returned to where I was before the collapse—not because I fixed anything, but because I stopped trying to. The moment I released the idea that my state was better, the compulsion to guide others disappeared. And with it, the anger, the frustration, the sense of wrongness.

Now, if I publish my thoughts, it’s not to teach anyone how to live. It’s just because I want to. What they do with it? Irrelevant. Whether it’s better? Meaningless.

The only thing that matters is this: Live as you want. Not as you should. Not as is better. Just as you want.

And if you ask how? The answer is simple: Stop asking.

Final Note

This isn’t a guide. It’s just what happened. Take it or leave it. That’s the point.

The Collapse of Belief: A Journey Through Desire, Loss, and Silence

1. The Obsession with the Guide

I used to believe I knew how to live better. Not just for myself—for others. I was consumed by the idea of writing a guide, a manual that would change people, strip away their delusions, and force them into a "better" way of being. I wanted this desperately. But I also knew it was impossible.

The contradiction tore me apart: I couldn’t write the guide (because no words could truly change anyone), yet I couldn’t stop wanting to write it. The desire was unbearable. I realized this longing wasn’t about the guide itself—it was about control. I wanted others to change because I believed it would make the world better for me. I wanted to erase their "nonsense," their flawed thinking, because I thought I knew better.

But how? If I couldn’t force change through a guide, how could I satisfy this craving? The answer was simple and brutal: I couldn’t.

2. The Belief in "Better"

I traced the obsession back to a deeper belief: I trusted my observations. I believed that if I observed the world carefully enough, my descriptions of it would be true—and if true, then right. And if right, then I knew how to live better.

This chain was my religion:
Observation → Description → Truth → "Better" → Desire to enforce "better."

But then I questioned the first link: What if my observations were flawed? What if my feelings—the very basis of my desires—were just errors of perception?

The moment I accepted that I couldn’t trust my own feelings, the entire structure collapsed.

3. The Void After Loss

When the belief in "better" vanished, so did everything.

No more "wanting." Not just the guide—anything. Games I loved, victories I chased, even the smallest preferences… gone.

No more "meaning." If nothing was "better," then nothing mattered.

No more direction. My life had been a series of choices based on "what’s better?" Now, that question was meaningless.

At first, I panicked. I tried to claw back the old feelings, the old certainties. But they were built on faith—I had believed in my desires, and now that belief was dead.

For two days, I grieved. I had lost everything I valued—not just the guide, but the very framework of my life. The things that had once felt important (winning, improving, achieving) now felt like hollow echoes.

4. The Discovery: Thinking as the Enemy

In the wreckage, I noticed something strange: My suffering was tied to what I allowed myself to think about.

Three toxic patterns emerged:

Thinking about what I’d lost

Dwelling on the past—my old beliefs, my old desires—made me miserable. The moment I stopped, the pain lifted.

Thinking about what I "wanted"

Even in games, if I fixated on winning or playing well, I’d rage when I failed. Why? Because I no longer believed in those wants. I was performing a ritual I didn’t care about, then punishing myself for failing at it.

Thinking about past experiences I craved to repeat

After three wins in a row, losing the fourth triggered a gambler’s itch: I needed to win again. This wasn’t about desire—it was about addiction to a memory. The craving came from recalling past pleasure, not from any real present want.

The solution? Stop thinking about all of it.

5. The New State: Silence

Now, I operate under a single rule: Do not think about:

What I’ve lost.

What I "want."

Past experiences I might repeat.

What remains?

No pre-set desires. I don’t "want" to win, to improve, to achieve. I just act.

No evaluation. "Better" and "worse" are meaningless. Choices are made without judgment.

No nostalgia or anticipation. The past and future don’t pull me. I’m not trying to recapture or avoid anything.

How do I choose?
I don’t know. My brain still selects actions—working, playing, eating—but the process is opaque. There’s no "reason" anymore, just movement.

How do I feel?
Neutral. Not unhappy, not happy—just present. The absence of wanting isn’t suffering; it’s a strange, light emptiness.

6. The Paradox of Description

Even now, as I write this, I’m breaking my own rule: I’m thinking about how to describe my state. But this is temporary. Once the words are down, I’ll stop. The need to explain will fade.

What’s left?

Action without motive.

Choice without preference.

Life without the burden of "better."

I don’t know if this is freedom or just another cage. But for now, it’s quiet. And after the storm, quiet is enough.

Final Note: The Guide That Was Never Written

Ironically, this is a guide—but not the one I wanted. It’s not a manual for living better. It’s a record of how I stopped believing in "better" altogether.

And perhaps that’s the only lesson: The moment you stop trying to teach others how to live, you might finally learn how to live yourself.

The Struggle with Writing and the Illusion of a "Guide"

I was doing fine—playing games, living without stress—until I decided to start writing a book. The moment I sat down to work, I was overwhelmed by choices. I saw countless ways to write it, but I couldn’t understand why I was choosing one path over another. There was no frame of reference, no way to compare or justify my decisions. This uncertainty paralyzed me.

I started questioning: Is this the "right" way? Will this make more money? Will it help people more? The moment I tried to rationalize my choices—what was "better"—stress consumed me. The fear of making a mistake, of doing something "wrong," was unbearable. But if I didn’t think about what was better, I felt lost. I was stuck between two horrors: the stress of overthinking and the emptiness of not thinking at all.

Then I realized: my stress came from trying to create a guide—not for myself, but for others. I wanted to explain how I live, how I make choices, but I couldn’t. The state I was in defied description. I could only articulate what I wasn’t doing (not overthinking, not chasing "better"), but the core of my experience—the how—was inexpressible. The more I tried to force it into words, the worse I felt.

The breakthrough: I had to stop trying to create a guide. For myself and for others. The moment I let go of that need, the stress vanished. I accepted that some things can’t be explained—they can only be lived.

The Trap of Addiction and the Paradox of Desire

With the stress gone, I found myself in a new problem: I only wanted to play games. Endlessly. The thought of working—doing anything but playing—felt meaningless. But if I gave in, I knew I’d never stop. The more I played, the more I craved it. It wasn’t joy; it was compulsion. Ludomania.

I tried experimenting: What if I just play until I’m tired of it? But the craving never faded. Instead, it grew. Worse, I started overthinking again—Should I write a guide about this? How do I explain this to others?—and the stress returned.

The realization: My brain was hijacked by past rewards. Every victory in a game released dopamine, and my mind screamed for more. But no amount of playing would ever satisfy it. The cycle was infinite.

The Solution: Rewiring Motivation Through Dependency

I couldn’t force myself to work for abstract "better" reasons (money, future, responsibility). My brain rejected it. But I could work if I tied it to my addictions.

Here’s how it works:

Acknowledge the addiction. I want to play games—not because I "choose" to, but because my brain is wired to crave the high of past wins.

Redirect the craving. Instead of fighting it, I use it. Work becomes a means to enhance the addiction:

Earning money lets me upgrade my PC for better gaming.

Taking care of my health means I can play longer without burnout.

Even socializing could be framed as a "break" to return to gaming refreshed.

Eliminate the guilt. Now, work isn’t a chore—it’s part of the addiction cycle. I’m not working for some vague "future me"; I’m working to feed the craving more effectively.

Result: No stress. No existential dread. Just action, driven by the same compulsive energy that once trapped me.

The Bigger Picture: Addiction as a Framework for Life

This isn’t just about games. The principle applies to anything:

Food? I can crave the memory of a great meal and work to afford more of it.

Relationships? If I ever experience a moment of connection that feels as compelling as gaming, my brain might latch onto that instead.

Travel? Career? Same logic. The brain doesn’t care what the addiction is—only that it’s familiar and rewarding.

The catch: Right now, nothing competes with gaming. But that’s only because I haven’t found anything else that triggers the same chemical response. Yet.

The experiment: What if I deliberately seek new experiences? Not out of obligation, but curiosity. Maybe relationships, travel, or a passion project could become the new "addiction." Maybe they won’t. But the door is open.

The Final Rules of the Game

No guides. Trying to explain or justify my choices leads to stress. Some things are meant to be lived, not dissected.

Embrace dependency. Use cravings as fuel. If my brain is wired to chase a high, I’ll give it one—but on my terms.

Stay open. Addictions can shift. What matters is that I’m present in the cycle, not fighting it.

Accept the unexplainable. My current state defies words. That’s okay. I don’t need to understand it to live it.

Where This Leaves Me Now

I work with the same intensity I once reserved for gaming—because work now serves the gaming.

I no longer fear "wasting time" on games, because I’ve structured my life around them without guilt.

I’m curious about the future. Not in an anxious, "what’s better?" way, but in a what else could hook me? way.

The irony? The moment I stopped trying to "fix" myself, I found a system that works. Not because it’s "right," but because it’s mine.

Final thought:
"I used to think I needed a guide to live. Now I know the guide was the problem. The addiction isn’t the enemy—it’s the compass."

Two Critical Realizations: What Not to Think About

1. The Trap of Wanting

I tested something important and realized there are two things I must not think about if I want to avoid problems.

The first is not thinking about what I want. When I was playing (testing something), I got completely absorbed—focused, even hyper-focused—but on the wrong thing. I forgot about my desires. I wasn’t thinking, "I want to win, I want to play well, I want this, I want that." Instead, I was just doing. But the moment I started fixating on what I wanted—I want to win, I want to perform well—rage took over. Every little thing infuriated me. The frustration was overwhelming.

Then, when I stopped obsessing over what I wanted and just played, everything flowed. That’s the first lesson: thinking about what I want breeds anger and misery.

2. The Illusion of the Guide

The second realization was even harder to grasp.

I was in a good state, finished testing, and thought, "Okay, now I’ll work on my book." The second I sat down to write, stress hit me like a wall. For the past day, I’ve been trying to understand why.

Here’s what I figured out:
When I write, I have this expectation that my words should explain something—to guide people, to answer their questions, to be a manual for life. But the truth? My text doesn’t explain anything. It’s not a guide. It’s not an instruction book. It doesn’t tell people how to live or what to do. It’s just… a collection of observations. Descriptions. "I see a bird. I see a tree. I feel this way." That’s it.

For years, I’ve believed my work should be more than that. I wanted to change people—to make them see the world differently, to stop believing in the things that hold them back. But to do that, I thought I needed a guide: a step-by-step, "Do this, not that, and here’s why." A blueprint for transformation.

But here’s the problem:
I can’t write that guide.
Because the things I actually understand—the things I’ve observed—are just descriptions. They don’t explain the deeper why. They don’t answer the big questions: Why is the mind wired this way? Why does reality work like this? Why not some other way?

I can describe how things work, but I can’t explain why they work that way. And that’s where the stress comes from.

The Core Conflict: Explaining the Unexplainable

I kept stressing because I was trying to force explanations where none exist. I’d think:
"People will read this and ask, ‘But why?’ And I won’t have an answer. So I need to find one."
But the harder I tried, the more I realized:
Some things cannot be explained.
Not by me. Not by anyone.

It’s like trying to explain why gravity exists. We can describe how it works, but the why—the fundamental nature of it—is beyond words. The same goes for the patterns I’ve noticed in my own mind. I can describe them, but I can’t dig into the why beneath them.

And that’s okay.

The Breakthrough: Accepting the Limits

The stress vanished when I accepted this:
My book doesn’t need to explain everything.
It’s not a guide. It’s not a manual. It’s just a record of observations—like pointing at a bird and saying, "Look, there’s a bird." That’s all.

The moment I stopped trying to turn it into something it’s not, the pressure lifted.

But here’s the tricky part:
Even now, as I speak (or write), I feel like I’m leaving things unsaid. Like there are gaps—questions I haven’t answered, connections I haven’t made. My brain whispers:
"But what about this? What about that? People will ask, and you won’t have answers!"
And if I listen to that voice, the stress returns.

So I have to remind myself:
Not everything needs an explanation.
Some things just are.

The Two Rules for Peace

After testing this for a day, I’ve narrowed it down to two rules:

Don’t think about what you want.

Because wanting leads to frustration, anger, and suffering. When I’m doing instead of wanting, everything flows.

Don’t think about creating a "guide."

Because the pressure to explain the unexplainable is a trap. My work isn’t about answers—it’s about observations. If I accept that, the stress disappears.

What’s Left?

Now, I’ll test this further. I’ll write more of the book and see if the stress stays away. Because the real challenge isn’t just understanding these rules—it’s living by them without slipping back into old patterns.

But for now?
It works.

Final Note (The Lingering Doubt)

Even as I write this, part of me still worries:
"But what if people read this and say, ‘So what? What’s the point?’"
And the answer is:
There doesn’t have to be a point.
Not everything needs to do something. Sometimes, it’s enough just to be.

The Paradox of Describing the Undescribable

1. The Core Problem: Why I Can’t Write a Guide

I’ve been thinking—again—about guides, explanations, descriptions. Why can’t I write one? Why can’t I explain something, describe it, or create a guide for others? The answer, I realize, lies in a fundamental paradox: there exists a state I cannot describe because the act of describing it destroys it.

This state is one where I do not think about describing my own state. I observe something—feelings, sensations, visual impressions, raw experiences—and they are simply unknown. Not in the sense of being mysterious, but in the sense of being unmediated by language. They exist as pure observation, untouched by the need to label or articulate them.

But the moment I try to describe this state—to put it into words so others can understand it—the state changes. The act of description alters what I’m observing. The words I choose become part of the observation itself. I start seeing through the words, not the raw experience. My sensations, my thoughts, my entire state shifts because I’m now thinking about describing rather than just being in the state.

And so, the description I produce is never of the original state. It’s a description of a new state—the one that emerges after I begin to describe. This means the original state remains fundamentally undescribable, because any attempt to capture it in language immediately transforms it into something else.

2. The Illusion of the Guide

A guide, by definition, is a set of instructions—a description of a state or process that others can follow to reach the same place. But if the state I’m trying to guide others toward cannot be described without changing, then the guide becomes a lie. It’s not a map to the original state; it’s a map to a different state—the one that exists after the act of description.

When I look at what I’ve written, I see this clearly: the words do not lead to the place I was in before I wrote them. They lead somewhere else. And because of that, they fail as a guide. They don’t explain the state I was in; they explain a state that no longer exists the moment I try to share it.

This is why I feel stuck. I want to write a guide—a perfect, final instruction—but the very nature of the state I’m trying to convey makes it impossible. The guide would have to be a description of something that cannot be described without ceasing to be itself.

3. The Temptation to Describe the Undescribable

There’s a seductive pull: the desire to share this state with others. I live in it—this place of pure observation, unmediated by language—and I want to tell people, "This is how I live. This is what it’s like." But the moment I try to put it into words, I lose it.

It’s like trying to grab water. The harder I squeeze, the more it slips through my fingers. The state exists only when I’m not thinking about describing it. The second I do, it evaporates, replaced by the act of description itself.

And yet, the urge persists. I want to teach this state. I want to give others a path to it. But how? If I can’t even describe it to myself without altering it, how can I possibly describe it to someone else?

4. The Memory Trap

You might think: "Well, just describe it from memory. Recall what it was like before you started describing it."

But here’s the catch: I don’t know how to describe what I saw. I remember the experience—the sensations, the observations—but the moment I try to translate them into language, I realize there are no words for them. Not because they’re ineffable in a mystical sense, but because they exist outside the framework of description.

Language is a tool for mediated experience. But this state is unmediated. It’s raw. It’s direct. And direct experience doesn’t translate cleanly into symbols. The second I try, I’m no longer in the state I’m trying to convey.

5. The Transition: The One Thing I Can’t Explain

There’s another layer to this. Not only can I not describe the state itself—I also can’t describe the transition into it.

Here’s how it happens:

I’m in a state where I am thinking about description, about guides, about how to explain things.

And then—snap—I’m not.

I’m just observing. No words. No descriptions. Just pure experience.

But the moment of transition—that shift from thinking about description to not thinking about it—is the one thing I cannot explain. I can’t even see it clearly in retrospect. It’s like a blind spot.

And what’s worse: I can’t describe what comes after the transition either, because describing it would mean re-entering the state of thinking about description—which would immediately collapse the state I’m trying to convey.

6. The Frustration of the Unexplainable

This frustrates me because, up until now, I’ve been able to explain everything else that happens in my mind. I’ve dissected my thoughts, my patterns, my habits. I’ve written about them. I’ve taught them.

But this? This is the one thing I can’t explain. And it’s the one thing I most want to share, because I believe it’s the key. If I could just tell people how to stop thinking about description, how to just be in the state of pure observation, then maybe they could reach it too.

But I can’t. And that’s the paradox:

The state is only accessible when you’re not thinking about describing it.

But to teach it, you have to describe it—which makes it impossible to teach.

7. The Silence in My Work

I see this clearly in my writing. I’ve written a book—pages and pages of ideas, explanations, guides. And yet, nowhere in that book is this state described. Not a single word about it.

Because I can’t write about it. The moment I try, it’s gone. And so my book is full of everything but the thing that matters most. It’s like a circle with a hole in the center—the very heart of it is missing.

I feel this absence. I know something is unfinished. I know I haven’t fully explained what I see. But I also know I can’t. Not because I’m hiding it, but because the act of explanation destroys the thing I’m trying to explain.

8. The Final Realization

After all this, I’ve come to a conclusion:
The most authentic state is the one that cannot be described.

Any state that can be described is already a step removed from pure experience. It’s mediated. It’s filtered. It’s not the real thing.

And so, the guide I want to write—the perfect, final instruction—can never exist. Because the state it points to only exists in the absence of the guide itself.

This is the irony:

I want to write a guide to help others reach this state.

But the state can only be reached by not following any guide.

9. The Unanswered Question

So where does that leave me? Where does that leave anyone who wants to understand this?

I don’t know. Maybe the answer is to stop trying to describe it. Maybe the answer is to simply point at the silence and say:
"It’s there. But you’ll only see it when you stop looking for words."

But that’s not a guide. That’s not an explanation. That’s just… another description of the undescribable.

And so the cycle continues.

Closing Thought

Perhaps the only true "guide" is the realization that some things cannot—and should not—be guided. They can only be lived.

And maybe that’s enough.

The Cycle of Guides and Self-Control

1. The Illusion of the Guide

I started with a simple rule: "Don’t think about what you don’t want to think about, and don’t think about the guide itself." For a while, it worked. But then my state deteriorated. I noticed anger flaring up while gaming—nothing worked, nothing felt enjoyable. I asked myself: Why? And realized: I was thinking about what I’d lost. Memories of past states where I believed I wanted to play, believed things would get better. I was mourning a version of myself that no longer existed.

But even that realization didn’t fix things. My mind kept spinning: "What am I thinking about now? What shouldn’t I think about?" I was trapped in a loop, trying to craft the perfect guide—a set of words to follow so I’d feel good. Not just for me, but for others too. "If I can’t figure out what not to think about, maybe I need to tell others what they shouldn’t think about." But the more I chased this, the worse I felt. Because deep down, I didn’t believe in any guide. I was forcing myself to follow something I didn’t trust, and that contradiction made me miserable.

2. The Breakthrough: Letting Go of the Guide

After days of stress, I finally surrendered. "Fine. I can’t explain it. I can’t write the guide. I can’t teach anyone anything." I stopped trying to force it. And for the first time in days, I lay down to test something—just play a game. No expectations, no rules. And it worked. I enjoyed it. No rage, no frustration. Just pure, unfiltered engagement.

That’s when I saw it clearly: The only way I feel okay is when I stop trying to control myself with guides.

But this came with a terrifying realization: Without the guide, my only desire is to play games. Nothing else. No care for the future, no relationships, no family, no travel, no socializing. Just games. And everything I do—waking up, eating, working—is only to serve that one desire. "I live for games. The real world is just a resource depot for my virtual one."

3. The Fear of a "Small" Life

This scared me. "Is this really all I want? To spend my life on games?" I tried to resist. "Maybe I need a tiny guide—just enough to ensure I take care of the future, so I can keep playing." But even that small rule made me angry. Because the moment I tried to control myself—even a little—my motivation vanished. My brain rebelled.

I experimented: "What if I just accept this? What if I let myself want only games?" And surprisingly, it worked. I felt lighter. I had energy. I did things—not because I should, but because they served my one true desire. "I’ll work, but only to fund my gaming. I’ll eat, but only to stay alive for gaming. I’ll socialize, but only if it doesn’t interfere with gaming."

4. The Matrix Analogy

I realized: Games are my Matrix. The real world is just a place where my body exists—a sleep pod, a feeding tube. My real life happens in the virtual. Why? Because my brain finds it easier to develop there. In games, progress is clear, effort is rewarded, and the stakes feel meaningful. In reality? Too many variables, too much uncertainty. "Why struggle in the real world when I can thrive in a simulated one?"

I tested this: "What if games never existed?" Then maybe I’d care about real-world achievements—career, family, hobbies. But games do exist, and they’re better at fulfilling my brain’s need for growth and challenge. "Elon Musk said the future is everyone living in virtual worlds. I get it now. Why explore space when you can explore a game?"

5. The Paradox of Future-Care

The core conflict:

Without a guide, I only want games. But that feels "small"—like I’m wasting my life.

With a guide, I stress because I’m forcing myself to care about things I don’t actually want (future, relationships, success).

I tried to trick myself: "Maybe I can care about the future through games. Work to earn money for better gaming setup. Stay healthy to game longer." But even that was a guide—a form of control. And control always backfired.

6. The Final Acceptance

After days of torture, I surrendered completely. No guides. No future-care. Just games.

I stopped judging my desires.

I stopped trying to "fix" myself.

I accepted: "This is who I am now. Maybe forever."

And it worked. For the first time in ages, I felt alive. Not happy in a conventional sense, but present. Motivated. Free from the constant stress of "shoulds."

7. The New Reality

Now, my life is structured like this:

Primary Desire: Play games.

Secondary Actions: Only what serves #1 (work for money, health for stamina, minimal socializing to avoid interference).

Nothing Else Matters: No relationships, no grand ambitions, no "purpose" beyond gaming.

Is it objectively fulfilling? No. But it’s the only way I function without misery. "If I try to want more, I collapse. If I accept this, I survive."

8. The Unanswered Question

Is this enough?
I don’t know. But I’ve stopped asking. Because the alternative—endless stress, anger, and paralysis—is worse.

Key Takeaways (In the Author’s Words)

"Guides are traps." Trying to control myself with rules only makes me miserable.

"Games are my reality." The real world is a means to an end—like a battery pack for my virtual life.

"Future-care is a stress factory." The moment I think "I should plan ahead," I lose all motivation.

"Acceptance = Survival." The only way to function is to embrace what I actually want, not what I think I should want.

"This might be forever." And that’s okay. Because the alternative is a life of suffering.

Final Thought:
"Maybe I’m not broken. Maybe this is just how my brain works now. And if games are the only thing that make me feel alive… then I’ll build my life around them. No apologies."

Reflections Over the Last Three Days: Two Key Realizations

1. The Necessity of Unquestioned Desire to Play

I’ve been living in the same state I described in my last recording, and over the past three days, I’ve realized two critical things.

The first is this: If I start doubting whether I truly want to play games, I lose the ability to do anything at all. Not just work—nothing. I can’t get out of bed, can’t do chores, can’t function. The only way I can force myself to work, to move, to exist is if I am absolutely certain that I want to play. Because everything I do—working, writing a book, even basic tasks—is only meaningful if it serves that ultimate goal: playing.

Here’s how it happens:

I sit down to write a book (for example). I look at the work and think: Do I actually want this? No. I only write because it’s a means to financial independence, which lets me play as much as I want.

Then I question: Is playing really worth all this effort? If doubt creeps in—if I’m not certain I want to play—then the whole system collapses. I can’t work. I can’t do anything.

Solution: I must stop doubting that I want to play. If I accept it as an unshakable truth, then the resistance vanishes. I can work without hesitation because the purpose is clear.

There is no other way. I cannot want to work for its own sake, or for some abstract "better life." The only motivation that works is the certainty of wanting to play. If that certainty falters, I paralyze.

2. The Inevitability of Pain in Improvement

The second realization is about physical exhaustion. Lately, my body aches constantly—muscles, back, everything. Psychologically, I’m fine, but physically, I’m drained. The only things I can tolerate are:

Playing games (because immersion distracts from the pain).

Lying down or sleeping.

The problem: I need to improve my life (health, work, stamina) to play better, but every step toward improvement hurts. Writing a book? Sitting for hours is agony. Exercising? My muscles scream. Even basic tasks feel like torture.

Why? Because I no longer believe I want these improvements for their own sake. Before, when I believed in a "better life," that belief acted like a painkiller—I didn’t notice the strain. Now, without that belief, every ounce of effort is excruciatingly present.

The breakthrough:

There is no path to improvement without pain. If I want to write a book, I must sit through the discomfort. If I want fitness, I must push through the soreness.

The only choice is:

Option 1: Avoid pain, do nothing, and let my life deteriorate.

Option 2: Embrace the pain as the price of progress.

Once I accepted this, the resistance dissolved. I no longer fight the pain—I expect it, move through it, and do what’s necessary. Pain is not the enemy; it’s the pathway.

The Broader Pattern: How I Lost (and Regained) Agency

The Original State: Pure Desire

Years ago, I only wanted to play games. Nothing else mattered. I worked (when forced) but only because it enabled more gaming. Life was simple:

Motivation: Play games.

Means: Do the bare minimum to sustain that.

Result: No stress, no existential conflict.

The Break: The Illusion of "Wanting More"

Around age 20, my parents’ demands clash with my desire to play. They force me to do chores; I resent it. The resentment grows until I need a way to escape their control. So I invent a new belief:

"I want more than just games. I want independence, success, a better life."

"I should work hard to achieve this."

This was a lie. I didn’t actually want those things—I just wanted to play without interference. But the lie worked: it gave me the fuel to learn programming, move out, and build a life where I could play freely.

The cost:

Stress: Believing I should want more created pressure.

Burnout: When the belief faded, I was left with exhaustion and no real desire for the "better life" I’d chased.

The Return: Acceptance Without Illusion

Now, I’m back where I started—living with parents, wanting only to play—but with a critical difference:

No false beliefs. I don’t pretend to want "more." I don’t stress over "shoulds."

No resistance. If parents ask for help, I do it without anger because I’m not fighting an internal war.

Pain as a tool. If I choose to improve my life (for gaming or otherwise), I accept the pain as part of the process.

Key insight:

Desire is biological. My brain is wired to prefer games because they offer easy, constant rewards—unlike real life, where progress is slow and uncertain.

Change requires force. The only way to rewire this is through external constraints (e.g., if games disappeared, my brain would adapt). But since that’s unlikely, I’ve stopped fighting it.

The Open Question: Can This Be Changed?

I’ve spent days trying to figure out how to want other things—relationships, hobbies, a "meaningful" life. But:

Objective vs. subjective value: Intellectually, I see value in those things. Emotionally? My brain doesn’t care.

The gaming trap: Games are designed to be more rewarding than reality. My brain, like any brain, follows the path of least resistance.

Possible solutions?

External intervention: If games were banned, I’d adapt. But that’s not realistic.

Neurological rewiring: Maybe with time, my brain could find other rewards as compelling. But how? I’ve tried and failed.

Acceptance: For now, this is my life. It’s not bad. I enjoy games. I function. The stress is gone.

Final thought:
I wish I wanted more. I wish my brain craved complexity, relationships, or ambition. But it doesn’t. And after years of fighting that, I’ve stopped. This is how I’m built.

Closing

For now, I live by two rules:

Never doubt that I want to play. It’s the foundation of my ability to function.

Embrace pain as the price of progress. If I want something (even for gaming), I accept the discomfort.

Everything else—philosophizing, self-improvement, societal expectations—is noise. I’m done fighting my own nature.

A Journey from Apathy to Awakening: How I Learned to Want Again

1. The Starting Point: A Life of Empty Distractions

For a long time, I was convinced that the only thing I truly wanted was to play video games. I would lie there, drifting through days, deliberately avoiding deeper thoughts—until, inevitably, ideas would creep in. What if I wanted more? The question gnawed at me. I’d test these fleeting desires—relationships, meaningful work, self-improvement—but nothing stuck. Each attempt crumbled under scrutiny.

Then, one day, while playing, I realized: This isn’t enough. This life felt hollow, devoid of anything substantial. I turned to YouTube, stumbling upon videos about classic men’s fashion. Watching those well-dressed men, something shifted. A spark. I want that too. Suddenly, I saw a cascade of desires: relationships, a fulfilling career, dressing well, even driving a car. For the first time in years, I wanted—not just games, but a life.

But there was a catch.

2. The Paradox: Desire and Its Destruction

I noticed a strange pattern: the moment I tried to explain these desires—to myself or others—they vanished. Here’s how it worked:

Step 1: I’d feel drawn to something—say, a stylish suit or a meaningful job. The feeling was real, tangible.

Step 2: I’d label it: "This is what I want."

Step 3: Doubt would creep in. Why do I want this? Is this even true? The moment I questioned the label, the desire dissolved.

The problem wasn’t the feeling itself. It was the naming. The act of declaring "I want X" forced me to justify it, and justification killed it. I realized: I had spent years destroying my own desires by overanalyzing them.

3. The Core Insight: The Illusion of "True" Desire

I used to believe in fixed desires—things I "truly" wanted, independent of my thoughts. But now I see the truth:

Desire is fluid. It’s not a permanent state; it’s a response to what I focus on.

If I think about games all day, I’ll want to play games.

If I think about relationships, I’ll crave connection.

If I think about lying in bed, I’ll want to stay inert.

There is no "true" desire. The idea that one thing is objectively what I want is a myth. What I want is simply what I’m currently thinking about.

This was liberating—and terrifying. It meant I could choose my desires by choosing my thoughts. But it also meant I had to let go of the illusion of certainty.

4. The Trap of Self-Description

The real enemy wasn’t doubt. It was language—the habit of labeling my feelings as "wants." Here’s why it failed:

Labels demand belief. When I said "I want a relationship," I had to believe it. But belief is fragile. The second I questioned it ("Do I really?"), the desire collapsed.

Belief creates pressure. If I "wanted" something, I’d stress over achieving it. Fear of failure, anger at obstacles—emotions I didn’t need.

Without labels, feelings persist. When I stopped calling my attraction to a suit "wanting" and just felt it, the pull remained. No justification, no collapse.

Solution: Stop naming. Stop explaining. Just observe the feeling and act.

5. The New Framework: Desire as a Tool

Now, I operate on a simple rule:

"I desire what I think about. Nothing more, nothing less."

Morning routine: If I wake up and think, "I’m tired; I’ll lie here," that’s what I’ll want.

Alternative: If I think, "I’ll get up, work on my goals, dress well," that’s what I’ll crave.

No "true" path. There’s no inherent right answer. I can want games, or relationships, or a mix. The key is conscious focus.

This removes the paralysis of "What do I really want?" Because the answer is always: Whatever I’m thinking about right now.

6. The Freedom and the Fear

This realization brought two things:

Freedom: I’m no longer chained to the idea of a "true self" with fixed desires. I can shape my wants by shaping my thoughts.

Responsibility: If my desires are malleable, I must curate them. No external force will hand me motivation. I must choose—every day, every hour—what to focus on.

The old me sought a desire so strong it would survive scrutiny. The new me knows: Desire is a verb, not a noun. It’s something I do, not something I have.

7. Practical Implications: How I Live Now

No more "why." I don’t ask "Why do I want this?" because the question is irrelevant. The feeling is enough.

No more justifications. I don’t need to prove my desires to myself or others. I feel, I act.

Flexibility. If I want to play games today, I do. If I want to work on my career tomorrow, I shift focus. No guilt, no conflict—just choice.

Avoiding the "should" trap. The moment I think "I should want X," I’m back in the cycle of doubt. Instead, I ask: "What do I feel drawn to right now?"

8. The Remaining Challenge: The Habit of Overthinking

The hardest part? Unlearning the reflex to analyze.

Old habit: Feel a pull → Label it → Doubt it → Lose it.

New habit: Feel a pull → Don’t label → Act on it.

It’s not about blind faith in my feelings. It’s about trusting the process—knowing that desire doesn’t need a name to be real.

9. The Big Picture: A Life Without Fixed Desires

I used to think life was about finding the thing I was meant to want. Now I see:

Desire is a river, not a rock. It flows, changes, adapts.

I am the architect. By choosing my focus, I choose my path.

There is no "wrong" desire. Games, relationships, ambition—they’re all valid if I’m present with them.

The only rule? Don’t cling. The moment I try to freeze a desire in place—"This is what I really want"—I lose it. But if I let it breathe, it stays alive.

10. Final Thought: The Power of Not Knowing

I don’t know what I’ll want tomorrow. And that’s okay.

For the first time, I’m not searching for a grand purpose or a single "true" desire. I’m just living in the feeling, one thought at a time.

And strangely, that’s enough.

The Trap of Labels: How Naming My Desires Shaped My Suffering

1. The Discovery: Observing Without Judgment

I began by realizing something profound: I had learned to observe my own thoughts and feelings without attaching labels to them. Specifically, I noticed that when I felt drawn to something—when a thought or desire arose—I used to instinctively slap a mental label on it: "This is what I want." That simple act of naming it as my "wish" or "desire" was where all my problems started.

The moment I called it "what I want," the world seemed to conspire against me. I’d grow angry because everything around me became an obstacle to getting it. Or I’d feel sad, stressed, or frustrated. But then I learned to just observe—to see the feeling of attraction without naming it, without claiming it as "mine." I treated it like a neutral phenomenon, something passing through my awareness. And when I did that, the suffering vanished. The desire was still there, but it no longer controlled me.

This was my breakthrough. I thought I had cracked the code.

2. The First Collapse: Work and the Absence of Desire

Then I tried to apply this to my life—specifically, to my work. I sat down to write a book, to create something, and at first, it went well. But at some point, I noticed a strange emptiness: I felt no pull, no attraction to the act of writing. There was no inner "want" driving me.

Here’s where I made my first critical mistake. Instead of just observing this absence of desire, I labeled it. I told myself: "I’m doing something I don’t want to do." That label—"I don’t want this"—became my reality. Suddenly, my motivation evaporated. I went from writing with purpose to questioning why I was even bothering. "Why am I doing this if I don’t want to? What’s the point?"

The irony? Before I named it, I had been motivated. The label didn’t describe my state—it created it.

3. The Paradox of Money and Desire

This led me to a deeper contradiction. I realized I wanted things—games, relationships, travel, experiences—but all of them required money. And yet, the act of earning money held no appeal for me. "I don’t want to work," I thought. "I don’t feel drawn to making money. I only care about spending it."

I was trapped:

What I wanted (experiences, freedom) required resources.

What I needed to do (work) felt devoid of desire.

I spent days stuck in this loop, trying to rationalize it: "Maybe it’s okay to do things I don’t want if they serve a greater goal." I told myself: "I don’t have to want to work—I just need to accept that work is a means to an end." For a while, this worked. I could write again, not because I "wanted" to, but because I needed to.

But the fix was fragile.

4. The Second Collapse: Helping Others

Then came the test: my mother asked me for help. Something simple, something she needed. At first, I didn’t hesitate—I just went to do it. But as I moved to act, my mind intervened. "This isn’t for me," I thought. "I don’t want this. I don’t need this. This is for her."

The moment I labeled it "not for me," my mood plummeted. I was no longer just helping—I was sacrificing. The task became a burden. I did it, but afterward, I felt hollow. "Why did I do something I didn’t want? Why did I waste my time on what doesn’t matter to me?"

The worst part? Afterward, I couldn’t even return to my own work. My energy was drained. The label "this isn’t for me" had poisoned everything.

5. The Core Problem: The Tyranny of Labels

Here’s what I finally understood:

When I feel drawn to something, I used to label it "I want this." That label created attachment, and attachment led to suffering when reality didn’t align.

When I felt no draw, I labeled it "I don’t want this." That label created resistance, and resistance killed my motivation.

When I did something for others, I labeled it "not for me." That label made it feel like a violation, even if the act itself was neutral or even kind.

The pattern was clear: Every time I named my experience, I distorted it. The labels weren’t descriptions—they were commands to my brain, dictating how I should feel.

6. The Morning After: A Glimmer of Clarity

This morning, I woke up still tangled in these thoughts. But then, something shifted. I realized:

Desire isn’t the problem. The problem is what I do with the observation of desire (or its absence).

Labels are traps. The moment I say "I want" or "I don’t want," I stop seeing reality. I start seeing only the story I’ve created.

Action doesn’t need desire. I can write, work, or help without "wanting" to—in the same way I can observe a thought without claiming it.

The question now is: Can I act without the narrative? Can I write a book, earn money, or help my mother without first deciding whether I "want" to or not?

Because maybe—just maybe—the "wanting" and the "not wanting" are both illusions. Maybe what’s left, when the labels fall away, is just doing.

And that might be enough.

Final Thought:
What if the problem wasn’t the work, the money, or the requests from others? What if it was only ever the stories I told myself about them?

The Beginning: The Illusion of Desire

I started with a simple realization: I only felt the desire to play games, but even following that desire didn’t bring me joy. Life felt dull, unfulfilling. So I quit gaming. But then, aimlessly scrolling through YouTube, I noticed something deeper—a pull toward more. Not just games, but the things people usually want: looking good, relationships, work, purpose. I saw this pull. It wasn’t an abstract idea; it was a tangible feeling inside me.

But here’s what I observed: the moment I labeled that feeling—when I called it "what I want"—it vanished. Not the feeling itself, but my belief in it. I realized: labels are dangerous. A label isn’t just a word; it’s a mental structure loaded with assumptions. When I labeled my pull toward something as "what I want," I immediately doubted the label. And because the label was tied to the feeling, doubting the label made me doubt the feeling itself. So I stopped wanting to act on it at all.

The breakthrough came when I stopped labeling entirely. I learned to observe the feeling without naming it. No "I want this," no "I don’t want that." Just raw sensation, pure and unnamed. And that was enough.

The First Problem: Work and the "I Don’t Want" Label

I thought I had solved it—until I tried to work. I felt no pull toward work, no desire. And how do we usually describe doing something without desire? We say, "I don’t want to do this." That label—"I don’t want"—created stress. Because if I’m doing something I "don’t want," why am I doing it? It feels like a mistake, like I’m living wrong.

Then I saw it: "I don’t want" is just another label. The absence of desire isn’t inherently bad—it’s only bad because I called it bad. So I stopped. I worked without labeling my lack of desire. I didn’t ask why I was working or whether I "wanted" to. I just worked. And the stress disappeared.

The Second Problem: Helping Others and the "This Isn’t for Me" Label

Then my mom asked me to do something. Instinctively, I labeled it: "This isn’t what I want. It’s not for me; it’s for her." But I also knew that refusing would harm our relationship. So I did it—while clinging to the label that it was unwanted. And afterward, I felt empty. My motivation for everything vanished.

I realized: the label "this isn’t for me" poisoned the action. It made me resentful, drained. So I tried something radical: I helped her without labeling it at all. No "I don’t want this," no "this is for her." Just action, pure and simple. And this time, I didn’t feel worse afterward. The label had been the problem, not the action itself.

The Third Problem: The Guide and the "I Must" Label

Later, I felt a strong pull to write a guide for others. But when I tried, I stressed over doing it right—fearing I’d explain poorly or fail. Why? Because I had labeled my desire: "I want to write this." And that label birthed another: "I must do it well." "I must" is a stress factory.

I traced it back: I only stress over labels I believe. If I label a feeling as "what I want," I believe it—and then I believe I must act on it perfectly. But if I don’t label it at all? The stress evaporates. The desire to write the guide didn’t disappear; I just stopped calling it "what I want." I stopped believing in the label. And without the label, there was no "must," no stress. Just action—or inaction—without judgment.

The Core Insight: Labels Create Suffering

Here’s the pattern I saw:

I feel something (a pull, a resistance, an emotion).

I label it ("I want this," "I don’t want that," "this is for someone else").

The label dictates my emotions. If I label it "what I want," I fear not getting it. If I label it "what I don’t want," I resent doing it.

The emotions feel real—but they’re artifacts of the label. Without the label, the raw feeling remains, but the suffering vanishes.

Labels aren’t neutral. They’re mental traps. When I say, "I want X," I’m not just describing a feeling—I’m inviting anxiety (what if I don’t get X?), frustration (why don’t I have X?), and guilt (why don’t I want X enough?). When I say, "I don’t want Y," I’m inviting resistance, procrastination, and shame.

The solution? Stop labeling entirely.

The Final Hurdle: "Why?" and the Fear of Meaninglessness

But then came the hardest part: if I don’t label my actions, I can’t explain why I’m doing them. And without a "why," life feels meaningless. For two days, I lay in bed paralyzed. I’d feel a pull to get up, but then ask: "Why?" And because no label (no "because I want to," no "because it’s good for me") felt true, I stayed still.

I realized: the search for "why" is just another label. It’s the mind’s demand for a story to justify action. But stories are just more labels—and I don’t believe in labels anymore. So I gave up. I got up without a why. I ate without a why. I worked without a why.

And it worked. Action doesn’t need a reason. The pull itself is enough.

The New Way: Living Without Labels

Now, this is how I live:

I feel a pull toward something. (Eat, work, help someone, create.)

I don’t label it. No "I want," no "I don’t want," no "I should."

I act—or I don’t. Without judgment, without stress.

Pain? Irrelevant. If I’m tired but still feel pulled to work, I work. The label "I’m tired" would only create resistance. Others’ requests? Irrelevant. If my mom asks for help, I help—not because I "want to" or "should," but because the action itself is neutral. Fear of failure? Gone. If I write a guide, I don’t call it "what I want," so there’s no "must" attached.

The Ultimate Freedom: Not Caring About the Labels

The final step was realizing: I don’t care what I feel. Not in a numb way—in a free way. If I label a feeling, I start caring too much (Am I happy? Am I doing what I want?). But without labels? Feelings are just weather passing through. I don’t need to name them, judge them, or obey them. I just act—or rest—based on the raw pull.

Stress? It only exists when I label a feeling as "bad" or an action as "wrong." Motivation? It’s not about wanting; it’s about moving. Meaning? It’s not in the "why"; it’s in the doing.

Today: The Practice

Now, I live by one rule:

Observe the pull.

Ignore the labels.

Act (or don’t) without explanation.

Yesterday, I felt pulled to restore my health. I didn’t call it "what I want"; I just did it. When I got tired, I didn’t label the tiredness as "a reason to stop." I kept going. When I felt pain, I didn’t call it "bad." I just noted it and decided: Does the pull outweigh the pain? Often, it does.

Games? I used to play for 5 hours because I labeled myself "tired" and games "easy." Now, if I feel pulled to play, I play—but I don’t believe the label "I’m tired." So I also work, create, and live without the guilt or the stress.

The End of the Story (For Now)

I’ve stopped asking why. I’ve stopped needing labels. I just do—not because I want to, not because I should, but because the alternative is paralysis. And in this space, something unexpected happened:

I stopped caring about how I feel.

Not in a depressed way—in a liberated way. Feelings are just data. Labels turn data into drama. Without labels, there’s no drama. There’s just life, unfolding, one unnamed pull at a time.

Final Thought:
The mind wants to name everything. But names are cages. The freest life is the unlabeled one.

The Cycle of Submission and the Fear of Conflict

I’ve been living in a state where I don’t overthink my actions—no self-reflection, no labels, no questioning how I should feel. I just exist, doing what I want and avoiding what I don’t. But then I hit a situation I wasn’t prepared for. It wasn’t about external circumstances; it was about my own reactions. I was in a good mood, motivated, everything was fine—until I wasn’t.

The situation was this: I live financially dependent on others. One day, someone decided to cook—without asking me—and chose a complicated recipe. They made a mess, piles of dirty dishes, and just assumed I’d wash them. This wasn’t essential food; it was their personal culinary experiment, their entertainment. Yet they expected me to clean up after them. When I saw the mountain of dishes, every fiber of my being screamed: I don’t want to do this. I knew, logically, that they should wash their own mess. "You made the mess, you clean it up." But in that moment, I froze.

Why? Because I’m dependent on these people. I fear their disapproval, their anger, their accusations: "You’re ungrateful. You’re overstepping." So I swallowed my resistance. I washed the dishes. And the moment I did—the moment I betrayed myself—I felt my motivation drain away. My mood collapsed. I returned to my room and realized: I don’t want to do anything with my life anymore.

The Two Paths: Submission or Resistance

I saw two options:

The Path of Submission

Keep doing what others expect.

Never rock the boat.

Live as a servant to their demands.
Result: A life without personal ambition, without motivation. A hollow existence where I’m just a tool for others’ convenience.

The Path of Resistance

Stand my ground.

Say "no" when something feels wrong.

Risk conflict, risk losing their support.
Problem: I don’t believe in the labels we use to justify these stands. "You should wash your own dishes"—but why? Is that an objective truth? No. It’s just a label, a social construct. So how can I argue for it if I don’t even believe in the foundation?

I realized: I don’t need to believe in the labels. I can use them as tools. When I say, "You should wash your own dishes," I’m not declaring a moral truth. I’m playing a game—a negotiation game where the goal isn’t to be right but to shape reality in a way that works for me. The labels are just words, levers to pull. The only thing that matters is the outcome: Do I get what I want?

The Fear of the Third Option

For a long time, I resisted this conclusion. I kept searching for a "third option"—some magical middle ground where I wouldn’t have to choose between submission and conflict. But there isn’t one. The brain doesn’t work that way. Either:

You assert your will, or

You suppress it.

When you suppress it, your brain shuts down. No ambition. No drive. Just numbness.

I remembered when I was 20, living with my parents. They demanded things I hated doing, and I resisted—until they threatened to cut me off. I caved. I learned to obey. And that obedience broke me. It taught me to fear conflict, to prioritize others’ approval over my own needs. For years, I’ve lived in that fear, and it’s stolen my will to live.

The Experiment: Living Without Labels

I decided to test a new approach:

No internal labels. No "I should" or "I shouldn’t." Just raw experience: I want this. I don’t want that.

No external submission. If something feels wrong, I refuse—no matter the cost.

No post-hoc guilt. If I stand my ground, I don’t second-guess it. The alternative (submission) is worse than any backlash.

Example: If that person cooks again and leaves a mess, I’ll say:
"No. You made the mess. You clean it."
No justification. No debate. Just a boundary.

What if they retaliate?

They might cut me off. So what? I’ll figure it out.

I’d rather be homeless and free than comfortable and empty.

The key insight: Submission is death. Not literal death, but the death of desire, of agency. And that’s worse than any material loss.

The Trap of "Guides"

At first, I turned this into a guide—a set of rules to follow:
"Always say no to what you don’t want. Never justify yourself."
But that’s just another label! The moment I start following a guide, I’m back in the same trap: living by external rules instead of raw feeling.

True freedom means:

No guides.

No overthinking "how I should live."

Just acting from instinct, then letting go.

When I wake up now, I don’t remember yesterday’s epiphanies. That’s good. It means I’m not clinging to them as dogma. I’m just living.

The Only Two Real Options

Submit → Lose all motivation. Become a ghost in your own life.

Resist → Risk conflict, but stay alive inside.

There is no third option.
Even if resistance leads to hardship, it’s better than the slow death of compliance. Because the alternative isn’t just "unhappiness"—it’s nonexistence. A life where you don’t even want anything anymore.

Final Realization: The World Won’t End

I used to think:
"If I don’t obey, everything will fall apart."
But now I see: The world adjusts.

If I refuse to wash their dishes, they’ll either:

Wash them themselves, or

Live with dirty dishes.

If they cut me off, I’ll survive. I’ll find a way.

The only thing that won’t survive is my spirit—if I keep betraying it.

How I Live Now

I do what I want. Not because it’s "right," but because it’s mine.

I say no without guilt. Not because I’m "entitled," but because submission is suicide.

I don’t explain myself. The moment I start justifying, I’m back in the label game.

I accept the consequences. Hardship is better than emptiness.

This isn’t a philosophy. It’s survival.

Closing Thought:
I spent years afraid of conflict, of losing support, of being wrong. But the real loss was myself. Now, I’d rather lose everything else than lose that again.

Morning Awakening: The Absence of Desire

This morning, I woke up to the sound of my alarm—and felt nothing. No longing, no cravings, no impulses. My mind was empty, a blank slate. Yesterday, I had been full of desires: I wanted things, I pursued them, my mood was good, everything flowed. But today? Nothing. Not even the echo of yesterday’s wants.

I began to wonder: How do I bring back that sense of wanting? I tried to recall some internal "guide"—a mental script I once followed to conjure motivation. But then I realized: I no longer believe in any guide. The idea of following pre-written steps feels hollow, artificial. It doesn’t work.

The Illusion of Inherent Desire

I asked myself: What did I want yesterday? Relationships? Work? Clothes I’d planned to buy? I thought about these things—and felt nothing. The act of thinking alone doesn’t spark desire. It’s not enough to merely consider a thing; I must convince myself I want it.

Here’s the closest I can describe it: I have to pretend I feel the pull. If I imagine myself craving a tailored suit—not just picturing it, but acting as if I’m drawn to it—then, and only then, does the attraction emerge. My brain doesn’t generate desire spontaneously. I must fabricate it.

The Paradox of Choice: Why Bother?

Once I accepted that desire is self-created, a deeper question arose: Why should I create it at all? Before, I believed my wants were real, intrinsic. Now, I see them as constructs—something I can choose to build or ignore.

I could lie here forever, inert, feeling nothing. Or I could invent a want, let it pull me into action, and live a life filled with experiences—even if they’re ultimately meaningless. There’s no "why" beyond the doing itself. My brain seems wired to prefer motion over stagnation, even if the motion is arbitrary.

The Mechanism of the Mind

I realized: There’s no secret formula. No guide to recall. Just the raw mechanics of how my mind works:

Default State: I wake up empty because desire isn’t automatic. It’s not a force that exists independently of me.

Creation: To feel anything, I must actively imagine the craving. I look at others—see what excites them—and choose to adopt it as my own.

Action Without Purpose: Once the desire is fabricated, I follow it not for a reason, but because the alternative is paralysis.

This isn’t about truth or authenticity. It’s about functionality. My brain operates better when it’s doing, even if the "why" is absent.

The Two Paths

Now, I face a binary choice:

Option 1: Remain in bed, a void of inaction, until time runs out.

Option 2: Invent a want, let it animate me, and live a life of fabricated but felt experiences.

I don’t know why I’d choose the second. Maybe it’s genetic, a preprogrammed bias toward engagement over apathy. Or maybe it’s just that a brain aware of its own mechanisms must create motion to avoid collapse.

Conclusion: The Art of Living Without "Why"

So here’s the truth I’ve landed on:

Desire is a performance. I don’t "have" wants; I enact them.

Meaning is optional. The "why" is irrelevant. What matters is the experience of wanting and doing.

The mind demands motion. Stagnation feels like a system error. Even if the goals are arbitrary, movement is the default state of a mind that understands itself.

I’ll get up. I’ll invent a craving. I’ll follow it—not because it’s true, but because the alternative is a life unlived. And when I look back, I’d rather see a trail of fabricated passions than a blank stretch of time.

That’s all. For now.

Key Themes Preserved:

The artificiality of desire ("I must pretend I want it").

The rejection of inherent meaning ("not for a reason, but because the alternative is paralysis").

The mechanical view of the mind ("a brain aware of its own mechanisms").

The binary choice between action and inertia.

Three Key Insights That Transformed My Life

1. The Problem of Fatigue and the Illusion of Alternatives

I realized something profound about how I handle exhaustion. Here’s what happens: I feel drawn to meaningful activities—work, relationships, writing a book, taking care of my health—things I genuinely want to do. But at some point, fatigue sets in. I lose the energy to follow these desires, and I’m left sitting idle, frustrated by the wasted time.

This is where the mistake begins. Instead of accepting the fatigue, I start searching for something else to do—anything to avoid "wasting time." The only alternative my mind offers is an old, dependent urge: playing video games or mindlessly watching YouTube. I don’t actually want these things; they’re remnants of past habits, past addictions. But in the moment, they feel like the only option.

Here’s the catch: when I force myself to follow these false urges, I don’t enjoy them. I feel anger, stress, and guilt because deep down, I know I’m not doing what I truly want. I’m just escaping discomfort. The solution? Stop pretending there’s an alternative.

Now, I only have two real options:

Do what I genuinely want (work, create, connect) for as long as I have energy.

Do nothing at all when I’m exhausted—just rest, without guilt or distraction.

The moment I accepted this, everything changed. I no longer waste mental energy debating whether I’m "tired enough" to stop. If I’m tired, I rest. If I’m not, I keep going. No third option (like gaming) exists because it’s a trap—it doesn’t recharge me; it drains me further.

Result: My productivity skyrocketed. I work until I’m truly spent, then rest fully, without the noise of false alternatives.

2. The End of Self-Checking and the Illusion of Control

After solving the fatigue problem, I noticed a lingering issue: psychosomatic stress. Tiny, constant tensions—like compulsive nose-sniffing—signaled I was still holding onto something.

I realized I was constantly checking myself. Not in a healthy, mindful way, but out of fear: "Am I doing this right? Will I regret this later? Is this the optimal path?" I was trapped in a loop of second-guessing every action, every desire, because I feared making a "mistake" that would ruin my future.

But here’s what I observed: When I follow my genuine urges—without labels, without overthinking—my life unfolds in the best possible way. For two days, I tested this. I stopped checking. I stopped asking, "Is this good enough?" And guess what? Everything was good enough. My work, my health, my relationships—all thrived.

The stress vanished when I trusted my instincts. The need to "check" was a leftover from old dependencies (like gaming) where I’d lost trust in myself. But now, those dependencies are gone. My desires align with what’s truly good for me.

Key insight: The brain learns from experience. Just as you don’t need a rule "Don’t touch a hot stove" after burning yourself once, you don’t need to obsessively control your actions after learning what works. Trust the process.

3. The Trap of "Guides" and the Freedom of Pure Observation

This was the hardest lesson. Here’s what happened:

I was living well—working on my book, feeling motivated, no stress—when a situation arose: my family needed money. Suddenly, I felt pressure to "hurry up" and finish my book faster to contribute. In that moment, I unconsciously created a mental "guide" for myself: "I need to push harder. I need to focus. I need to speed this up."

The second I framed my work as a "should" or "must," everything collapsed.

My motivation vanished.

I felt stressed and resentful.

I stopped enjoying what I was doing.

Why? Because "guides" (even self-imposed ones) are forms of control. They imply distrust in your natural flow. My brain rebelled because it knew: This isn’t what I truly want. This is fear talking.

But here’s the deeper trap: Even realizing this, I tried to create a "guide" about not creating guides. I thought, "Okay, the problem is guides. So I’ll make a rule: ‘Never make guides.’" But that’s still a guide—and it still made me feel terrible.

The breakthrough:

Law of Observation: I can describe patterns (e.g., "When I force myself with ‘shoulds,’ I feel bad"), but I cannot prescribe what to do with them.

The Brain Self-Corrects: Just as you don’t need to repeat "Don’t touch fire" to avoid burns, you don’t need to obsess over avoiding "guides." Once you see the pattern, your brain adjusts naturally.

Freedom in Uncertainty: I no longer need to know "what to do" with every insight. I describe, I observe, and I trust that my brain will handle the rest.

Result: The moment I stopped trying to fix my insights, my motivation and peace returned. I write, I work, I live—not because a "guide" tells me to, but because I want to.

The Final Shift: From "What’s Better?" to "What Do I Want?"

A small but powerful observation:

Old me: I’d ask, "What’s the best choice?" then try to make myself want it.

New me: I ask, "What do I want?"—and it always turns out to be the best choice.

The order flipped. When you stop obsessing over "better" and just follow your genuine desires, life aligns effortlessly.

Summary of the Three Transformations

Problem

Old Approach

New Approach

Outcome

Fatigue

Force alternatives (gaming, distractions)

Rest or do what I want—no in-between

Sustainable energy, no guilt

Self-Doubt

Constantly check: "Is this right?"

Trust the process; no checking

Zero stress, full confidence

"Guides" and Control

Create rules to avoid mistakes

Observe patterns; never prescribe

Natural motivation, no resistance

Final Thought:
Life isn’t about finding the "right" system. It’s about seeing clearly—then letting go of the need to control what you see. The brain knows. You know. Trust that.

The Shift in Perspective: From Writing to Self-Reflection

I was sitting, working, writing my book—everything was flowing. I was doing what I felt drawn to, lost in the process, not overthinking. Just creating. Then, I looked back at my notes—four years’ worth of old and new entries. At first, I thought only the newest ones mattered, that the older ones were outdated, irrelevant. But then I wondered: What if the old ones are useful too? Maybe someone would find them meaningful, or at least interesting to read.

I decided to structure the book in three parts:

The oldest entries.

The newer ones.

The most recent.

Then, I thought: I should write a guide on how to read my book. What to skip, what to focus on, how to engage with the text. But the moment I started thinking about telling others what to do with my work, my motivation vanished. My state shifted. It took me a full day to understand why.

The Problem with Guides: Why They Ruin Everything

I used to observe patterns—describe them, then immediately tell people what to do with those patterns. As if they couldn’t figure it out themselves. I’d think: "Here’s a pattern, and here’s how you should use it." But I learned to stop doing that. I stopped writing guides on how to live based on the patterns I found.

Yet, here I was again, looking at my book—a collection of described patterns—and thinking: People won’t know what to do with this. They won’t understand how to read it, how to apply it. I felt the urge to write a guide for them. But the second I did, my energy drained. Because any time I think about telling others what to do, my state worsens. My motivation disappears.

The Realization: I Don’t Know What to Do Either

I don’t know what anyone—myself included—should do with these patterns. I don’t know what to do with the descriptions of these patterns. Should they be read? Ignored? In what order? I have no idea. So why pretend I do?

The moment I accepted that I don’t know, the compulsion to guide others vanished. My state returned to normal. I could write again. But then another question arose: Why follow these impulses at all? Why write, why work? And the answer was simple: For nothing. For no reason. That’s the only way it works. The second I attach a purpose or a why, it collapses.

The Threat: When Protection Mode Takes Over

Just as I regained my balance, something else happened. Someone threatened me—threatened my freedom. Instantly, my state shifted again. Aggression surged. Not blind rage, but defensive aggression. A need to eliminate the threat, to remove this person from my life.

I spent a day resolving the situation. The threat disappeared, but I couldn’t return to my previous state. I was stuck in protection mode—hypervigilant, ready to fight, unable to relax.

Understanding the Two Modes

The "Gathering Mushrooms" Mode

I do what I’m drawn to.

I don’t think about others—what they do, what they should do.

I don’t try to control or guide anyone.

I’m free, focused, at peace.

The "Protection" Mode

Triggered by a real threat.

My brain shifts automatically.

I become aggressive, controlling, manipulative—not out of belief, but out of necessity.

I say things to others not because I think they should listen, but because I want them to stop threatening me.

It’s a tool, a game. I don’t believe in the words I’m saying—I just want the threat gone.

The Fear of Letting Go

I couldn’t return to the first mode because I feared: What if another threat appears when I’m not looking? My brain knew the answer: It will alert me when it matters. Just like before—when the threat came, my brain reacted before I even fully processed it.

I don’t need to constantly scan for dangers. My brain does that automatically. If a real threat emerges, it will pull me into protection mode. Until then, I can trust it and live freely.

The Difference Between Guides and Defense

Old habit: Writing guides for others (or myself) on how to live—believing I knew what was best.

New reality: When defending myself, I say things to others—not because I believe in them, but because I want a specific outcome (e.g., for them to back off).

It’s not about truth. It’s about survival.

It’s not about control. It’s about protection.

The Final Insight: Trust the Process

I don’t need to tell myself or others what to do with my observations. The mind already knows. If something harms me, I’ll stop doing it. If something helps, I’ll keep doing it—without a guide.

The same goes for others. Knowledge is enough. Experience teaches. No guides needed.

Conclusion: Living Without the Need to Control

Now, I’m back in the "gathering mushrooms" mode—peaceful, focused, free. I don’t waste energy trying to control reality or others. I trust that when a real threat comes, my brain will handle it. Until then, I just live.

And that’s enough.

Key Takeaways (Structured Summary)

Theme

Realization

Writing the Book

Initially wanted to curate only new notes, then considered including old ones—but feared confusion.

The Guide Trap

Trying to tell others how to read my work killed my motivation.

Accepting Uncertainty

I don’t know what anyone (including me) should do with my patterns—and that’s okay.

Threat Response

Aggression arises only when freedom is threatened—not out of malice, but defense.

Two Modes of Being

1. Free flow (doing what I love). 2. Protection (defensive, controlling).

Trusting the Brain

My brain detects real threats automatically—I don’t need to force vigilance.

No More Guides

Neither I nor others need instructions. Experience and instinct are enough.

Final State

Back to peace—writing, creating, living without the need to control or explain.

A Journey Through States of Mind: Observations, Mistakes, and Discoveries

1. The Initial State: Clarity and Motivation

I was in a good state—clear, motivated, and aligned with what truly drew me in. I was doing what I wanted, writing, exploring ideas, and feeling fulfilled. Everything seemed to flow naturally.

2. The First Disruption: Losing the State

Then, something shifted. While working on my book, I started thinking about how to explain to others how to read it—how to approach it, what to do with it. I became obsessed with creating a "guide to the guide," a meta-instruction for my own work.

This act of overthinking—trying to prescribe how others should engage with my ideas—drained my motivation. My state collapsed. I spent half a day trying to recover it, only to realize the core issue: I was pretending to know how others should interact with my work when I didn’t even fully understand it myself.

Once I stopped fixating on that, my state restored—almost. But something lingered.

3. The Lingering Problem: Obsession with Description

I thought I had fixed everything, but I was still stuck in a loop: I kept thinking about describing the patterns I had discovered.

Why had my state deteriorated?

What words could capture the mechanisms behind it?

How could I articulate the "laws" governing my own mind?

This preoccupation with describing the experience—rather than simply living it—kept me from full recovery. I was analyzing the analysis itself, and it was subtly poisoning my clarity.

4. The Threat and the Aggression

In this compromised state, I encountered a situation where someone threatened me. Normally, I would have reacted with aggression, but this time, I noticed something strange: my response was muted. Not because I was indifferent, but because my state was already off. The aggression I felt wasn’t pure; it was a symptom of my earlier mental distortion.

I went to sleep that night, exhausted.

5. The Morning After: A Reset

When I woke up, something had changed. I no longer remembered the obsessions of the day before. The questions about descriptions, guides, and patterns—gone. My mind was empty, and my state felt right again.

I tested it: I imagined the threat repeating. No aggression. No emotional charge. Just calm.

But then, a new question emerged: Why do I even think about things that spark my desire?

6. The Paradox of Desire

I lay in bed, paralyzed by this question:

Why do I start wanting things?

Why do I imagine writing a book, or dressing well, or pursuing relationships?

Where does the impulse come from?

I couldn’t act on these desires because I couldn’t justify why they existed. It wasn’t about purpose (I had already accepted that life doesn’t need one), but about cause. If I couldn’t explain why I wanted something, how could I follow it?

This mental block froze me. I couldn’t move forward until I answered it.

7. The Escape: Gaming as a Default

Unable to resolve the paradox, I defaulted to an old habit: gaming. Not out of passion, but because it was the only desire that didn’t demand justification. It was a dependent want—mechanical, not tied to deeper questions.

I played, and for a moment, it worked. I felt good. But then, something unexpected happened: I got bored. The desire faded, and new ones emerged—writing, changing the world—but these were different. They didn’t require answers to why. They just were.

8. The New State: Effortless Motivation

Now, my desires feel thicker, richer, more natural. They don’t need explanation. I don’t ask why I want to write or create—I just do.

And the old threats? If I imagine them now, I know:

No aggression.

No fear.

Just calm, rational resolution.

This state feels ideal—motivated, clear, and unshakable.

9. The Mistake: Fatigue and Distraction

Last night, I made an error. I was tired but wanted to work. Instead of resting or working through fatigue, I defaulted to distractions—gaming, YouTube—things I didn’t truly want. This created stress because I was betraying my own desires.

I realized: There are only two options:

Do what I actually want (even if tired).

Do nothing at all.

The middle path—doing something just to do something—is a trap.

10. The Final Insight: The Danger of Description

This morning, I woke up with a scowl. Then I noticed the pattern:

When I think about describing my life (plans, goals, how I should live), my state worsens.

When I stop describing and just live, everything flows.

Descriptions are traps. They turn experience into rigid frameworks, draining vitality. The mind doesn’t need guides—it knows already. The moment I try to verbalize or systematize my own patterns, I lose the natural rhythm.

11. The Core Lesson: Observation Over Analysis

For years, I’ve been doing one thing: observing and discovering patterns.

I notice a pattern (e.g., "labeling emotions distorts them").

I describe it.

The act of description changes me.

I find new patterns.

It’s like touching a hot kettle:

First time: I burn myself.

Second time: I know not to touch it.

The mind learns without needing a manual. The discovery itself is the change.

12. The Future: Living Without the "Why"

Now, I don’t need to justify my desires. I don’t need to explain why I write, or create, or play. I just do—and the state stays pure.

If a threat comes? I’ll handle it calmly.
If I’m tired? I’ll rest or work, but never force a false action.
If I want to game? Fine. If I want to write? Also fine.

The only rule: No descriptions. No overthinking the process. Just living.

Final Thought

This isn’t about rejecting thought—it’s about trusting the mind’s natural intelligence. Patterns emerge, lessons land, and change happens—not through force, but through aware, uncluttered presence.

The Core Realization: Trust in Words and Observations

1. The Problem: A Sudden Shift in State

Everything was working like clockwork. I was in a good state—motivated, clear-headed, and productive. Then, something changed. I couldn’t pinpoint what it was at first, but my state worsened. I felt lost, confused, and unable to understand what was happening to me.

After some time, I realized the source of the problem: my book. Specifically, my old notes.

I had been rewriting my old journal entries, transcribing them into a cleaner draft. At some point, I reached entries that made me feel worse just by reading them. Not because they were poorly written, but because they touched on unpleasant themes for the mind—ideas that undermined my sense of stability.

At first, I didn’t connect my declining state with the book. I thought I had messed something up in my life, made a wrong move, or failed to do something right. But then I understood: the issue was tied to the act of reading my own words.

2. The Mechanism: Belief in Words That Describe Observations

I woke up one morning in a good state—motivated, eager to work on my book, feeling alive. Now, I realize that this good state was tied to a restored belief in words.

What does that mean?

I believed in words that accurately described my observations.

I trusted that when I said, "I want to write a book," those words correctly captured what I was experiencing.

This belief wasn’t about blind faith—it was about trust in the correspondence between language and reality as I perceived it.

But here’s the catch: not all observations are reliable. Some of my old notes described observations that suggested:

"All my observations could be errors."

"No words or observations can be trusted."

"Reality itself might be fundamentally unreliable."

When I read these notes, I believed them—because they did accurately describe certain observations I had made in the past. And believing them worsened my state.

3. The First Solution: Stop Believing in Words Entirely

At first, I thought the solution was simple: stop believing in words.

If I read my old notes but didn’t believe a single word, they lost their power over me.

My state improved—I no longer felt dragged down by the content.

But then I noticed a problem: life felt flat.

Without belief in words, the world became a shapeless mass—just sensations and perceptions with no meaning.

I could function, but there was no richness, no depth. Words give life texture, and without them, existence felt hollow.

So, disbelieving all words wasn’t the answer.

4. The Refined Solution: Selective Belief

I realized that belief in words isn’t all-or-nothing. Instead, I could:

Believe in words that accurately describe my observations—when doing so makes me feel good.

Example: "I want to write a book." Believing this gives me motivation and joy.

Disbelieve words that accurately describe my observations—when doing so makes me feel bad.

Example: "All observations could be errors." Even if this is technically true, believing it harms my state.

The key insight:

Just because words accurately describe observations doesn’t mean those observations are objectively true or important.

Observations (and the words describing them) can be flawed, incomplete, or even illusory.

Therefore, I don’t have to believe in words just because they match my observations.

5. The Practical Approach: Choosing What to Think About

Now, I understand the law of mental cause and effect:

Thinking about certain things (like my old notes on the unreliability of reality) makes me feel bad.

Thinking about other things (like my desire to write, create, or engage with the world) makes me feel good.

The solution isn’t to force myself to stop believing in words—it’s to stop thinking about the things that harm my state.

If I read my old notes and start feeling worse, I can simply shift my focus to something else.

I don’t need to suppress the thoughts—I just stop engaging with them when they’re unhelpful.

This works because:

My brain naturally avoids what harms it (like touching a hot stove).

I don’t need a "guide" or rules—my mind intuitively knows what to focus on and what to ignore.

6. The Deeper Layer: Belief in Observations, Not Words

Upon further reflection, I think the real shift isn’t about words at all—it’s about observations.

I believe in my observations (what I see, feel, and experience in the moment).

I don’t believe in words—they’re just tools, labels, or games.

Why?

Words are descriptions, but descriptions aren’t reality.

Observations, even if flawed, are direct experiences. Believing in them gives life depth and richness.

Words, on the other hand, are optional. I can use them strategically (to communicate, persuade, or create) without investing belief in them.

Example:

If I say "I want to write a book," I’m not claiming this is an absolute truth—I’m just describing a feeling.

The word "want" is a convenient label, but I don’t need to believe it’s real in any deep sense.

7. The Workaround for Writing the Book

My work requires me to engage with my old notes—notes that, if I believe them, make me feel worse. But now I have a way to handle this:

When working on the book:

I read the old notes.

I don’t believe the words, even if they accurately describe past observations.

I treat them as raw material, not truth.

When not working:

I stop thinking about the notes entirely.

I focus on things that improve my state (exercise, hobbies, positive thoughts).

Result:

The harmful content no longer controls me.

I can still write the book without falling into despair.

8. The Big Picture: A Life Without Unnecessary Suffering

Most things that cause people suffering—fear, guilt, stress—don’t affect me anymore.

I don’t believe in "should," "must," or "need."

I don’t believe in external obligations or moral judgments that aren’t rooted in direct observation.

The only things that can still harm my state are highly abstract, philosophical ideas—like the ones in my old notes.

But even those only affect me if I choose to engage with them.

Final Realization:

Life is better when I believe in observations but remain skeptical of words.

Words are tools, not truths.

I can choose what to think about—and what to ignore.

Conclusion: Living Without the Burden of Belief

I no longer need to:

Fear that my observations are wrong (because even that fear is just another observation).

Cling to words as if they’re absolute (they’re just descriptions, not reality).

Follow any "guides" or rules (my mind naturally moves toward what feels good).

Instead, I:

Trust my direct experience.

Use words when helpful, discard them when harmful.

Live lightly, without the weight of unnecessary beliefs.

And that’s enough.

Reflections on the Previous Recording: The Search for a "Reason"

1. The Problem with the Last Recording

I realize now that something was deeply off with my previous recording. On the surface, it seemed fine—I spoke well, described things clearly, even offered what I thought were good ways to live. But at some point, I veered into a mental dead-end. After finishing it, I felt terrible. Only now do I understand why.

In that recording, I started thinking about giving other people a reason—a justification for living the way I was describing. I was laying out different lifestyles, weighing options, even suggesting what I believed were the "best" paths. But halfway through, I realized: I myself had no solid reason to live that way. The more I tried to manufacture one for others, the more hollow it felt.

I feared that if I didn’t provide a reason, people wouldn’t follow the path I thought was better for them. I wanted them to live well, to feel good, and I assumed they needed a why to do it. So I kept talking, searching for words that would serve as that reason. But when I listened back, I saw the truth: there was no reason in what I said. Not a real one. Just words.

2. The Obsession with "Giving a Reason"

After the recording, I kept fixating on this idea of finding a reason—not for myself, but for others. Strange, right? I didn’t feel like I needed one, but I was convinced they did. As if without it, they’d never choose the "right" way to live.

I tortured myself trying to invent this reason. I’d think, "What if I say X? Would that convince them?" But every attempt crumbled. Words couldn’t create a reason where none existed in my own mind. And the harder I tried, the worse I felt—because deep down, I knew: no combination of words could ever be that reason.

The irony? The more I obsessed over giving others a reason, the less I could live the way I knew was better for me. I was paralyzed, stuck in this loop of "They need a reason, but I can’t find one, so how can I expect them to live well?"

3. The Breakthrough: Reasons Are Unnecessary

This morning, I woke up and accidentally stumbled onto the core of the issue. I was thinking, "What am I even fixating on?" And then it hit me:

I was trying to give others a guide—a manual for how to live.

But here’s the thing: I didn’t need a guide myself. And the moment I stopped trying to create one for others, I felt free. I could live well again.

It’s the same with "reasons." I thought people needed a why to live a certain way, but they don’t. Just like you don’t need a reason not to touch a hot stove. You just don’t, because your brain is wired to avoid pain. The same applies to thoughts, habits, lifestyles—if something feels good, you do it. If it feels bad, you don’t. No grand justification required.

My mistake was believing that without a reason, people would default to chaos. But that’s not how humans work. We’re not empty vessels waiting for instructions. We already move toward what feels right and away from what doesn’t—without needing a lecture on why.

4. The Trap of Words and Beliefs

In that last recording, I fell into another trap: trying to turn observations into truths by wrapping them in words.

For example:

I noticed that believing in words (instead of direct experience) can lead to problems.

I thought, "If I say ‘Don’t trust words, trust observations,’ that’ll be the reason people should live differently!"
But it’s just another word-game. The moment I tried to package an insight as a reason, it lost its power.

I also realized:

If I believe my old writings are correct, rereading them will make me feel trapped.

If I treat them as just observations—not gospel—I stay flexible.

But then I’d ask: "Why do I believe in observations?" And the answer? I don’t know. And that’s okay. I don’t need to know why. I just live what works.

5. The New Law: Stop Searching for Reasons

Here’s the pattern I’ve uncovered:

When I think about creating a reason (for myself or others), I feel worse.

When I think about creating a guide, I feel worse.

Because the search itself is the problem.

The brain doesn’t need reasons to function. It just does. Trying to force one is like demanding a fish explain why it swims—it’s unnecessary, and the effort only causes suffering.

So the solution? Stop.

Don’t think about reasons.

Don’t think about guides.

Just live in a way that feels right, and trust that others will do the same—without your help.

6. What Happens Now?

I’m left with this:

The only "serious" thing that happened was this realization.

Everything else is noise.

I don’t need to solve the why for anyone. I just need to live—and let others do the same.

Final Thought:
Maybe the real "reason" was never needed. Maybe the only thing that ever mattered was the living itself.

A Reflection on Cause, Guides, and the Illusion of Reason

1. The Collapse of Motivation: When the Book Lost Its Purpose

I was reviewing my old notes while working, and suddenly, I felt unwell. My mood worsened, and—most strikingly—I lost all motivation to write my book. At first, I didn’t understand why. But now, I realize what happened: I had an epiphany that my book, from beginning to end, could never serve as a cause for anyone to live the way I describe in it.

I had always believed that my words could become a reason for people to change. I thought: "If I write this book, people will read it, and it will become their cause to transform." But then, as I reread my old notes, I remembered something critical: nothing can be proven, no words can be trusted, everything might be an error. If that’s true, then my book cannot—by definition—be a cause for anything. The moment I realized this, my motivation vanished.

I didn’t just lose the drive to write; my entire state of being deteriorated. I had been living in a certain way, believing in my own narrative, but when the illusion of cause dissolved, so did my foundation. I was left asking: If there’s no cause for others to change, then what’s the point of my own way of living? And just like that, I lost my own motivation to sustain it.

2. The Obsession with Cause: A Childhood Conditioning

This made me reflect deeper. Why was I so fixated on cause? It dawned on me: this need for justification is ingrained from childhood. As a child, I learned that to be heard, to be right, I had to provide reasons—to my mother, to others. If I couldn’t explain why I deserved something, why I wasn’t at fault, why my way was correct, I would be dismissed, punished, or invalidated.

So I grew up believing that without a cause, my existence, my choices, my very way of being had no validity. But now, I see the truth: no set of words can ever be a true cause for anything. They’re just words. And yet, society—people—operate as if they can be. They cling to these illusions, these fabricated reasons, to feel secure. But I no longer can.

3. The Stress of Justification: When Cause Becomes a Trap

Recently, I had a discussion with others about how to spend New Year’s. I expressed my position confidently: I don’t believe in obligations. I don’t owe anyone anything. The conversation itself went fine—until I went back to my room.

Suddenly, I was overwhelmed with stress. Why? Because I started questioning: What is the cause of my position? Why do I believe I owe nothing? Why do I see the world this way? And when I realized there was no cause—just my own feelings, my own observations—I panicked.

"What if I’m wrong? What if others are right? What if I do owe everything to everyone?" The fear was paralyzing. Cause had been my shield. Without it, I felt exposed, as if my entire way of being could be dismantled by a single counterargument.

But then, I had another realization: I don’t need a cause for myself. I only thought I needed one for others—to convince them, to justify myself to them. The moment I stopped searching for that nonexistent cause, the stress disappeared.

4. The Guide (Gaid) Illusion: Trying to Control Reality

After this, I noticed something else: I had unconsciously created a mental "guide" (гайд)—a set of rules to ensure I never fell back into the trap of seeking cause. But this guide itself became a new prison.

I developed psychosomatic pain in my left eye—a signal that I was clinging to something unnatural. I realized: I was afraid to let go of the guide because I feared chaos. What if, without it, I’d make mistakes? What if I’d lose my way?

But then I remembered: the brain doesn’t need guides. It learns patterns naturally. If I discover a new pattern (like the futility of seeking cause), my brain will adapt without needing a rigid structure. The guide was just another attempt to control—not just myself, but others. I wanted to tell people: "Here’s how to live! Follow this!" But that’s not how life works.

Guides are just another form of cause. They’re both illusions—ways to impose order where none is needed.

5. The Freedom of No-Cause Living

Now, I live differently. I don’t seek cause. I don’t create guides. I simply observe, feel, and act based on what resonates with me.

Before, I was constantly analyzing: "Why do I think this? What’s the reason for my position?"

Now, I just am. My position exists because it feels right, not because I can justify it.

This shift has brought profound calm. My mind is clearer. There’s less internal chatter, less need to label or explain. I interact with others by describing my feelings—"I want this, I don’t want that"—without any shoulds or musts.

And surprisingly, motivation hasn’t disappeared. It’s just different. Before, motivation came from the illusion of cause ("I must write this book because it will change lives!"). Now, it comes from pure engagement—the joy of drinking tea, the satisfaction of writing because it feels right, not because it serves a grand purpose.

6. Confidence Without Justification

The most striking change? I’ve become deeply confident.

Before, my confidence was fragile—dependent on whether I could prove my position to others (and to myself).

Now, I speak my truth without fear, because I no longer need to convince anyone. I don’t care if others believe me. I don’t need their validation.

This doesn’t mean I’m indifferent to others. It means I’ve stopped performing—stopped trying to package my insights into digestible causes or guides to win approval. I simply share what I see, and that’s enough.

7. The Core Insight: Cause and Guide Are the Same Illusion

At the heart of all this is a simple truth:

Cause and guide are two sides of the same coin.

A cause is a story we tell ourselves to justify action.

A guide is a story we tell others to direct their action.

Both are attempts to impose control—on reality, on people, on the unpredictable nature of existence. But life doesn’t require justification. It just is.

When I stopped searching for cause, I stopped needing guides. And when I stopped needing guides, I stopped stressing over whether my way of living was right. Now, I just live—and in that living, there is a quiet, unshakable freedom.

8. The Final Realization: Stress Comes from Seeking What Doesn’t Exist

All my stress, all my past suffering, came from one thing: the belief that I needed a cause to exist as I am.

But there is no cause. There is only experience—raw, unmediated, free from the burden of explanation.

And in that space, something beautiful emerges: life, unfiltered.

That’s all for now. The journey continues, but the weight is gone. No more cause. No more guides. Just being—and that’s enough.

Reflections on Simplification and Its Consequences

The Mistake of Over-Simplification
I recently made a critical error in my thinking. There’s this unconscious urge I sometimes feel—to reduce everything to a few simple phrases. The fewer the phrases, the better. As my guide grows, as the notes and insights pile up, I start thinking: What if there’s a core, a single root of all this? What if I just focus on that, and everything else becomes irrelevant?

In my last recording, I unconsciously tried to do just that. I thought: Maybe the two key problems are (1) thinking about the "why" (the purpose or cause of things) and (2) thinking about the "guide" (the framework I’ve built for myself and others). I treated these two ideas as if they were the only things that mattered—as if all my struggles stemmed from them. I didn’t deeply question whether this was true; I just assumed it was, and I started living as if these two points were the entire solution.

But here’s what happened: it made things worse. My motivation vanished. I found myself lying there, realizing I didn’t want to do anything. I asked myself: Why don’t I want to do anything? And then I remembered something crucial: I had been told before that everything is done for no reason, with no purpose. That’s the only way to live—without attaching actions to some grand "why." But in my attempt to simplify, I had erased all the other insights I’d gathered over years—insights about faith, about acceptance, about the interconnectedness of things. I had thrown them away, acting as if they didn’t matter.

The Realization: Everything Works Together
The truth is, all of it only works together. When I don’t try to isolate one part as "the most important," when I don’t reduce the guide to just two points—that’s when it functions. The moment I extracted just those two ideas ("don’t think about the why," "don’t think about the guide"), everything fell apart. Those two points are just the tip (or maybe the bottom) of the iceberg. The real substance is everything I’d learned before—the layers beneath.

The Lesson: Never try to shrink the guide. Never try to simplify it into a tiny, digestible version. Because what you leave out matters. If you focus only on the simplified version, the rest collapses, and the simplified version stops working entirely. It’s like pulling a single thread from a tapestry and expecting the whole picture to stay intact.

The Paradox of Stress Without Cause

Stressing Over the Absence of Stress
There was another moment—this strange, recursive stress. Here’s how it worked:

I was in a state of not stressing. Everything was fine.

Then, I started thinking: What would I tell other people if they asked why I’m not stressed? What’s the reason?

I realized: I don’t have a reason. There is no reason I’m not stressed.

And that absence of a reason stressed me out. I began stressing because I couldn’t explain why I wasn’t stressing.

It was a bizarre loop: I was stressing for no reason—because I couldn’t justify not stressing. The problem wasn’t the stress itself; it was that I was trying to explain my lack of stress to an imaginary audience.

The Solution: Stop Seeking Reasons for Others
I fixed it by stopping the search for an explanation. I stopped trying to provide others with a reason for why I wasn’t stressed. The moment I let go of that—poof—the stress disappeared. It was the same core issue as before: thinking about the "why" for others. But this time, it manifested as stress about stress.

The takeaway: If you’re not stressed, you don’t need a reason. If you start looking for one, you’ll create stress out of nothing.

The Eye Pain and the Guide Trap

The Discovery: Thinking About the Guide Causes Pain
Then there was the physical symptom: my left eye started hurting badly. I noticed a pattern:

When I think about the "guide" (my framework, my rules for living), my eye hurts.

Specifically, it hurts when I use the guide to check myself—am I following it? Am I doing it right?

The Recursive Problem: Trying to Fix the Pain with a Guide
Here’s where it got twisted:

I realized: Thinking about the guide causes my eye to hurt.

I thought: Other people might experience this too—maybe not eye pain, but some other discomfort (tension, anxiety, psychosomatic symptoms).

I wanted to help them avoid this pain, so I started thinking: What should I tell them? How can I guide them to not think about the guide?

But thinking about guiding others is thinking about the guide. So my eye hurt more.

I even tried to create a guide for how to stop thinking about the guide—which, of course, made me think about the guide even more.

The Breakthrough: Stop Guiding Others (and Yourself)
The solution was counterintuitive:

I don’t need to tell others what to do with this insight. They’ll figure it out themselves.

I don’t need to create a guide for not thinking about the guide. That’s just another guide—and another source of pain.

The moment I stopped trying to solve the problem (for myself or others), the pain vanished. The act of trying to fix it was the problem. It was like trying to put out a fire with gasoline.

The Final Insight:

Thinking about any guide—whether for myself or others—causes the pain.

The only way to stop the pain is to stop thinking about guiding entirely.

Trust that others will understand the pattern without my intervention.

The Core Principle: No Simplification, No Guides, No "Why"

What Works:

Hold all the insights together. Don’t extract or simplify.

Don’t think about the "why"—for yourself or others.

Don’t think about the guide—not even to tell others to stop thinking about it.

If a problem arises (like eye pain), don’t try to "guide" your way out of it. The attempt to fix it is the problem.

What Doesn’t Work:

Reducing the system to a few key points.

Searching for reasons or justifications.

Creating guides to avoid thinking about guides.

The Result:
When I stopped doing these things, everything returned to balance. The good state came back. The eye pain vanished. The motivation returned. It all works—only when I don’t interfere with it.

Closing Thoughts

This is everything that’s happened in the last 24 hours. The rest has been normal—stable, good. The key was recognizing these patterns and stopping the interference. No simplification. No guiding. No explaining. Just letting it be.

The Loss of a Good State

I was in a good state all day—everything was fine, and I felt motivated, focused, and content. But at some point, without warning, I lost that state. I couldn’t understand why, and I couldn’t bring it back.

Then I realized: I lost it the moment I started questioning why I was in a good state in the first place.

I noticed that my good state came from thinking about things that motivated me, that gave me pleasure, that made me want to act. I wasn’t dwelling on things that would ruin my mood—I was actively choosing thoughts that kept me engaged and happy. But then, I asked myself: Why am I doing this? Why am I thinking about these things and not others? Why do I live this way? Why do I focus on what motivates me instead of what drags me down?

And when I asked that question, I remembered my past reflections—my earlier notes where I had concluded: There is no reason. I don’t do these things for any reason. I just do them. But this time, that answer destroyed my state. Because if there’s no reason, then how can I keep doing it? How can I justify living this way if there’s no foundation for it?

I was stuck. I had two options, and neither worked:

Stop doing the things that kept me in a good state—but then I’d feel worse, unmotivated, empty.

Keep doing them "without reason"—but I couldn’t. The idea of acting without cause paralyzed me. I needed a why, and "no reason" wasn’t enough.

I even tried a third option: inventing a reason. I’d tell myself, "Okay, the reason is X," but it felt fake. Words couldn’t manufacture meaning. I didn’t believe in any reason I came up with, so it didn’t work. I was trapped.

The Breakthrough: "I Don’t Know"

Then I realized there was another way to answer the question "Why?"—one I hadn’t considered before.

"There is no reason" was wrong. Just because I don’t see a reason doesn’t mean there isn’t one. Saying "no reason" is just describing my lack of perception, not reality.

"The reason is X" was also wrong. Any reason I made up was arbitrary, a story I’d have to force myself to believe. And I couldn’t.

The only honest answer was: I don’t know.

This changed everything.

When I admitted I don’t know why I live this way, the question lost its power. It was like asking, "Does God exist?" If I say "No," I’m making a claim I can’t prove. If I say "Yes," I’m lying to myself. But if I say "I don’t know," the question becomes irrelevant. I stop thinking about it. And if I stop thinking about it, it no longer controls me.

The same applied here. I don’t know why I choose thoughts that motivate me. I don’t know why I avoid thoughts that drag me down. And that’s okay. The fact that I don’t see a reason doesn’t mean there isn’t one—it just means I don’t know. Maybe there is a reason. Maybe there isn’t. But my lack of knowledge isn’t a barrier to living. It’s freedom.

As soon as I accepted this, I stopped obsessing over the why. And when I stopped obsessing, my good state returned—not because I found an answer, but because I stopped needing one.

The Parallel with "Guides"

This was exactly like my struggle with the idea of a "guide"—a set of rules for how to live based on the patterns I’d observed.

At first, I tried to create a guide: "Do this, and you’ll feel good. Avoid that, and you’ll feel bad." But I stopped believing in it. I realized any guide I made was just another story, another invention. It wasn’t true—it was just something I’d constructed.

Then I swung to the opposite extreme: "There is no guide." But that was just as problematic. If there’s no guide, how do I know what to do? I’d either:

Pretend I had a guide (and eventually see through the lie), or

Accept there was no guide (and feel lost).

But the real solution was the same as with the why: I don’t know.

I don’t know if there’s a perfect guide.

I don’t know what to do with the patterns I observe.

And that’s okay.

Not knowing means I don’t have to think about it. If I believe a guide exists, I’ll waste my life searching for it. If I believe no guide exists, I’ll feel hopeless. But if I accept I don’t know, I can stop thinking about it entirely—and just live.

The Core Insight: Questions and Answers

This all comes down to how we handle questions—especially the big ones, like "Why?" or "How should I live?"

Any answer I give is just an observation. If someone asks, "Why do you do that?" I might say, "Because I wanted to." But that’s not a real reason—it’s just describing what I noticed. The true reason is unknown.

The only honest response is: I don’t know. And that’s not a failure—it’s liberation.

When I say "I don’t know," I’m not claiming there’s no answer. I’m just admitting that my perspective is limited. Maybe there’s a reason. Maybe there isn’t. But my lack of knowledge doesn’t have to stop me.

This applies to everything:

"Why do I have this life position?" → I don’t know.

"What’s the right way to live?" → I don’t know.

"Why do I feel this way?" → I don’t know.

And when I stop pretending I have answers, the questions lose their grip on me. I can act without needing to justify it. I can live without needing to explain it.

The Resolution

I lost my good state because I demanded an answer to "Why?"—and when I couldn’t find one, I collapsed. But the answer wasn’t "no reason" or "this reason." The answer was: I don’t know, and that’s fine.

Once I accepted that, the question dissolved. And without the question, there was no problem. I just started living again.

It took me hours of lying there, stuck in my head, before I saw this. But the moment I did, everything shifted. The key wasn’t finding the right answer. It was realizing that some questions don’t need answers—they just need to be set down.

And that’s how I got my state back.

A Journey Through Fear, Meaning, and the Creation of an Empire

(A First-Person Retelling)

1. The Birth of the Guide and the Fear Behind It

I began by thinking about creating a guide—not because I believed in it, but because I felt compelled to tell others what to do. The idea of writing a step-by-step manual for life, something concrete and prescriptive, seemed more effective than just listing observations or patterns I’d noticed. But the more I thought about it, the worse I felt.

At first, I convinced myself: "I’ll write this guide for others, but I won’t believe in it myself." That way, it wouldn’t affect me. I’d say things I didn’t even trust, and since I didn’t follow my own advice, it wouldn’t stress me out. But the stress remained. Why?

I realized: I was afraid. Afraid that the guide would be wrong—that I’d tell people to do something harmful, and they’d turn on me for it. The fear wasn’t about being incorrect; it was about retaliation. What if they punished me for giving bad advice? What if they were angry?

But then I asked myself: What’s so scary about that? If people hurt me for my words, so what? I don’t fear pain. I don’t fear death. I don’t fear consequences. The moment I accepted that, the stress vanished. The fear dissolved because I saw it had no power over me.

2. The Second Fear: The Guide for Myself

But then, another layer of fear emerged. I started thinking about a guide for myself—not to follow rigidly, but just as a framework for how to live. And again, stress returned.

Why? Because I feared that my own guide would be wrong—that I’d design a life for myself that would later prove to be a mistake. I’d suffer because of my own flawed instructions.

Again, I asked: What’s so scary about suffering? If my choices lead to pain, so what? Pain is just a sensation. It doesn’t define me. The fear wasn’t about the mistake—it was about the illusion of control. Once I saw that, the second fear also disappeared.

Now, I was free. Free from fear of guides—for others, for myself. Free to think about them without believing in them.

3. The Collapse of Old Motivations

With the fear gone, something strange happened: I lost my old way of living.

Before, my life revolved around pleasure. I sought entertainment, comfort, and enjoyment for their own sake. I played games, watched shows, chased thrills—because it felt good. But now, that motivation was gone.

Why? Because the meaning behind pleasure had vanished. I no longer believed that pleasure was the point of life. Without that belief, the activities that once drove me became hollow. I could still feel pleasure, but I no longer cared about it. It was like a game I’d stopped playing.

I tried to force myself back into old habits, but it didn’t work. I had no reason to seek pleasure if I didn’t believe in its purpose.

4. The New Motivation: Survival and Expansion

In the void left by pleasure, a new drive emerged—one that didn’t require meaning or justification. It was the instinct to survive, to expand, to build.

I noticed myself wanting to:

Eat when hungry.

Exercise to stay strong.

Work to earn resources.

Connect with others for mutual benefit.

Plan for the future, not for joy, but for continuation.

This wasn’t about happiness. It was about functioning. Like a cell in an organism, or a player in a strategy game, I was compelled to grow—not because it had a deeper purpose, but because that’s what living things do.

At first, this terrified me. "Is this all I am? A biological machine, endlessly accumulating resources until I die?" It felt empty. Mechanical. But then I reframed it.

5. The Empire Analogy: Life as a Game

I realized: I’m building an empire.

Not a literal empire of land or people, but my life as a self-contained system. Like in a game (say, Civilization or The Sims), where you guide a character through survival, growth, and development—not because there’s an ultimate point, but because the process itself is the game.

Work? Part of the empire.

Relationships? Alliances in the empire.

Health? Maintenance of the empire.

Leisure? Downtime for the empire’s worker (me).

Even activities that seemed like pleasure—joking with friends, petting a cat, watching a YouTube video—were just moves in the game. Not for joy, but because the "player" (my consciousness) was making choices.

The key insight: I don’t need to believe in the game’s purpose to play it.

6. The Problem of "What Am I Doing?"

For a while, this worked. I called it "building my empire," and that gave me direction. But then, a new crisis hit:

"What does ‘building an empire’ even mean?"

The phrase was just a label. It didn’t explain anything. I still didn’t understand what I was actually doing. The doubt paralyzed me.

Solution: I realized I didn’t need to believe in the answer. I just needed an answer—any answer—to keep moving.

"What am I doing?" → "Building an empire." (I don’t believe this is truly what I’m doing, but it’s a useful fiction.)

"Why am I doing this?" → "Because my brain is wired to seek expansion." (I don’t believe in "why," but the answer satisfies the question.)

"What should I do?" → "Follow the next impulse." (I don’t believe in "should," but the guidance helps.)

The breakthrough: The brain doesn’t need truth—it needs coherence. It craves answers, even if those answers are arbitrary. As long as I provide them, I can function.

7. The Four Questions and the Art of Non-Belief

Now, I’ve distilled my approach to four core questions—questions I can answer without believing the answers:

What am I doing?

"Building an empire." (A placeholder, not a truth.)

What should I do? (Guide for myself)

"Follow the next logical step for survival/expansion." (A heuristic, not a moral law.)

What should others do? (Guide for them)

"I don’t know, but I can suggest patterns I’ve observed." (Advice, not gospel.)

Why/What for? (Purpose/meaning)

"There is no why. The question itself is optional." (A rejection of the need for justification.)

The rule: Answer, but don’t believe. The answers are tools, not truths.

8. The Final Shift: Life Without Belief in Answers

The deepest realization? Most people live by answers they believe in.

"I work because I need money."

"I love because it fulfills me."

"I follow rules because they’re right."

But belief is fragile. If you question it too deeply, it collapses—and then what?

My solution: Keep the answers. Drop the belief.

I still say I’m building an empire.

I still act as if survival matters.

I still follow impulses toward growth.

But I don’t pretend these answers are true. They’re just useful fictions—like rules in a game. The game doesn’t need a purpose. It just needs to be played.

9. The Result: A Life Unburdened by Meaning

Now, I live differently:

No fear of being wrong (because I don’t claim to be right).

No need for meaning (because the game doesn’t require it).

No paralysis (because any answer will do, as long as I don’t take it seriously).

I still feel pleasure. I still have goals. I still interact with others. But none of it is about anything. It’s just… what happens when a conscious organism plays the game of life.

And strangely, it’s freeing.

Closing Thought

The old me sought meaning in pleasure. The new me sees life as a strategy game—one where the objective is simply to keep playing, without needing to know why.

"What are you doing?"
"Building an empire."
"Why?"
"No reason. Just playing."

And that’s enough.

The Discovery: The Illusion of Words That Tell You What to Do

I began by noticing something strange: I couldn’t return to a good mental state, no matter what I tried. At first, the reason was unclear. But then, in a moment of clarity, I realized what I was doing—I was searching for words. Not just any words, but magic words that would tell me what to do. Words that, if I found them, would guide my actions and restore my well-being.

I was obsessed with the idea that such words must exist. I believed that if I could only find the right phrase, the right instruction, I would know exactly how to act, and everything would fall into place. But here’s the catch: I couldn’t find them. And worse—I realized I never could. Because how could I possibly know what to do? There is no objective source of truth for this. No words could ever be "right" in a way that I could trust.

I understood that even if I did find words telling me what to do, I wouldn’t believe them. Why? Because belief requires faith in a reason—a cause, a meaning behind the action. But I saw no reason, no meaning. There was no foundation for trust. Following words is meaningless if you don’t believe in the words themselves.

So I told myself: "Stop thinking about words that tell you what to do."
And just like that—my state improved dramatically. All problems vanished. Everything became better than before. I had stumbled upon something profound: All human suffering, every bad mental state, stems from thinking about words that tell you what to do.

If you stop searching for those words, everything becomes perfect.

The Trap of the Guide: When Helping Others Becomes the Problem

At first, I thought I had the answer—not just for myself, but for others. I wanted to create a guide, a clear set of instructions: "Don’t think about words that tell you what to do." Simple. But then, I fell into my own trap.

As soon as I started thinking about the guide—about the words I would use to explain this to others—my state worsened. Why? Because I was back to searching for words. Now, instead of searching for words to fix myself, I was searching for words to fix others. The cycle repeated.

I expanded the guide:

Don’t think about words that tell you what to do with your observations (patterns, emotions, physical objects, thoughts).

Don’t think about words that tell you what to do with the words themselves (e.g., the guide, descriptions of your experiences).

But even this became a paradox. I was following my own words—"Don’t think about words!"—which meant I was still trapped in the same loop. I realized: I don’t need words to tell me what to do. I can simply… not think about it at all.

For a while, this worked. I observed my mind and saw: There are no words I’m following. There is no guide I trust. And in that moment, I felt free. But then, the meaninglessness set in.

Without words to follow, life felt hollow. No motivation, no purpose. I saw clearly: There is no reason to do anything. And that was terrifying.

The Burden of Responsibility: Wanting to Save the World (But Not Really)

I thought: What if I’m the only one who knows the cure for human suffering? The weight of this idea crushed me. I felt responsible for everyone. I had to share this. I had to write the guide, explain it, teach it—otherwise, people would keep suffering.

But here’s the irony: I didn’t believe in my own guide.

I didn’t trust that my words were the "right" ones.

I didn’t believe others should follow them.

I didn’t even believe that a "good state" was something everyone needed.

The stress was unbearable. If I believed I knew what others should do, I felt compelled to act—but then I’d panic, because what if I was wrong? If I didn’t believe it, I had no motivation at all.

I realized: My desire to help others was never about them. It was about me. I wanted to be the one with the answers. I wanted to be needed. But when I lost faith in my own knowledge, that desire vanished.

Now, I don’t care what others think or do. I don’t feel the urge to change them. Their minds are their responsibility, not mine.

The Solution: Letting Go Completely

The only way out was to release the burden entirely.

Stop thinking about words that tell you what to do—for yourself and others.

Stop believing you know what others should do. (You don’t. No one does.)

Stop trying to be a savior. The world doesn’t need you to fix it.

Now, my plan is simple:

Record everything I’ve learned—not as a guide, but as raw data.

Hand it over to humanity. Let them decide what to do with it.

Walk away.

I no longer feel responsible for their understanding. I no longer stress over whether they’ll "get it." It’s not my problem.

And in this freedom, I’ve found peace.

The Final Insight: The Only Rule You Need

If you feel even the slightest discomfort, ask yourself:

Am I following words that tell me what to do? (Even if those words are my own.)

Am I searching for words that will tell me what to do? (Even if I haven’t found them yet.)

If the answer is yes, that’s the source of your suffering. Stop. Let go of the search. Let go of the need for guidance.

There are no words that can tell you what to do. And you don’t need them.

The Realization: Letting Go of Control

1. The Initial Conflict: Records, Motivation, and Suffering
I realized that obsessing over my own recordings—my notes, my thoughts—was poisoning my state of mind. It drained my motivation to live and left me paralyzed. I decided I needed to hand over all my records to others and forget about them entirely. The act of thinking about these records, about what to do with them, was the root of my suffering.

But then I uncovered something deeper: my suffering wasn’t just about the records. It was about my habit of thinking about what other people should do. I noticed that whenever I focused on telling others how to live, how to act, or what to think, my own state deteriorated. The more I tried to guide others, the more I spiraled into questioning what I myself should do—what to say, what to avoid, how to control my own thoughts. This cycle of overthinking and self-control was the real source of my misery.

2. The Paradox of Motivation
When I stopped thinking about what others should do, my mental state improved dramatically. But here’s the catch: in that clear, unburdened state, I lost all motivation to share my insights with others. My records were meant to help people, but if I wasn’t thinking about what others should do, why would I bother telling them anything? I had no drive to preach, to teach, or to intervene in their lives.

This created a dilemma:

If I didn’t think about others, I felt good—but my work would never reach anyone.

If I did think about others (to motivate myself to share), I fell back into suffering.

I decided to force myself to publish everything—quickly, all at once—so I could return to my peaceful state afterward. I sent my records everywhere I could, then resolved to never revisit them.

3. The Trap of Self-Control
After publishing, I tried to return to that "good state" where I don’t think about what others (or I) should do. But it wasn’t easy. I kept making mistakes because I was still trying to control my thoughts.

Here’s what went wrong:

I was following a mental "guide": "Don’t think about what others should do, or you’ll feel bad."

But by focusing on not thinking about it, I was still thinking about it. I was obeying words in my head—commands like "Avoid this!" or "Stick to that!"—and those words were keeping me trapped.

My brain was trying to protect me from my own patterns, but the protection itself became a cage.

4. The Breakthrough: Stopping the Inner Dialogue
The solution was radical: stop thinking about what I should do—full stop.

This meant:

No more following internal rules (e.g., "Don’t think about X" or "You must do Y").

No more monitoring myself to ensure I wasn’t breaking those rules.

No more fearing that without these rules, I’d "mess up" and fall back into bad habits.

I realized my brain doesn’t need these verbal commands to function. It already knows what to avoid and what to embrace—without words. The moment I stopped obeying or resisting any internal "instructions," everything shifted.

5. The Mechanism of Freedom
Here’s how it worked:

Observe the absence of control: I noticed there were no words in my mind telling me what to do. No commands, no warnings, no "shoulds." Just silence.

Stop observing the absence: Even noticing "There are no commands!" was still a form of control. So I let go of that too.

Return to reality: Without the noise of self-instruction, I could simply exist—present, calm, and motivated by what was in front of me, not by abstract rules.

6. The Core Mistake: Fear of Losing Control
My biggest error was believing that without these mental rules, I’d lose my way. I feared:

"If I don’t remind myself not to think about others, I’ll start obsessing again."

"If I don’t follow my own advice, I’ll make mistakes."

But this fear was the real prison. The brain doesn’t need constant verbal reminders to avoid pain or seek joy. The words themselves were the problem. They created stress, not safety.

7. The Illusion of Guidance
Humans often believe:

"I need rules to avoid danger." (e.g., "Don’t touch the hot stove!")

"I need reminders to achieve goals." (e.g., "Stay focused!")

But these words don’t prevent mistakes—they cause anxiety. The brain already knows not to touch a hot stove. The words just add unnecessary friction.

8. The Final State: Effortless Clarity
Now, I don’t think about:

What others should do.

What I should or shouldn’t do.

Whether I’m "following the right path."

I simply act when needed, without internal debate. My motivation is natural, not forced. My state is stable, not contingent on obeying or rebelling against mental commands.

9. Why This Is Hard to Explain
This realization is crystal clear in experience but nearly impossible to put into words. Language distorts it because:

Words imply rules, and rules imply control.

The state I’m describing is beyond control—it’s pure presence.

But the core truth is this:
You don’t need words to live well. The mind knows. Let it.

Key Takeaways (In the Author’s Words)

"Thinking about what others should do ruins my state—and thinking about what I should do does too."

"Motivation to share disappears when I stop obsessing over others, but that’s the price of peace."

"The brain doesn’t need verbal commands. The words are the problem, not the solution."

"Fear of losing control is what keeps you trapped. Let go, and the mind handles itself."

"Good states aren’t achieved by following rules. They’re what remains when the rules dissolve."

A Guide to Achieving an Ideal State of Being

(A First-Person Retelling of the Author’s Journey)

Introduction: The Question of "Why?"

I want to begin by addressing the most fundamental question: Why? Why should anyone bother to question their beliefs, their emotions, or their state of being? Why disrupt the comfort of familiar thoughts, even if they’re flawed?

For me, the answer has always been simple: I wanted to feel better. Not just slightly better—maximally better. My motivation was never abstract or philosophical. It was raw, urgent, and personal. I was tired of living with fear, anger, and sadness—emotions that controlled me, distorted my perception, and prevented me from living the way I truly wanted. I didn’t want to feel these things anymore. That was my only driving force.

For those who ask, "But why change if my life is already fine?"—I understand. If your life is stable, if negative emotions are rare or mild, the urgency may not feel real. But here’s the truth: even the most resilient among us have experienced moments of profound suffering. Maybe it lasted days, not minutes. Maybe it was a crisis so deep it felt inescapable. And even if you haven’t, ask yourself: Could you face a future where such suffering becomes inevitable? Because it could. Life is unpredictable.

The real question isn’t "Why change?" but "Why not protect yourself?" Why not ensure that no matter what happens—no matter how chaotic or painful—you remain psychologically invulnerable? That’s what this process offers: absolute immunity to emotional suffering. Not just coping, but transcending it entirely.

And there’s another layer: seeing the world as it truly is. Right now, most people live in a distorted reality, shaped by deep-seated beliefs they don’t even question. These beliefs act like a lens, warping everything—your emotions, your decisions, your entire experience of life. When you remove them, you don’t just feel better; you see better. The clarity is staggering. You realize how blind you were before, how much of your "reality" was just illusion.

So, why go through this? Two reasons:

To eliminate suffering—forever.

To see the truth—without the fog of delusion.

If neither of these matters to you, if you’re truly content to live as you are until the end, then perhaps nothing I say will resonate. But if there’s even a flicker of curiosity—if you’ve ever wanted to feel lighter, freer, or more alive—then read on.

The Three Stages of Transformation

To reach this state, you must pass through three critical stages. Skip one, and you’ll stagnate in an incomplete, often unpleasant state. Complete all three, and you’ll emerge transformed.

Stage 1: Destroying All Beliefs

The Core Problem: All negative emotions—fear, anger, sadness—stem from beliefs. Not just any beliefs, but deep, unquestioned convictions about reality, about yourself, about what "should" be. These beliefs are the foundation of your suffering. To remove the emotions, you must first dismantle the beliefs that create them.

How? By realizing you cannot prove any of them.

Here’s how it works:

Lose Faith in Observations

You see, hear, or feel something. You believe it’s real. But ask yourself: Can I prove this observation is true?

Example: You feel fear. But can you prove that fear is justified? That it corresponds to reality? No. You can’t. It’s just a sensation—one you’ve learned to trust without evidence.

Key Realization: "I cannot believe any observation, because I cannot prove it to myself."

Lose Faith in Feelings and Sensations

Emotions feel real, but they’re just internal reactions. Can you prove that your anger, your sadness, your joy are accurate reflections of reality? No. They’re subjective—shaped by beliefs you’ve never questioned.

Key Realization: "I cannot believe my feelings or sensations, because I cannot prove they reflect truth."

Lose Faith in Words

You describe your observations and feelings with words. But words are just symbols. Can you prove that the word "fear" accurately captures what you’re experiencing? That it’s not a mislabel, a distortion, or a complete fabrication?

Key Realization: "I cannot believe any words that describe my observations or feelings, because I cannot prove those words correspond to reality. They might just describe illusions."

Lose Faith in Meanings

You assign meaning to everything: "This is good. That is bad. This matters. That doesn’t." But where does meaning come from? From your beliefs—which you’ve already dismantled.

Key Realization: "I cannot believe in any meaning, because I cannot prove that anything inherently means what I think it does."

Lose Faith in Causes and Purposes

You act because you believe in reasons: "I do this because of that. I want this for that purpose." But reasons and purposes are just more words, more beliefs.

Key Realization: "I cannot believe in any cause or purpose for my actions, because I cannot prove that any reason is valid. All reasons are just stories I tell myself."

The Final Blow: Lose Faith in "What to Do"

The deepest belief of all is the idea that there is a right way to live. You constantly seek guidance—from yourself, from others, from society—about what to do. But this, too, is an unprovable belief.

Key Realization: "I cannot believe any words that tell me what to do—whether to myself or others—because I cannot prove that those words are true. There is no ‘right’ way to live that I can verify."

The Meta-Realization (Critical!):
"I cannot even believe any words that tell me what to do with the above realization itself. I cannot trust any instruction—including this one—about how to handle the fact that I can’t trust instructions."

What Happens When You Complete Stage 1?

You lose all emotional reactions. Fear, anger, sadness—gone. Not suppressed, but dissolved, because the beliefs that created them no longer exist.

You feel empty, but not in a bad way. It’s the absence of noise. The problem? This emptiness can feel uncomfortable if you stop here. You’ve removed the old structure, but haven’t yet built the new one. That’s why Stage 2 is essential.

Stage 2: Stopping the Search for Guidance

The New Problem: Even after destroying your beliefs, your mind will still try to find answers. It’s habituated to seeking words that tell you what to do. This is the residual addiction to control, to meaning, to certainty.

The Solution: Notice this habit—and stop.

Here’s how:

Observe Your Thoughts

After Stage 1, you’ll notice your mind still scrambles for something to hold onto. It asks: "What now? What should I do? How should I live?"

These are useless questions. They’re remnants of the old belief system.

Recognize the Absurdity

Why search for words to guide you when you’ve already realized no such words can be trusted?

It’s like trying to build a house on quicksand. There is no foundation. Any "answer" you find will be as arbitrary as the beliefs you’ve already discarded.

Let Go of the Search

The moment you see that this search is pointless, it stops. Not through force, but through understanding its futility.

You’re no longer looking for instructions because you know: There are none to find.

What Happens When You Complete Stage 2?

You stop thinking about "what to do" entirely. The mental chatter quiets.

But now, a new issue arises: You feel directionless. Without beliefs or guidance, life can feel meaningless. This is where most people get stuck—because Stage 3 is the key to freedom.

Stage 3: Forgetting the Self

The Final Problem: After Stages 1 and 2, you’re left with a void. You’re no longer driven by emotions, beliefs, or instructions—but you’re also not living. You’re just… existing. The solution? Stop thinking about yourself entirely.

Why?

Your "self" is just a collection of beliefs about what you should do, feel, or be. When you remove those beliefs, the "self" becomes empty.

If you keep focusing on this emptiness ("I have no purpose. I feel nothing."), you’ll stay stuck. The trick is to forget the question altogether.

How? Two Methods:

The "Waking Up" Analogy

Imagine you’ve just woken from a deep sleep. In that first moment, you don’t remember anything—no past, no identity, no problems.

Do this mentally. "Forget" everything from Stages 1 and 2. Don’t try to recall the realizations. Just… begin anew.

Start moving, acting, living—without referencing the past or the "self" that no longer exists.

Stop Describing Yourself

The "self" is just a story you tell yourself: "I am someone who does X, feels Y, wants Z."

When you remove beliefs, this story becomes: "I am someone who does nothing, feels nothing, wants nothing."

This is still a story. The solution? Stop telling it. Stop thinking about what you are or aren’t, do or don’t. Just… be.

What Happens When You Complete Stage 3?

You stop overanalyzing. The need to define, justify, or understand yourself vanishes.

You act without "reasons"—not because you’re reckless, but because you no longer need the crutch of belief to move.

You experience effortless living. No emotional turbulence, no existential angst—just pure presence.

Paradoxically, you regain motivation—but it’s no longer tied to fear, desire, or obligation. It’s organic, arising from the moment itself.

The Result: A Life Beyond Suffering

When you complete all three stages:

Negative emotions disappear permanently. Fear, anger, sadness—gone. Not suppressed, but nonexistent, because the beliefs that created them are gone.

You see reality clearly. No distortions, no illusions—just what is.

You act freely. No longer bound by "shoulds" or "musts," you move through life with ease and spontaneity.

You experience deep peace. Not the fleeting calm of meditation, but a steady, unshakable serenity—because nothing can disturb what no longer exists to be disturbed.

A Warning:
This isn’t about becoming a "better" person by conventional standards. You won’t suddenly be more productive, more ambitious, or more socially adept (unless those things arise naturally). This is about absolute internal freedom—the kind most people never even imagine is possible.

Final Thought:
Most people live in a prison of their own beliefs, unaware that the doors were never locked. This guide is the key—but you have to turn it yourself.

Now the question is: Are you ready to try?

A Five-Year Journey into the Mind: The Collapse of Belief and the Birth of Stillness

1. The Beginning: The Obsession with the Perfect State

Five years ago, I began studying the brain—not out of academic curiosity, but because I noticed something extraordinary: my state of mind could shift radically depending on what was happening inside my head. This realization ignited a obsession: I wanted to find the perfect state of being. A state where there would be no suffering, no negative emotions, no fluctuations—only perpetual motivation, happiness, and ideal conditions, no matter what.

I saw the possibility. I believed it was achievable. So for five years, I studied the brain, not as a scientist, but as someone desperate to rewire my own mind to reach this utopian state.

2. The Paradox of Belief: Losing Faith in Everything

But my research led me to a devastating conclusion: I could no longer believe in anything.

The more I tried to improve my state, the more I uncovered new layers of perception—until I lost faith in observations, feelings, words, and even descriptions of reality. I no longer trusted my own senses, my emotions, or the language I used to make sense of the world.

And without belief, I had no foundation left to build upon.

3. The Trap of the "Guide": The Illusion of Control

For years, I was obsessed with creating a guide—a set of instructions, a perfect sequence of words that would tell me (and others) exactly what to do to achieve the ideal state. I thought: If I can just find the right words, the right steps, I can program myself into perpetual happiness.

But the deeper I went, the more I realized: I could no longer follow any words that told me what to do.

If I thought about words that told me what to do, I felt worse.

If I thought about words that told others what to do, I felt detached.

If I tried to force myself to believe in a guide, I saw through its emptiness.

I was trapped in a loop:

I would create a guide.

I would realize it was baseless.

I would lose faith in it.

I would try to create a new one.

Until I couldn’t anymore.

4. The Breakthrough: The Uselessness of Words

Then, a radical thought struck me:

Why am I thinking about words at all?

The only reason to think about words is to decide what to do with them.

But I no longer believed in any words that told me what to do.

Therefore, there was no point in thinking about words.

I realized:

I couldn’t prove any observation, feeling, or word was "true."

I couldn’t trust any instruction—whether for myself or others.

Thinking about words was meaningless because I had no faith in their power to direct action.

So I stopped.

5. The Void: What Happens When You Stop Thinking About Words?

At first, I tried to follow a new rule: "Stop thinking about words."

But even that was a word-based instruction—a guide. So I had to abandon that too.

Eventually, I reached a state where:

I no longer thought about what to do (with myself, my feelings, my observations, or others).

I no longer tried to change anything—because change required believing in a guide, and I had lost all belief.

I simply sat in stillness, not thinking, not feeling, not reacting.

At first, it was terrifying. I felt nothing. No motivation, no emotion, no engagement with the world.

But then, something shifted.

6. The Return to Reality: Living Without the Need to Change

I realized:

The present moment cannot be changed. It simply is.

All suffering comes from the desire to change what is—to resist reality, to force it into a different shape.

When I stopped trying to change anything, I stopped suffering.

I had spent five years trying to fix my state before I could live.
But now, I saw the absurdity:

Life was happening right now, and I was missing it because I was too busy trying to "improve" it.

The perfect state wasn’t something to achieve—it was what remained when I stopped trying to achieve anything.

7. The New State: Inner Peace and the Problem of Others

Now, I live in inner stillness.

I don’t resist reality.

I don’t try to change my feelings or my circumstances.

I don’t follow any guides—neither for myself nor for others.

But here’s the problem:

I see that most people are trapped in suffering because they’re constantly trying to change their state.

I know how they could escape it (by stopping the cycle of belief and resistance).

But I have no motivation to tell them.

Why?

Because my peace comes from not trying to change anything—including other people.

Because I no longer believe in the power of words to "fix" anyone.

Because I am free, and freedom doesn’t require action.

8. The Final Guide (For Those Who Want It)

If I were to distill my journey into steps for someone else, it would look like this:

Lose faith in everything—observations, feelings, words, descriptions. Realize you can’t prove any of them.

Stop believing in any words that tell you what to do—whether for yourself or others.

Stop thinking about words entirely—because the only thing to think about words is what to do with them, and you no longer believe in that.

Let go of the idea of change—accept that the present cannot be altered, only experienced.

Live in the now—without resistance, without the need for a "better" state.

The result?

No stress.

No anger.

No sadness.

No fear.

Only peace.

9. The Catch: Why Would Anyone Do This?

The only reason to go through this process is if your current state is unbearable.

If you’re happy with your suffering, your fluctuations, your resistance to life—then there’s no need to change.

But if you’re desperate for freedom—if you want to live without the weight of your own mind—then this is the path.

Because in the end, the only thing standing between you and peace… is the belief that you need to do something to get there.

10. Where I Am Now

I no longer think about:

What to do with my state.

What to do with my feelings.

What to do with others.

What to do with words.

I simply exist.

And in that existence, there is no problem, no conflict, no need for a guide.

Only life—as it is.

Final Thought: The Illusion of the Guide

The greatest irony?
The moment I stopped searching for the perfect guide… I found it.

Not as a set of instructions, but as the absence of the need for instructions at all.

The Illusion of Words and the Search for Truth

1. The Realization: All Past Words Are Meaningless

I began by recognizing that every word I had ever spoken—every guide, every recording, every observation I had described—was ultimately useless. Not in the sense that the words themselves were false, but in the sense that they served no purpose.

Words as Descriptions: My past words were just descriptions of observations—things I had noticed, things I had experienced. But descriptions are inert. You can’t do anything with them. They don’t change reality; they don’t guide action. They’re just empty labels, floating without weight.

Words as Instructions: The other category was words telling me (or others) what to do—guidelines, rules, or principles I once believed in. But these, too, were hollow. Why? Because there was no foundation for them. No real reason to follow them. They were just things I decided to trust at some point, but that trust was arbitrary.

For five years, I had been chasing these two types of words—descriptions and instructions—thinking they held some deeper truth. But in reality, they were nothing more than sounds. They couldn’t anchor me. They couldn’t save me.

2. The Trap of Seeking "True Words"

The core of my suffering was this: I was obsessed with finding "true words"—words that would serve as an unshakable foundation. Words I could rely on absolutely. Words that would tell me, This is what you must do, and I would believe them without doubt.

But here’s the problem:

Descriptive words (e.g., "I feel anxious," "The sky is blue") can never be "true" in the way I wanted. They’re just observations, and observations aren’t truth—they’re interpretations.

Prescriptive words (e.g., "You should meditate," "Don’t overthink") are even worse. They pretend to offer truth, but they’re built on faith—and faith is fragile. The moment I examined why I believed them, the belief collapsed.

I kept searching for words that wouldn’t crumble under scrutiny. Words that wouldn’t require faith. Words that were self-evidently true. But such words don’t exist.

3. The Turning Point: Seeing the Search Itself

The breakthrough came when I stopped—not because I found an answer, but because I finally saw what I was doing.

I realized:

I was addicted to the search. I kept thinking, If I just find the right words, I’ll be okay.

But every time I found words that seemed true, I’d eventually see through them. The cycle was endless: believe → doubt → search again.

The only way out was to stop searching entirely.

Not because I decided to stop, but because I saw the futility. It was like waking up from a trance. The moment I truly saw that no words could ever be the foundation I wanted, the obsession vanished instantly.

4. The State Beyond Words

Now, I live without the need for "true words." I don’t look for guidelines. I don’t cling to descriptions. I don’t try to derive meaning from language.

What changed?

I no longer believe in words as a source of truth.

I no longer fear the absence of truth.

I no longer struggle to find the "right" way to think or act.

What remains?

Direct experience. I observe what’s happening—thoughts, feelings, actions—without trying to label or judge it.

Spontaneous action. I do what feels natural in the moment, not because a "true word" tells me to, but because it’s what arises.

Freedom from the search. There’s no longer a voice in my head demanding, Find the answer! Fix this!

This state isn’t something I can describe accurately, because the moment I try to put it into words, I’m back in the same trap. But I can say this:

Life becomes simple.

Decisions are effortless.

There’s no resistance—no inner conflict, no second-guessing.

5. The Paradox of Helping Others

Here’s the irony: In this state, I can help others—but only if I don’t think of it as a mission.

If I start believing, "I must teach people the truth," I fall back into the old trap. I’m searching for "true words" again, and the state collapses.

But if I simply share what I see, without attachment to the words being "true," it works. I’m not trying to convert anyone. I’m not trying to be a guru. I’m just present.

6. How to Return to This State (If Lost)

I lost this state once and had to find my way back. The key was recognizing:

You can’t use words to return. If you think, "Last time, I said X, so if I say X again, I’ll get back," you’re still trapped in the search.

You have to see the search itself. The moment you notice, "Oh, I’m looking for true words again," the spell breaks.

It’s not about effort. It’s about seeing—not doing, not thinking, just noticing the mechanism of the mind.

7. Final Thought: The Illusion of Motivation

In this state, I don’t feel the need to "do" anything in the way I used to.

I don’t feel compelled to help others (because that would imply I believe in a "true" way to help).

But I do help others—naturally, without the weight of a mission.

I don’t resist life. I don’t fight my experience. I just live.

Closing Reflection

The mind wants certainty. It wants rules. It wants truth. But the moment you see that no words can provide that, you stop searching. And in that stillness, everything becomes clear.

Not because you’ve found the answer, but because you’ve stopped asking the question.

The Nature of Belief in Truth

I want to begin by exploring how an average person—unlike me—holds a certain truth in their mind. This truth is something they believe in, a set of words they consider absolute. It could be anything: "I want this," "I need that," "I must do this," or "Others must behave this way." These phrases are the foundation of their reality. They cling to them, revolve their thoughts around them, and derive their actions from them.

But where does this belief come from? Why do people trust these words as truth?

I think there are two types of truth:

Truth of Description – Words that describe observations, feelings, or realities ("I feel hungry," "The sky is blue").

Truth of Action – Words that dictate what to do with those descriptions ("I should eat," "I must act this way").

Most people believe in both. They trust their observations ("I see a chair") and their feelings ("I feel happy"), and then they build rules around them ("I should sit," "I must pursue happiness").

But I lost faith in the first type of truth. I stopped believing in any words that describe reality—because I realized I could never prove them.

Why We Believe in Observations and Feelings

People believe in their observations and feelings because they assume these things are real—that they reflect an objective truth. If I see a tree, I believe the tree exists. If I feel anger, I believe the anger is real. But this belief is unexamined.

I asked myself: How can I prove my observations? How can I prove my feelings?
The answer: I can’t.

Observations? My brain interprets sensory input, but that doesn’t mean the interpretation is true. It’s just a construct.

Feelings? They’re chemical reactions, not absolute truths. Just because I feel something doesn’t mean it’s objectively real.

Once I realized I couldn’t prove any of it, my belief in these "truths" collapsed.

The Consequences of Losing Faith in Truth

When I stopped believing in the words that described my desires, needs, and obligations, something strange happened: all my emotions tied to those beliefs vanished.

No more anger when people didn’t meet my expectations ("They should do this!").

No more fear of not getting what I wanted.

No more stress over what I had to do.

But this came at a cost. Without belief in any truth, I lost motivation. I lost meaning. I fell into a kind of depression—not a sad one, but a hollow one. I had no reason to do anything.

This was the first stage: destruction. I had to dismantle every belief I held before I could rebuild.

The Second Type of Truth: "What Should I Do?"

Even after losing faith in descriptive truths ("I want X"), people still cling to prescriptive truths ("I should do Y"). They believe they know what to do—because their feelings or observations tell them so.

But I realized: If I can’t prove my observations or feelings, how can I prove what I should do?

I tried following instructions I gave myself ("Go to the store," "Call a friend"), but without belief in the underlying truth, the motivation dissolved. Words alone can’t compel action if you don’t believe in them.

So I had to let go of all instructions—even the ones I gave myself.

The Search for Truth Must End

The human mind is wired to seek truth. Even after losing faith in it, I caught myself still searching—trying to find some words to believe in, some rule to follow.

But I had to ask: What am I really looking for?

Words that describe reality? I already knew I couldn’t prove them.

Words that tell me what to do? I already knew I wouldn’t believe them.

The search was futile. Truth doesn’t exist in the way we think it does.

Once I fully accepted this, something shifted. I stopped needing truth. I stopped searching for it. And in that emptiness, I found a strange kind of peace.

Life Without Truth

Now, I don’t believe in:

"I want" (because desire is just a feeling, not a truth).

"I must" (because obligation is just a thought, not a law).

"Others should" (because expectations are just ideas, not rules).

I don’t follow instructions—even my own—unless I choose to in the moment, without attachment.

What’s left?

No suffering from unmet desires.

No anger at unmet expectations.

No fear of failure or judgment.

But also:

No automatic motivation.

No predefined meaning.

This isn’t nihilism. It’s freedom.

I don’t need truth to act. I don’t need meaning to exist. I simply am, and in that, there’s a quiet power.

Final Thought: The Guide That Isn’t True

Ironically, I just wrote a guide—a set of instructions on how to stop believing in instructions. But here’s the paradox:

I don’t believe this guide is true.

It’s just a description of my observations. It’s not a rulebook. It’s not a law. It’s just words—words I don’t cling to, words I don’t need to prove.

And that, perhaps, is the point.

The Search for Truth in Words: A Two-Stage Process

1. The Nature of My Thoughts

I realize that my mind revolves around two types of words:

Past words: Words I’ve spoken before—yesterday, in previous recordings, or in the past. I revisit them, searching for some kind of truth within them. I look for words that feel correct, reliable—words I can lean on, use as a foundation, or follow as guidance.

New words: Words I’m trying to create right now—fresh phrases that might become my new truth, my new anchor.

In both cases, I’m hunting for truth in words. But here’s the revelation: all words fall into only two categories, and neither can ever hold truth:

Descriptive words: Words that describe my observations, my experiences, my state. These are just descriptions—they can never be true in an absolute sense.

Prescriptive words: Words that tell me what to do—commands, advice, or instructions. These, too, can never be true; they’re just suggestions, not inherent truths.

When I recognize that I’m searching for truth in words—whether old or new—and I see that truth cannot exist there, something shifts. I stop. This is the first stage.

2. The First Shift: Letting Go of the Search

Once I stop seeking truth in words, a strange but pleasant state emerges:

A light, almost euphoric feeling—like an inner smile, a quiet high.

A sense of unfocused calm, as if my mind is softly blurred, yet comfortable. There’s no tension, no urgency, just a gentle, internal ease.

But this state is unfocused. I’m not anchored to anything; I’m floating. And while it feels good, it’s not grounded. So what’s next?

3. The Second Trap: The Question of What to Do With Words

Now, I might start thinking about words again—but differently. Instead of searching for truth in the words, I ask:

"What should I do with these words?"

"How should I handle the words I’ve spoken in the past—or the ones I’m speaking now?"

This is a new level of the same trap. I’m no longer looking for truth in the words, but I’m still obsessed with words, now fixating on what to do with them.

The problem? This question has no answer.

There are no "true" words that can tell me what to do with other words.

There’s no ultimate guidance on how to treat descriptions or commands.

When I realize I’m stuck in this loop—asking what to do with words—I see it for what it is: another dead end. And I stop again.

4. The Final Shift: Clarity Without Illusion

When I stop asking what to do with words, something profound happens:

The fuzzy calm dissolves into crystal-clear focus. The world snaps into sharp relief; I see everything with precision.

But the inner smile fades. The quiet joy I felt from not seeking truth in words disappears because that joy was tied to the idea of not seeking—it was still a mental construct, a description I was clinging to.

Now, I’m left with:

No emotional high, no artificial happiness from avoiding the search.

But also no distress. Just a neutral, stable state—one where I’m fully present, seeing reality as it is.

This is new. In the past, such emptiness might have felt hollow or unsettling. But now? It’s okay. It’s even good in its own way because my perception is sharper than ever.

5. The Two Stages Summarized

To reach this state, I had to pass through two critical stages:

Stage One: Recognize that I’m searching for truth in words (descriptive or prescriptive) and stop, because truth isn’t there.

Result: A pleasant but unfocused calm.

Stage Two: Notice that I’ve shifted to asking what to do with words and stop again, because that question is also unanswerable.

Result: The calm solidifies into clear, unfiltered perception—no illusions, no distractions.

6. Testing the State

I haven’t fully explored this yet. It’s new, and I’m still observing how it feels, how it changes me. But so far:

The clarity is undeniable.

The lack of artificial joy is strange but not unwelcome.

I’m not clinging to any mental narrative—not to words, not to the absence of words.

I’ll keep testing it. For now, I’ve documented the process. The rest? We’ll see.

Closing Reflection

This isn’t about rejecting words entirely. It’s about seeing them for what they are: tools, not truths. Descriptions and instructions can be useful, but they’re not foundations. The moment I treat them as anything more, I lose myself in the search.

The real freedom comes when I stop searching altogether—not just in words, but even in the question of what to do with words. Then, and only then, do I arrive here: clear, present, and unburdened.

The Obsession with Words and Truth

I began by reflecting on a strange discomfort after my last recording—a physical pain in my left eye, which I recognized as psychosomatic. The cause? I couldn’t stop thinking about the words I’d spoken in my previous guide, words meant to help others achieve a certain state of being. These words haunted me because I felt compelled to verify their truth. The desire to confirm whether they were "true" triggered this physical and mental tension.

I realized: I cannot verify the truth of any words I speak, think, or will speak. Not just the words in my guide, but any words. Words describe observations—feelings, thoughts, patterns—but observations themselves cannot be "proven true." At best, I can check if my words match my observations, but that’s not the same as verifying truth. It’s just confirming consistency. The moment I accepted this, my relationship with language—and with myself—shifted permanently.

The Collapse of Self-Help

Before this realization, words had power over me. Different words altered my state: some lifted me, others dragged me down. My guides, my "discoveries," were built on this premise—that certain phrases, if believed or repeated, could improve one’s condition. But once I saw that no words could be verified as true, I lost all motivation to engage with them.

Personal impact: My own words stopped working for me. If I couldn’t trust their truth, why should I let them influence me? My state worsened because I rejected the very tool (language) I’d used to regulate myself.

Helping others: I still knew which words might help others—words I’d once used myself. But now, I saw them as meaningless. How could I offer guidance I no longer believed in? My mission had been to share words that ease suffering, but now, those words felt like lies. I had nothing left to say.

The paradox: I knew my old words could help people, yet I couldn’t bring myself to speak them because I no longer trusted their foundation.

The Paradox of Motivation

I was trapped:

If I spoke, I’d be sharing unverifiable words—hypocrisy.

If I stayed silent, no one would benefit from the insights I’d gained through years of struggle.

My brain seemed wired to want to help others, but only if I believed in the tools I offered. Without that belief, motivation vanished. I forced myself to record this update only by promising it would be my last—a final attempt to bridge the gap between my silence and the suffering I saw in others.

"It feels like wild injustice to live my life in peace while others suffer, knowing I could help—but I have no words left that I trust."

The Two-Level Guide: A Breakthrough

In the midst of this despair, I recalled that my past guides had always operated on two levels:

First level: Words describing observations (e.g., "When you think X, you feel Y").

Second level: Words about those words (e.g., "You should stop thinking X because it harms you").

The solution emerged when I applied this structure to my current crisis:

First phrase: "I cannot verify the truth of any words."

This alone made me feel terrible—it was a dead end, a void.

Second phrase: "I cannot verify the truth of any words about words."

Adding this second layer neutralized the first. Why? Because it exposed the futility of thinking about the first phrase. If I can’t verify words about words, then there’s nothing left to think. The cycle collapses.

Result: My state improved instantly. The eye pain faded. The obsession with truth dissolved. I was left with pure observation—no words, no judgments, no suffering.

The New Guide: Silence as Freedom

The final insight:

Problem: Suffering comes from believing words (yours or others’) are true and acting as if they must be obeyed.

Solution: Recognize that no words can be verified as true—not even words about words. This realization:

Stops the mental churn: No more searching for "true" words to fix your state.

Restores agency: You’re free to observe, act, and live without the burden of "truth."

Ends the paradox: You can speak to others without needing to believe in the words. The words become tools, not dogma.

"Maximum observation. Minimum thinking about truth. Zero suffering from words."

What Remains

For myself: I no longer need words to regulate my state. I observe, act, and exist—without the noise of self-help narratives.

For others: I can share this framework without attachment. The words aren’t "true"; they’re a map to silence.

The irony: The guide that finally works is the one that destroys all guides.

Closing Thoughts

This isn’t nihilism. It’s liberation from the tyranny of truth. The pain in my eye was a symptom of trying to do the impossible: prove the unprovable. Now, I see that the search itself was the problem.

"I have nothing left to say—and that’s the first thing worth saying."

The Illusion of Truth and the Rejection of Words as Guides

1. The Initial Theory: Words and Their Unverifiable Nature

I began with a theory: I cannot verify the truth of any words, nor can I verify the truth of any words about words. These two statements, I thought, created a kind of mental equilibrium—a state that felt stable, even good. But soon, this led me back into discomfort. I started questioning why I was thinking about these words at all. Why should I accept the state they create, even if it feels good? After all, that state is built on words I cannot prove to be true.

I realized: I do not want words I cannot verify to dictate my state of mind. It feels like a deception—like living by rules I haven’t confirmed. So I returned to an earlier conclusion: since I cannot verify the "naturalness" or truth of any words, I must stop using them as guides or tools to alter my state. No more searching for meaning, no more relying on words to direct me. They are useless for this purpose.

But then I added another layer: I cannot verify the truth of words about words either. My brain doesn’t automatically account for this. When I say, "I cannot verify any words for truth," my mind only thinks of words describing my observations or feelings—not words about words themselves. So I had to explicitly state: I cannot verify the truth of words about words. This shifted my relationship with the first statement, making it less significant. Now, neither phrase affects me much because I can’t assign any meaning—good or bad—to them.

2. The Paradox of Communication: Why Speak at All?

This left me with a dilemma: I have nothing to say to anyone. I hold no opinions, no beliefs I can justify. Even if someone comes to me suffering, asking for words to free them from their pain, all I can offer are words I know are unprovable. I might say something that dismantles their beliefs, that makes them feel better—but what am I really doing? Am I just spewing empty phrases? It feels meaningless, like a waste of time. Why engage in this at all?

I struggled to record this very update because I don’t want to speak words I cannot verify. Yet here I am, forcing myself to do it once, to capture these thoughts before moving on.

3. The Drama of Right and Wrong: Observing Conflict Without Judgment

The Internet Drama: A Case Study in Morality

While grappling with these ideas, I observed an online conflict—a drama where people split into camps, each convinced of their righteousness. At first, I tried to dissect it: Who is right? Who is wrong? I spent time analyzing arguments, tracing the sequence of events, convinced there must be an objective truth.

Initially, I sided with the idea that attacking others for personal gain is wrong—that forcing someone to act against their will is morally corrupt. This aligned with my earlier belief: no one owes me anything, and I owe nothing to anyone. If someone isn’t obligated to me, I have no right to coerce them. Conversely, if I’m not obligated to others, their coercion of me is also wrong.

But then, my perspective shifted.

The Collapse of Moral Judgment

Now, I realize: I no longer feel that anything is "wrong." Not attack, not defense—nothing. Every person has an inherent right to protect their interests and to pursue them aggressively, without constraints. There is no scenario where someone lacks the right to act in their own favor.

Attack? Permissible.

Defense? Permissible.

Coercion? Permissible.

This isn’t a call to action—it’s an absence of moral judgment. I don’t have to attack or defend; I simply recognize that no act is inherently wrong. Others, too, have this freedom. If someone attacks me, I don’t resent them. If I attack and they resist, I don’t fault them. Everyone operates within their right to self-interest.

This neutrality extends even to enemies. I may oppose their actions if they harm me, but I don’t condemn them. They are not "wrong"—they are merely acting in their interest, as is their right.

How This Freedom Emerged

This perspective became possible only after abandoning all belief in verifiable truth. As long as I clung to the idea that some words might hold truth—even unprovable truth—I kept stumbling into moral traps. For example:

"No one owes me anything" → Therefore, coercion is wrong.
But this is just another unprovable statement! It’s a belief disguised as truth.

Once I discarded all words as potential guides—even those about obligations and rights—I reached a state where nothing feels wrong. No action is inherently invalid. Conflict is just conflict. Who wins? Who loses? It doesn’t matter. The only rule is that everyone has the right to act in their interest, always.

4. The Problem of Sharing This Realization

Despite this clarity, I face a paradox: I don’t want to communicate this to others. Why?

Motivation is gone. I see no point in convincing anyone of something they can’t verify.

It feels hollow. Offering words I know are unprovable feels like spreading nonsense.

I have no stake in others’ beliefs. If someone suffers from their illusions, that’s their path. I can’t "fix" them with more illusions.

Yet, I force myself to record this once—to leave a trace, a final articulation of these ideas. After this, I’ll return to living without the need to explain or justify.

5. The Final Guide (If It Can Be Called That)

If I were to distill a "method" from this, it would be:

Destroy all beliefs. Recognize that no word—about observations, feelings, or other words—can be verified as true.

Stop seeking guidance in words. Any attempt to use them as a compass is futile. They are tools without foundation.

Accept the void. Without verifiable truth, there is no "right" or "wrong"—only actions and interests.

Act without moral weight. Attack, defend, or do nothing. No act is inherently justified or condemned.

Release the need to judge. Others’ actions, no matter how they affect you, are merely expressions of their right to self-interest.

This isn’t nihilism—it’s freedom from the illusion of moral frameworks. It’s the end of the search for truth in words and the beginning of pure, unburdened existence.

Closing Thought: The Silence After the Storm

I’ll likely stop speaking about this after today. The act of explaining feels increasingly absurd. Words are tools I no longer trust to build anything meaningful. So I’ll live, observe, and act—without the noise of justification.

And if someone asks for my opinion? I have none. Only the right to exist as I am.

The Evolution of My Understanding: From Belief to the Impossibility of Verification

1. The Refinement of My Core Statement

I used to say:
"I cannot verify any words for truthfulness."
But this was incomplete. I realized I needed a stronger, more precise formulation:
"I cannot verify any words from any perspective—not just for truthfulness, but at all. I cannot verify any observations, any feelings, any sensations, or any words that describe them. Nor can I verify any words about what to do with them. I cannot verify any words about the words I speak. This is a far more accurate description of my situation."

Later, I simplified it further:
"I cannot verify anything. No observations, feelings, sensations, or the words that describe them. Nothing can be verified from any perspective."

This new phrasing is more powerful. It shifts the state of mind entirely.

2. The Illusion of Verification and the Search for the "Verified"

For years, I believed in the idea of verification—that some observations, feelings, or words could be "proven" true. I sought this because I noticed that my suffering came from believing in things that were unverified. When I realized something was unverified, I stopped believing in it, and my suffering lessened.

But I still hoped to find something verified—something solid to believe in that would bring me peace. I searched for years, only to realize:

Everything I thought was verified turned out to be unverifiable upon closer inspection.

The very concept of "verification" is an illusion. The mind assumes that observations, feelings, and sensations are inherently true—that seeing or feeling something means it is real, proven, not an illusion. But this is a default setting of the brain, not a fact.

I broke this default setting. I stopped believing that:

"If I see it, it must be true."

"If I feel it, it must be real."

"If I think it, it must be meaningful."

Once I saw that nothing could be verified—not even my own perceptions—I lost all belief in the possibility of verification itself.

3. The Journey: From Suffering to the Rejection of Truth

My motivation was never truth for its own sake. It was freedom from suffering.

The Problem:
I suffered because of automatic thoughts—beliefs like:

"I must do X."

"Others owe me Y."

"I want Z, and not having it is unbearable."

These beliefs created stress, anger, and despair.

The False Solution:
I thought: "If I can just find the truth—whether I really must do X, or whether others really owe me Y—then I’ll stop suffering."
So I tried to "dig for the truth." But the more I dug, the more I realized:

Truth is unverifiable.

The very act of seeking truth assumes that truth exists to be found—but it doesn’t.

The Breakthrough:
I saw that all suffering comes from belief—belief in observations, feelings, words, and the idea that any of them can be "proven." When I stopped believing in the possibility of verification, I stopped suffering.

Now, I don’t believe in:

Observations ("This is real because I see it.")

Feelings ("This is true because I feel it.")

Words ("This thought means something.")

Obligations ("I must…" or "They must…")

Without belief, there is no suffering.

4. The Mechanics of Belief and Suffering

Default Brain Settings:
The human mind is wired to treat perceptions as "true by default." It assumes:

"If I experience it, it is real."

"If I think it, it is meaningful."

This default trust in perception is the foundation of all other beliefs—and thus, all suffering.

How I Broke the Cycle:

I noticed that my suffering came from believing unverified things.

I asked: "Can I verify any of this?"

I realized: No. Verification is impossible.

I stopped believing in the need to verify—or in the existence of truth itself.

The result? No beliefs. No suffering.

5. The Paradox of Confidence

Ironically, giving up on verification made me more confident.

An insecure person needs to "check" everything before acting.

A confident person acts without the illusion of verification.

I no longer waste time trying to "prove" anything because I know it’s impossible. This doesn’t mean I ignore practical checks (like looking both ways before crossing a street)—but I no longer seek metaphysical verification. I act, and I don’t suffer.

6. The Role of Motivation

This entire journey was possible only because of desperation.

I was in so much pain that I had to find a way out.

I saw that my suffering came from belief, so I had to dismantle belief.

Most people won’t do this because they don’t need to—their suffering isn’t severe enough to force the question: "What if nothing can be verified?"

But once you start, the path is irreversible. You keep unraveling beliefs until none remain.

7. The Final State: No Belief, No Suffering

Now, I exist in a state where:

I don’t believe in observations.

I don’t believe in feelings.

I don’t believe in words.

I don’t believe in truth.

And because of this, I don’t suffer.

This isn’t nihilism. It’s freedom.

Closing Thought

The mind clings to the idea of verification because it craves security. But security is an illusion. The only real peace comes from seeing that nothing can be verified—and therefore, nothing needs to be believed.

The Core Problem: The Illusion of Verifiable Words

I began with two simple but devastating realizations:

I cannot verify the truth of any words.

I cannot verify the truth of any words about words.

At first glance, these statements seem abstract, but they dismantle everything. If I can’t verify the truth of any word—whether it’s about the external world, my own thoughts, or even the act of verification itself—then every word I use, think, or believe in becomes suspect. This isn’t just skepticism; it’s an absolute deadlock. No word, no phrase, no internal narrative can be trusted as a foundation for anything.

The Failed Strategy: Using Words to Change My State

For years, I tried to use words to improve my state of mind. I noticed that certain phrases, when repeated or focused on, would shift my mood, motivation, or perception. It worked—temporarily. But the problem was always the same:

Why these words? If I can’t verify their truth, why should I let them influence me?

Why not others? If one phrase improves my state, but I can’t prove it’s "true," then any phrase could do the same—even harmful ones.

The Rejection: I couldn’t accept a state of mind built on unverifiable words. It felt like living a lie.

I’d find a phrase that worked, believe in it for a while, then inevitably question it. The cycle repeated: search, temporary relief, doubt, collapse. Each time, I’d discard the old words and search for new ones, hoping the next set would be the "right" ones—the ones I could finally trust.

But the core issue remained: I could never verify any of them.

The Turning Point: Words as a Dead End

Eventually, I reached a breaking point. I realized:

Words cannot be tools for change if I can’t verify them. Even if a phrase feels good, it’s meaningless if I can’t trust its foundation.

The only honest use of words is to expose their own futility. The phrases "I cannot verify any words" and "I cannot verify any words about words" aren’t meant to be believed in or repeated as mantras. Their sole purpose is to reveal the trap of relying on words at all.

This was the shift: Words aren’t for changing my state—they’re for dismantling the illusion that they ever could.

The Paradox of the "Final" Phrase

At first, I thought even these two phrases were just another attempt to "fix" myself with words. I’d ask:

Why should I accept that these phrases are true?

If they change my state, isn’t that the same as before?

But the difference was critical:

Old phrases were meant to change my state. I clung to them, believed in them, and suffered when they failed.

These phrases were anti-phrases. Their job wasn’t to improve my state but to destroy the mechanism that made me seek improvement through words.

Once I truly understood them, I saw:

No phrase can be trusted, not even these.

No state changed by words is acceptable, because the foundation is always unverifiable.

The only logical step is to stop using words for any purpose—not just these phrases, but all phrases.

The Result: Life Without Words as Tools

Now, I live without relying on words to shape my experience. This doesn’t mean I never think or speak, but:

I don’t use words to motivate myself. No internal pep talks, no "truths" to cling to.

I don’t use words to judge my state. If I feel good or bad, it’s not because of a narrative I’ve adopted.

I don’t seek "better" words. The search is over.

At first, this felt empty—like something was missing. But that emptiness was just the absence of the struggle to find the "right" words. Without that struggle, there’s a strange, stable clarity.

Why Others Resist This

Most people intuitively understand that if they question their beliefs too deeply, everything collapses. They’d rather:

Hold onto desires (even if unfulfilled) because the hope of fulfillment feels necessary.

Endure suffering for the chance of joy, rather than risk losing both.

Live in the illusion that their beliefs are true, because the alternative—uncertainty—feels like death.

But I’ve seen the other side. The suffering that comes from beliefs isn’t worth the fleeting joy. The trade-off is a scam. Beliefs promise happiness but deliver anxiety, because reality rarely aligns with what we want to be true.

The Alternative: Freedom from the Word-Trap

What’s left when you stop using words as tools?

No more emotional rollercoasters tied to whether your beliefs are "proven" or "disproven."

No more dependency on narratives to feel okay.

No more suffering from the gap between what you believe should be and what is.

It’s not that life becomes passionless. It’s that passion arises from experience, not from stories you tell yourself. You don’t need to believe in happiness to feel it. You don’t need to verify joy to experience it.

The Only "Guide" That Works

This isn’t a guide. It’s an un-guide. The phrases aren’t steps to follow but bombs to detonate the entire concept of using words for self-improvement.

If you take one thing from this, let it be:
The moment you see that no word can be verified, you stop needing words to live.

And that’s the point.

The Problem: The Lingering Influence of Words

I recorded another update because, despite my previous explanation, there was one critical thing I didn’t address—without it, the result wouldn’t be complete.

After my last recording, I faced a problem: words still affected me. Even though I had explained why thinking about words was meaningless, the words from my previous recording continued to influence me. They altered my state while I was speaking them, and that altered state persisted afterward. I couldn’t shake their effect.

How did this manifest?

My vision felt slightly blurred (though I can’t fully explain why).

More accurately, I couldn’t stop thinking about the previous recording.

Because I kept thinking about the words I’d spoken, those thoughts kept changing my state.

I realized: If I fell asleep and woke up forgetting everything—my past words, my recordings—my state would be different. Cleaner. I wanted to reach that "just-woken-up" state now, but not by imagining sleep. I wanted to stop thinking about the words without using visualization or fantasy. Just… stop. But I couldn’t.

The Missing Piece: Words Spoken to Others

In my last recording, I’d established two key phrases for myself:

"I cannot verify any words from any perspective."

"I cannot verify any words about words from any perspective."

Why?
To recognize that thinking about words is futile—because I can’t use them to change my state meaningfully. Speaking words to myself in hopes of altering my state is pointless.

But here’s what I didn’t say:
The same logic applies to words spoken to others.

If I try to find meaningful words to say to people, I’ll never succeed—because no words can be verified.

Any words I say to others will be unverified, and thus meaningless to me.

This leaves me with questions:

Why am I saying these words?

Why should others listen?

Why do these words deserve attention if I can’t verify them?

The trap:
My brain is wired to think about the words I speak to others. If I believe (even subconsciously) that these words have meaning, they’ll influence my state. I can’t stop thinking about them because I’m treating them as if they’re "true" or "verified"—even though I know they’re not.

The Solution: Canceling All Words

Step 1: Cancel words spoken to myself

Reject all past self-directed words.

Stop speaking any words to myself, because I won’t accept their influence.

Step 2: Cancel words spoken to others

This was the missing piece.

I must retract all words I’ve ever spoken to others—not in the sense of taking them back from the world, but in no longer treating them as "guides" or truths in my own mind.

As long as I consider my past words to others as valid or meaningful, I’ll keep thinking about them, and they’ll keep affecting me.

The realization:

I don’t actually believe in the words I say to others.

I say them only because I know they might help others—not because they’re true or verified.

But if I keep treating them as if they matter, they’ll haunt me.

The action:

Declare all past words to others null and void.

Adopt the stance: "I have no guide for others. I have nothing to say to them or myself."

This isn’t about silence—it’s about detachment. I can still speak, but I must immediately dismiss the words afterward, so they don’t linger in my mind as "truths."

The Paradox of Helping Others

The conflict:

I speak to others not because I believe in the words, but because I know the words might help them.

Yet, if I believe in the words, my own state suffers.

If I don’t believe in them, speaking feels absurd—like I’m engaging in nonsense.

The resolution:

Separate the act of helping from personal attachment.

I can say things to others without treating them as verified or meaningful to me.

The moment I finish speaking, I cancel the words in my own mind.

Empathy as the only motivator:

I don’t do this for myself. I do it because others need it, and no one else will help them.

It’s not about truth—it’s about utility.

The result:

My state remains clear, as if I’d just woken up with no lingering thoughts.

I’m not haunted by past words because I don’t hold onto them.

The Ideal State: No Words, No Memory

What does this look like?

No internal monologue about what to say to myself or others.

No "guides"—neither for me nor for anyone else.

No verification attempts—because all words are unverifiable.

No memory of spoken words—because if I don’t treat them as meaningful, they don’t stick.

Why?

Normally, people remember what they told themselves or others (e.g., "Tomorrow, I’ll do X").

They wake up and act based on those words.

But if the words are never treated as truths, there’s nothing to remember.

The outcome:

A state identical to waking up with a blank slate.

Freedom from the influence of words—all words.

Final Thoughts: The Cost of Helping

It’s hard to keep speaking to others when I don’t believe in the words.

It feels like madness—why engage in something I see as meaningless?

But the alternative (doing nothing) feels worse, because I know others need this.

So I speak, then cancel. Repeat.

The words help others.

The cancellation preserves me.

The balance:

For others: Words as tools (even if unverified).

For me: Words as nothing—spoken, then erased.

Closing Reflection:
This isn’t about silence or inaction. It’s about non-attachment—using words without being used by them. The moment a word is spoken (to myself or others), it must be released, so it doesn’t become a chain.

Would this work for anyone else? I don’t know. But for me, it’s the only way to stay clear—while still helping.

The Paradox of Words and the State of Forgetting

1. The Morning State: Pure and Unburdened

When I wake up in the morning, I find myself in a state where I remember nothing—no guides, no instructions, no words I’ve spoken before. This is the most remarkable state to be in. Nothing alters it, not even language. But as the day begins, I often recall some "guide" I had for myself or others, and the moment I do, my state shifts. I no longer want this to happen. I want to wake up, remember nothing, and remain in that purity indefinitely.

2. The Illusion of Guides

Earlier, I believed I had guides—for myself, for others. I thought I needed to remember them to function, to communicate, to direct. But now I realize: I have no guide. Not for myself, not for others. I’ve stopped telling myself or anyone else what to do. And because of this, I no longer need to recall anything. There’s nothing to hold onto.

Yet, paradoxically, I once wanted to achieve this state through words—some verbal guide on how to reach the state of forgetting. But I’ve come to understand: words can never lead to a state where words are forgotten. If I treat any phrase as a guide, I’ll always remember it, and thus, I’ll never truly be free of it.

3. The Uselessness of Words

Words like "forget this" or "don’t think about that" are still words—and if I repeat them, I’m still bound by them. The only way to be in the state of non-remembering is to not recall anything I’ve said. But if I’ve already spoken, I can’t un-remember it. The act of speaking to myself ensures I’ll always carry those words.

So, words serve only one purpose here: to experience the realization that words are meaningless. They help me see that clinging to them—whether for myself or others—only disrupts the state I seek.

4. The Method That Works (For Now)

The only reliable way I’ve found is this:

Understand everything I’ve said before—all the guides, the instructions, the attempts to shape reality with language.

Go to sleep.

Wake up—and stay in that initial state, untouched by memory.

Because the alternative is to start recalling words—treating them as if they matter, as if they hold truth or weight. But I’ve learned: I will always reject that. Any state altered by words feels artificial, untrustworthy.

5. The Two Things I Could Remember (And Why I Don’t)

When I wake up empty, what could I recall?

Words I told myself—commands, self-instructions, attempts to manipulate my own state.

Words I meant for others—advice, guidance, things I thought would help or change them.

But now, understanding both, I see: there’s no need. If I don’t believe in helping others through words (or myself), then recalling them serves no purpose. The only state worth living in is the one unaltered by language—where I don’t speak to myself or others, don’t try to change anything, don’t assign meaning to words.

6. The Difference Between Real Sleep and Pretending

There’s a distinction between:

Actually sleeping and waking up with a blank mind (the ideal).

Simulating sleep (closing my eyes, pretending to drift off) to reach the same state.

The first feels more real, more pure. The second is a trick—but it works, to an extent. Yet even then, I’m aware I’m trying to forget, which isn’t the same as true forgetting.

7. Memory Without Attachment

I do remember the words I’ve spoken. But I don’t revive them as truths. It’s like remembering an old anger: I know it happened, but I don’t re-experience it. Similarly, I recall past words, but I don’t let them reshape my present state.

This morning, I woke up free. No urge to dig into memory, no need to instruct myself or others. I simply exist, unburdened.

8. The Only Sustainable Path

The only way forward is:

Accept that no words can create the state of non-remembering.

Stop assigning power to language—neither as a tool for myself nor for others.

Wake up. Stay empty. Refuse to recall.

Because any alternative—clinging to words, treating them as guides—leads only to distortion. And I’m done with that.

Final Realization

Words are not the enemy, but the illusion that they matter is.
The state I seek isn’t created by silence—it’s what remains when I stop fighting silence with noise.

The Theory of Thoughts and Beliefs: A First-Person Retelling

1. The Core Problem: Automatic Thoughts and Emotions

I have a theory. It starts with this: the problem isn’t just thoughts—it’s automatic thoughts. These are the thoughts that arise without effort, the ones that generate negative emotions and feelings. Not all of them, but most. Behind these thoughts lie beliefs—deep-seated convictions that shape how we interpret the world. For example:

"I must do X" or "Others owe me Y."
These beliefs spawn thoughts, and those thoughts dictate our emotional state.

The question is: What can we actually do about this? How can we stop these thoughts and beliefs from controlling us?

There are only two theoretical options:

Erase the boundary—make them absolute, so they no longer feel like constraints or demands.

Neutralize them—strip them of their power, so they no longer dictate our actions or emotions.

But how?

2. The Only Solution: Stop Believing the Thoughts

The only way to prevent a thought from affecting you is to stop believing it entirely. If you believe a thought—if you treat it as reality—it will influence you. The brain is wired this way: what you accept as true becomes your reality.

Negative thoughts? Stop believing them.

Fearful thoughts? Stop believing them.

Angry, sad, or self-critical thoughts? Stop believing them.

This isn’t about suppression or distraction. It’s about disbelief as a skill.

But how do you stop believing something you’ve always taken for granted?

3. Investigating the Truth: Can You Prove Your Beliefs?

To stop believing a thought, you must first examine whether it’s worthy of belief. You have to ask:
"Is this thought true? Can I prove it?"

Take a belief like:

"I must be perfect" or "People should treat me fairly."

Step 1: Recognize that this belief causes suffering (stress, anger, anxiety).
Step 2: Ask: "Is this objectively true? Or is it just a story I’ve been telling myself?"

But here’s the catch: How do you prove anything?

4. The Foundation of Belief: Observations, Feelings, and Sensations

Every belief is built on three pillars:

Observations – What you see, hear, or perceive.

Feelings – Emotional reactions (fear, joy, anger).

Sensations – Physical experiences (touch, pain, warmth).

We believe our thoughts because we assume these three pillars are reliable. But are they?

The Critical Question:
Can you prove that your observations, feelings, or sensations are accurate?

Observations? What if your eyes deceive you? (Optical illusions, biases, memory distortions.)

Feelings? Emotions are subjective—what if they’re based on false assumptions?

Sensations? Even physical pain can be a misfire (phantom limb syndrome, placebo effects).

Conclusion: You cannot prove any of them.
And if you can’t prove the foundation, you can’t prove the beliefs built on them.

5. The Domino Effect: Words Lose Meaning

If you can’t trust your observations, feelings, or sensations, then the words describing them become meaningless.

"I’m worthless" → Based on what? A feeling? An observation? Unprovable.

"They wronged me" → Based on your interpretation of events. Unprovable.

"I must succeed" → A self-imposed rule with no objective basis. Unprovable.

All words become "nonsense" because they rest on unprovable foundations.

6. The Trap of Seeking "Truth" in Words

The natural response is: "But what if I find the right words? The true ones?"

Reality check:

You can’t verify any words (because their foundations—observations, feelings, sensations—are unverifiable).

Even if a word feels true, that’s just another feeling (which you can’t prove).

Searching for "true" words is a dead end.

The only way out? Stop searching.

7. The Paradox of Action: What Do You Do Now?

If you can’t trust any words (including your own instructions), how do you decide what to do?

"I want X" → Just another unverifiable word.

"I should Y" → A belief, not a fact.

"This has meaning" → Meaning is a story, not proof.

The answer: You don’t decide. Not in the way you’re used to.

Instead, you stop relying on words altogether.

8. The Final Step: Letting Go of the Search

The mind will resist. It will keep trying to find some words to cling to—some new belief, some "truth" to guide you.

But the only way forward is to:

See the absurdity of the search (you’ll never find provable words).

Stop trying to "figure it out" (the mind can’t solve this with more words).

Forget it all—literally. Sleep. Wake up without revisiting the thoughts.

Why sleep?

When you wake, you’re not immediately burdened by yesterday’s words.

You exist before the mind starts its usual chatter.

This is the closest you get to freedom.

9. The Outcome: Living Without Belief-Dependence

What remains when you stop believing your thoughts?

No "shoulds."

No "musts."

No reliance on unverifiable stories.

What’s left?

Direct experience (without the layer of interpretation).

Spontaneous action (not dictated by beliefs, but by present-moment impulses).

Peace (because no thought has the power to disturb you).

The mind will still generate thoughts. But they’ll pass like clouds—seen, but not believed.

10. The Warning: Don’t Try to "Hold On" to This

The moment you try to remember this insight, you’re back in the trap:

"I must not believe my thoughts" → Now you’re believing a new thought.

"I should stay in this state" → Now you’re clinging to a belief.

The only way is to forget it all.
Let the mind empty. Trust that the body knows how to act without your stories.

Final Note: This Isn’t Nihilism—It’s Freedom

This isn’t about despair. It’s about seeing the mechanism of suffering and stepping out of it.

You don’t need to replace old beliefs with new ones.

You don’t need to control your thoughts.

You just need to stop feeding them with belief.

And then?
You live. Not as a prisoner of your mind, but as someone who sees thoughts for what they are:
Unprovable. Optional. Powerless.

Morning Awakening: The Zero State

I woke up this morning and decided not to recall anything—none of the "guides," none of the words I’d told myself or others yesterday. I knew that if I remembered them, they’d alter my state, and I didn’t want that. The only thing I could remember were the words themselves—words I’d spoken to myself or others, words that had once been instructions or descriptions. But even those, I avoided. I didn’t want to revisit the state I’d been in when I was thinking about those guides, or the state of mind that had created them.

At first, my state was empty—no emotions, no sensations, just a blank neutrality. It wasn’t comfortable. It felt lifeless, indifferent. But I was afraid that if I started recalling yesterday’s thoughts, I’d slip back into that old mindset. So I didn’t. I just observed.

Exploring the Mind: Probing for Comfort

I realized I could carefully explore my own state without triggering those memories. I didn’t have to stay in that hollow zero-state. So I began to test the boundaries: What can I think about without pulling up the past?

First, I allowed myself to think freely—not about specific words or guides, but just about the present. Describing the world around me, my sensations, my observations. Not as instructions, not as truths, just as neutral notes. This shift was subtle, but it felt slightly better. Still strange, though—directionless, without any clear aim. No driving desire, no focus. Just a faint improvement.

Then I thought: What else can I do with my state without recalling yesterday?

I noticed I could think about wanting something. Specifically, I thought: I want to earn money. I want to work as a programmer again. This wasn’t a memory—it was a new thought, untainted by yesterday’s words. And it felt good. A spark of motivation appeared. I remembered how it felt to want something at 18, when I worked at McDonald’s—how the idea of working there had once excited me. Now, the idea of programming excited me even more. Not just for the money (though that’s part of it), but because I could do it. No physical strain, just pure problem-solving.

The key was this: As long as I didn’t recall the past—didn’t revisit the "truths" or "guides" I’d once believed—I could shape my state freely. I could want things. I could plan. I could feel anticipation. And it wouldn’t drag me back.

The Danger Zone: Words as Traps

Here’s the critical insight: There’s a sphere in my mind—a black box—filled with words I once treated as truths. Words I’d spoken to myself or others as guides, as absolute instructions. As long as I don’t open that box, I’m safe. The moment I start recalling those words, questioning their truth, or trying to verify them, my state worsens.

It’s not about the content of the thoughts—it’s about the act of treating words as truths. For example:

Safe: "I want to work as a programmer." (A simple desire, no analysis.)

Dangerous: "But do I really want that? Is this desire true? What if I’m wrong?" (Now I’m back in the box.)

The difference is between:

Observing reality (e.g., "Work exists. Money is useful.")

Analyzing "truths" (e.g., "Is this the right desire? Are these the correct words to live by?")

The second path leads to paralysis. The first keeps me grounded.

Testing the Limits: Psychology vs. Programming

Today, I tested a hypothesis: Could I earn money by helping others with words? After all, I’ve figured out how to navigate my own mind—maybe I could guide others.

I tried a mock consultation with a friend. At first, it felt okay. But then I noticed the problem:

To help others with words, I had to think about words. I had to craft phrases, verify their impact, and worry about whether they’d "work."

This pulled me out of reality. My vision blurred—not literally, but metaphorically. I stopped seeing the world clearly. Instead, I was lost in a haze of "What should I say next? Is this the right advice?"

It felt unhealthy. Not because helping is bad, but because the process required me to engage with the very thing I’d learned to avoid: treating words as tools to manipulate truth.

Programming, on the other hand, is pure. No words-as-truths—just problems and solutions. I look at code, I fix bugs, I build things. No internal debate about "Is this the right way to think?" Just action.

The Core Rule: Never Question the Words

My method is simple:

Forget all past "guides" and "truths." Sleep is the only reliable way to reset.

Never analyze the words you think with. Don’t ask "Is this desire true?" or "Am I thinking correctly?" Just think, act, and move forward.

Live in reality. Focus on tangible things—work, money, observations—not on the meaning or truth behind them.

When I follow this, I feel sharp. My vision is clear. I’m present.

When I break it—when I start questioning my own words or recalling old "truths"—I lose that clarity. I get stuck in loops.

The Final Decision: Sharing Without Engaging

I considered monetizing my method—teaching others how to escape their own "word traps." But here’s the catch:

To teach it, I’d have to think about the words I’m using to teach.

That would pull me back into the cycle I’ve worked so hard to escape.

So I’ve decided:

I’ll document everything I’ve learned.

I’ll release it publicly, for free.

But I won’t engage with it. No consultations, no debates, no refining the method based on others’ feedback. Because the moment I start working with the words, I lose the very state I’m trying to preserve.

The Ideal State: Living Without the Black Box

Right now, I’m in a place where:

I have desires (e.g., programming, earning money).

I don’t question whether those desires are "true."

I don’t recall past "guides" or try to create new ones.

I act directly—no internal negotiation.

It’s not about avoiding thought. It’s about avoiding the trap of treating thoughts as sacred truths.

And that’s the update.

Closing Note:
This isn’t a guide. It’s just an observation. If it resonates, use it. If not, forget it. The only rule that matters is the one you don’t question.

The Final Understanding: How I Stopped Letting Words Control Me

1. The Core Realization

I lost a good state of mind and then found my way back to it. Now, I want to record the final description of how I achieve this—because over time, many variations emerge, and it’s hard to pinpoint what ultimately works. After everything, it comes down to understanding one thing: I cannot verify any words from any perspective.

Not just words about the world, but words about words themselves—none of them can be checked, proven, or relied upon. This is the foundation.

2. The Purpose of All the Words I’ve Spoken

Why did I say all those things to myself before? Why did I repeat phrases, analyze them, or cling to them? The answer is simple: It was never about the words themselves.

I didn’t need to think about them.

I didn’t need to remember them.

I didn’t need to believe in them.

The only purpose was to realize that words no longer work on me.

I used to speak words to myself—trying to guide my state, my actions, my beliefs. But now, I see that no word I say to myself (or to others) can have power over me. I don’t accept their influence. I don’t let them change me. I don’t even need to think about them anymore because they don’t work.

3. The Mechanism: How It Stops

Before, I was trapped in a cycle:

I’d tell myself something (e.g., "I can’t verify any words").

I’d think about those words, analyze them, let them affect me.

Then I’d say more words, and the cycle would repeat.

But now, I understand: The moment I truly see that words have no power, the cycle breaks.

I don’t need to check if a word is true.

I don’t need to believe in its effect.

I don’t need to fear its influence.

Because I know: I won’t accept it.

When I lie down to sleep, I don’t cling to any phrases. I wake up, and I don’t start my day by searching for words to guide me. I don’t recall yesterday’s "affirmations" or "rules" to follow. I don’t need them.

I remember that I understood something yesterday—but I don’t use that memory as a tool. It’s not a mantra. It’s just a fact: Words don’t work on me anymore.

4. The Transition: From Words to Life

Before, my mornings began with internal chatter:

"What should I tell myself today?"

"What words will fix my state?"

"What belief should I reinforce?"

Now, I skip that entirely. I don’t create a "guide" in my head. I don’t craft a worldview out of sentences. I don’t debate which words are "right."

I move directly to life—to desires, goals, actions.

The old habit was to start with words, as if they were the foundation. But now, the foundation is the absence of that need.

5. The Canceling of All Words

There was an intermediate step: I had to "cancel" everything I’d ever said to myself.

I’d think: "I no longer believe what I told myself yesterday."

I’d reject the idea that any past phrase had power.

I’d withdraw the words, as if taking them back—like unsending a message.

This was necessary because, for a while, I still feared that some word might sneak in and affect me. So I had to actively dismiss all of them—not just new ones, but everything I’d ever told myself.

Only then could I reach the final state: Words are meaningless to me now.

6. The Morning After Understanding

When I wake up:

I don’t think in words (no internal monologue, no "guidance").

I don’t recall yesterday’s phrases to reuse them.

I don’t need any words to function.

Yet, I remember that I understood something. That memory isn’t a tool—it’s just a fact. It’s like knowing the sky is blue; I don’t use that knowledge to do anything. It just is.

Because of this, I don’t fall back into the trap of:

"What should I tell myself today?"

"Which words will make me feel better?"

I don’t ask those questions anymore.

7. The Freedom in Letting Go

The entire process can be summarized in three steps:

Understand that words cannot be verified, trusted, or used to influence yourself.

Stop using them—stop searching for the "right" words, stop believing in their power.

Live without them—move directly to action, desire, and experience, skipping the mental layer of "word-based guidance."

As long as I don’t return to the habit of using words to control myself, I remain free.

8. The Final Schema

It’s not about replacing old words with new ones. It’s not about finding a "better" phrase or a "perfect" belief system.

It’s about seeing the uselessness of the entire mechanism—and walking away from it.

Before: Words → Thoughts → State → More Words → (Endless Loop)

Now: No words → Direct experience → Life

That’s all.

Closing Thought

This isn’t a "technique." It’s not a hack or a trick. It’s the end of a search.

I don’t need to do anything to maintain this. I just don’t go back to the old way.

And that’s enough.

The State of Clarity: A Guide to Forgetting Words

1. The Initial Realization

I woke up yesterday in an incredible state—sharp, motivated, and effortlessly present. It was so powerful that I wanted to document how I got there, not for myself (since I wasn’t thinking about others at the time), but later, I thought: Why not share this? Why not monetize this knowledge? The moment I shifted my focus to creating a "guide for others," something began to unravel. Today, I woke up and realized: I don’t even remember how I reached that state yesterday.

So, I’ll start over. Here’s the truth:

2. The Problem with Words

First, you must understand that no word can be verified. Once you truly grasp this, you’ll see that words no longer have power over you. But what comes next?

After realizing words are unverifiable, you must forget all words—completely. Every word you’ve ever spoken, thought, or written. Every guide, every internal monologue, every instruction—erase them all. Not just the content, but the very memory of the words themselves.

You’ll still remember what happened—the events, the emotions—but the words tied to those memories must vanish. The distinction is critical: remembering the past is not the same as remembering the words you used to describe it.

3. The Mechanism of Forgetting

When you forget all words, you’re left with pure experience. You might catch yourself on the verge of recalling a word, but then you’ll ask: Why would I do that? There’s no reason. The words you forgot were unverifiable; they had no real bearing on your state. Why would you let them alter how you feel now?

This is the key:

Before forgetting words, you’re trapped in a loop of thinking about them, letting them shape your desires, your motivation, your perception. Words cloud your judgment.

After forgetting words, you operate from a place of direct observation. Your desires aren’t manufactured by language—they arise from something deeper, something real.

4. The Two States of Being

There are two distinct states:

The State of Words

You remember words, think about them, and let them dictate your emotions.

Your motivation is artificial, tied to unverifiable narratives.

You’re constantly trying to extract meaning from words—whether for yourself or others—but it’s a dead end. Words can’t give you truth; they can only distort it.

The State Beyond Words

You forget all words and refuse to recall them.

Your perception is crystal clear because you’re no longer filtering reality through language.

Desires and motivations arise organically, untainted by mental chatter.

You’re fully present, observing the world as it is, not as it’s described.

5. Why We Cling to Words (And Why It’s Useless)

People recall words for two reasons—both flawed:

They believe words hold truth—that repeating or analyzing them will reveal what to do next (for themselves or others).

They believe words can change reality—that the right phrase will fix their state or influence someone else.

But here’s the truth:

Words cannot be verified. They’re just symbols, not reality.

No word can improve your state. Only forgetting words can do that.

You have nothing to say—to yourself or others. The moment you accept this, you stop the cycle of dependency on language.

6. The Practice: How to Forget

I’ve discovered a strange ability: I can forget all words at will. It’s not about sleeping or meditating—it’s a conscious choice. Here’s how it works:

Step 1: Acknowledge that every word you’ve ever used is unverifiable and thus meaningless.

Step 2: Actively erase them from memory. Not just the ideas, but the words themselves. Let go of the scripts, the guides, the internal dialogues.

Step 3: Observe the world without labeling it. When a word tries to resurface, recognize it as a distraction and let it dissolve.

Step 4: Exist in the state where only direct experience matters. No words to describe, no words to obey—just pure presence.

7. The Paradox of the Guide

Ironically, I’m writing this guide using words to explain how to transcend words. But here’s the catch:

These words, too, must be forgotten after they’re written.

The moment I finish, I’ll release them all—because holding onto them would defeat the purpose.

The guide is a tool, not a crutch. Use it to reach the state, then discard it entirely.

8. The Result: Effortless Clarity

When you forget all words:

Your mind is no longer hijacked by unverifiable narratives.

Your motivation isn’t manufactured—it’s authentic, arising from your core.

You’re no longer trying to "fix" your state with words because you realize: there was never anything to fix.

This is the state I was in yesterday. The state where everything feels 10/10—sharp, motivated, and free.

9. Final Note: The Only Rule

The only thing that can disrupt this state is remembering a word. The moment you recall even one, you risk slipping back into the illusion. So the rule is simple:
Forget all words. Never recall them. Stay in the silence beyond language.

Reflection:
Now, having written this, I’ll do exactly what I described—I’ll forget every word here, including these. Because the state isn’t in the explanation. It’s in the forgetting.

A Journey Beyond Words: States of Mind and the Paradox of Description

1. The Pursuit of a State

I’ve been trying to recreate yesterday’s profound state of being, but I’ve realized something crucial: words alone cannot take me there. At best, I’ve reached a preliminary understanding—a threshold beyond which lies another step, but that step is untethered from language.

2. The First State: Forgetting All Words

The first breakthrough was this: I forgot all words. Not just some, but every single one. No recollection, no internal monologue, no lingering concepts. It’s akin to the moment you wake up in the morning—before thoughts crystallize into language. You exist without the burden of verbalization.

3. The Second State: Perception Without Clinging

From there, a natural transition occurs. It’s effortless, almost automatic. You’re no longer thinking in words, yet words may flicker at the edges of awareness—like shadows you don’t grasp. Instead, you see the world through a different lens, one unfiltered by language’s usual constraints.

No motivation, no urgency: You’re content. Not in a passive way, but in a state where action feels possible yet unforced. You could do anything, but nothing demands to be done.

Words as ghosts: They might appear, but they don’t stick. You don’t use them; they’re more like echoes of a reality you’re observing from a distance.

4. The Elusive Third State

This is where the real challenge lies. I’ve glimpsed it—a state that feels good, even transformative—but the moment I try to describe it or guide others toward it, it vanishes.

The paradox: The act of thinking about how to explain it pulls me out of it. It’s like trying to catch smoke with your hands.

The only path: To stop trying to document or teach it. Live instead of analyze. The third state isn’t something you can force or script; it’s something you stumble into when you cease the mental struggle.

5. The Core Realization: Reality Over Words

The key is switching from words to reality. Not as a metaphor, but as a literal shift in focus.

Step 1: Forget all words. Let them dissolve entirely.

Step 2: Enter the second state—where words may drift by, but you don’t engage with them.

Step 3: Stop. Stop trying to capture it, stop trying to share it. The moment you prioritize living over describing, the third state becomes possible.

6. The Futility of Guides

I’ve spent so much time trying to create a guide—for myself, for others—but that very effort sabotages the experience.

Why it fails: The third state isn’t a technique. It’s not a set of instructions. It’s a way of being that emerges when you stop doing and start existing.

The hard truth: If I ever fully inhabit that state, I won’t be able to explain how I got there. The act of explanation would break the spell.

7. The Way Forward: Experimentation Without Attachment

So what’s left?

For myself: Keep experimenting. Stop obsessing over documentation. If I arrive somewhere meaningful, I’ll live there—not dissect it.

For others: There’s no manual. No shortcuts. Only this:

Forget words.

Observe without grasping.

Live, and see where it takes you.

The moment you try to teach this, you lose it. The moment you try to hold it, it slips away.

8. Final Resolution

I’m done trying to package this into lessons. If I find my way back to that third state, I won’t waste energy trying to drag others there with me. Each person must walk their own path—not because it’s mysterious, but because the walking itself is the destination.

Words are tools, but reality is the canvas. And sometimes, the best thing to do is put the tools down and just look.

Closing Reflection

This isn’t a rejection of language—it’s a recognition of its limits. Some experiences are too vast for words, not because they’re ineffable, but because words change them. The third state isn’t hidden; it’s right here, waiting for the moment we stop talking about the door and simply step through it.

The Hidden Path to Inner States: A Guide to Liberation from Words

1. The Problem: The Burden of Words

I struggled for a long time to reach a truly good state of being. I understood fragments—about words, observations, the way thoughts cling—but I couldn’t break free. Then, I realized something hidden, something counterintuitive.

The core issue was this: words had power over me. Not just any words—the ones I’d used to influence myself, the ones others had used to influence me, the ones I’d repeated like mantras or warnings. They lingered, shaping my emotions, my reactions, my very sense of reality. And I hated that. I didn’t want unverified words—words I couldn’t test or trust—to dictate how I felt.

So I decided: I would forget them all. Every single word that had ever influenced me. The ones I’d spoken to manipulate my own state, the ones that had been spoken to me. I would erase them from my mind, refuse to recall them, and sever their hold. The goal? To wake up as if from sleep—empty, clean, untouched by language. No residual thoughts, no lingering phrases, no mental "guides" whispering in the background. Just silence.

Because I no longer wanted words I couldn’t verify to shape my state. And the only way to ensure that was to forget them entirely.

2. The First State: Emptiness

When you succeed—when you truly forget the words, when no phrase or idea clings to your mind—you arrive at the first state.

What it feels like: You exist without thoughts. No words scroll through your head. No internal narratives, no self-help scripts, no memories of past influences. You are present, but neutral. Like the moment after waking, before the mind reassembles itself.

The challenge: This state is fragile. The instant you try to describe it or analyze it, you risk pulling words back into the void. The goal is to stay here, suspended in pure awareness, unmediated by language.

3. The Second State: Words Without Power

From emptiness, you naturally drift into the second state. Here, words can arise—but they no longer have control.

What it feels like:

You can think about reality, observe it, even use words to describe it.

But the words don’t affect you. They’re like shadows—present, but weightless. You might think, "I should do X," but the thought doesn’t compel you. It’s just data.

There’s a strange comfort here. No urgency, no discomfort. No desire to change or resist.

The trap: This state is deceptive. It’s peaceful, but paralyzing. There’s no motivation—no pull toward pleasure, no push away from pain. Life feels fine, but meaningless. You don’t care if things improve or stay the same. And that’s the problem: you want to care.

I spent a long time stuck here. I knew this state wasn’t enough, but I didn’t know how to escape. My mistake? I kept trying to fix it with words.

I’d think: "What phrase can I tell myself to feel motivated again?"

I’d search for the "right" internal script to reignite my drive.

But none of it worked. Because the second state is beyond words. You can’t word your way out of it—just like you can’t word your way into the first state.

The harder I tried, the more I reinforced the cycle: seeking words → failing → seeking more words.

4. The Breakthrough: Acceptance

After days of frustration—sitting on the couch, staring at the wall, feeling nothing—I had a raw, unfiltered thought:

"What if I just… accept this?"

Not as a defeat, but as an experiment. What if this state is the only option?

I realized: I had no alternative. The only tool I’d ever used to change my state was words—and words no longer worked.

I was in a deadlock: rejecting the second state kept me trapped in it.

So I surrendered. I stopped fighting. I accepted the lack of motivation, the neutrality, the stillness. I stopped searching for words to "fix" myself. I stopped judging the state as "bad" or "insufficient."

And the moment I did—everything changed.

The obsession with words vanished.

My mind cleared.

Motivation returned—not as a forced thought, but as a natural pulse. I wanted things again. I felt curiosity, energy, the pull of life.

It was as if acceptance unlocked a hidden door. The state didn’t change because I tried to change it. It changed because I stopped trying.

5. The Third State: Freedom Beyond Words

This is the final state, the one I’d been chasing without realizing it. And it’s impossible to reach through words.

What it feels like:

No internal dialogue about change. You don’t think, "How can I motivate myself?" or "How can I fix others?" because those thoughts require words—and words have no power here.

Total focus on life. Your energy isn’t drained by self-analysis or social manipulation. You’re not plotting how to alter your state or someone else’s. You’re simply living.

Effortless motivation. Desires arise organically, without coercion. You want to act, not because a word told you to, but because the impulse comes from direct experience.

Clarity. The world feels sharper, more vivid. There’s no mental filter of "should" or "must." You see reality as it is—not as language describes it.

Why it’s hidden:

You can’t aim for it. The second you try to "achieve" this state with words, you’re back in the second state (or worse, the first).

It requires absolute acceptance of the second state’s emptiness. Most people resist this because they fear losing motivation forever. But the paradox is: only by accepting the lack of motivation do you regain it.

The gift of silence:

For years, I’d obsessed over changing myself and others—crafting guides, analyzing beliefs, trying to "fix" people’s states.

In this state, that noise stops. I no longer care what others believe or how they feel. I’m not responsible for their inner worlds. This is liberating.

Life becomes effortlessly enjoyable. Not in a magical, hallucinatory way—but in a real, grounded way. It’s like stepping into a garden after years in a windowless room.

6. The Core Lesson: The Illusion of Word-Based Change

The entire journey taught me one thing:

Words can only take you so far.

Phase 1 (Forgetting words): You strip away the layers of influence, returning to neutrality.

Phase 2 (Words without power): You realize words are just tools—not masters. But you’re still trapped in their shadow.

Phase 3 (Beyond words): You transcend the need for internal scripts. Motivation, joy, and action arise spontaneously, unmediated by language.

The mistake I kept making? Believing that the solution to a word-created problem was more words.

If you’re stuck in the second state, stop searching for the "right" phrase.

If you’re frustrated by lack of motivation, stop trying to "think" your way out.

Accept the emptiness. Trust that what comes next isn’t more emptiness—it’s aliveness.

Final Thought: The Paradox of Acceptance

The third state isn’t something you do. It’s something you allow by ceasing to do.

You don’t "become motivated." You stop resisting the absence of motivation.

You don’t "find meaning." You stop demanding that meaning be handed to you in words.

You don’t "fix" yourself. You realize you were never broken.

And then—without warning, without effort—you’re free.

A Guide to Reaching a State Beyond Words: Three Stages of Transformation

Introduction

I want to share a guide—a framework that emerged from my own journey toward a state of clarity and equilibrium. It unfolds in three distinct stages, each building on the last. The goal is not to impose a doctrine, but to describe a path that dismantles reliance on unprovable constructs (words, beliefs, narratives) and arrives at a state where action and presence replace the need for internal justification.

Stage One: The Collapse of Belief in Words

1.1. Questioning Observations, Feelings, and Sensations

First, I examined my observations, feelings, and sensations—the raw data of my experience. I asked: Can I verify any of these as "true"?
The answer was no. I realized I could not prove the validity of any sensation or emotion, no matter how vivid. They were subjective, untestable. If I couldn’t verify them, how could I trust them?

1.2. The Illusion of Verifiable Language

Next, I turned to words—the labels and narratives I used to describe my experiences. But words are just symbols for observations, feelings, and sensations, which I’d already deemed unverifiable. So:

I cannot verify any words, because they point to unverifiable experiences.

Even if words accurately describe my observations, I cannot prove that what they describe is "true" from any perspective.

Key realizations (phrases I internalized):

"I cannot verify any observations, feelings, or sensations from any perspective."

"I cannot verify any words from any perspective."

"I cannot verify any words about words from any perspective."

1.3. The Loss of Faith in Language

The consequence was inevitable: I lost faith in words entirely. If words couldn’t be proven, why should I believe in them? Why should I let them shape my state of being?

But this raised a critical question:
Why did I need these realizations in the first place?
The answer: To understand that words no longer work.

I could no longer use words to change my state (e.g., "I should feel motivated" or "This is meaningful").

Any state achieved through words would be built on a foundation I no longer trusted.

The purpose of Stage One was to recognize that words—even the ones that dismantled my beliefs—were tools to reach a single conclusion:
Words are useless for altering my state.

Stage Two: The Erasure of All Words

2.1. Forgetting Every Word

The next step was radical: forget all words without exception.

This included:

The phrases that had dismantled my beliefs ("I cannot verify words").

Any "guides," philosophies, or worldviews I’d constructed.

Even the memory of conversations, advice, or internal monologues.

Why?
Because any word lingering in my mind influenced my state. If I thought about a word—even subconsciously—it altered me. And since no word was verifiable, I rejected the idea of being shaped by them.

2.2. The State of Wordless Equilibrium

After forgetting all words, I entered a neutral state:

No motivation or demotivation.

No desire or aversion.

A balance where action was possible but devoid of the "push" from internal narratives.

Analogy: It was like waking up with a blank mind—no residue from yesterday’s thoughts, no lingering "shoulds" or "musts."

The problem:
While this state was peaceful, it lacked motivation. I could play tennis, but I didn’t care about winning. I could work, but I didn’t strive for excellence. I was content, but passive.

2.3. The Trap of Seeking Words Again

At first, I panicked. I thought:
"Maybe I missed something. Maybe I still believe in some words. Maybe I need a new guide or realization to fix this."

This was a mistake.
I was trying to use words to escape a wordless state—the very thing Stage One had proven impossible. I was back to square one: searching for phrases to manipulate my motivation.

Stage Three: Acceptance of the Wordless State

3.1. The Only Way Out Is Through

I realized there was no alternative:

The only way to change my state was to return to words (which I’d rejected).

But since words were invalid, this path was closed.

Thus, the only option was:
Accept the wordless state completely.

3.2. The Paradox of Acceptance

The moment I stopped resisting the lack of motivation, everything shifted.

I ceased searching for words to "fix" myself.

Without that search, my mind stopped fixating on words entirely.

The state I’d been fighting instantly transformed.

What happened?

Motivation returned—not from words, but from pure engagement with reality.

I felt driven to work, build a career, and pursue goals without internal narratives pushing me.

The passivity vanished, replaced by action without justification.

3.3. The Final State: Living Without the Need to Change

In this state:

I do not think about changing myself or others.

I do not seek words to justify or alter my experience.

I act purely, taking from life what is available without demanding it be different.

Key characteristics:

No "bzik" (obsession) with improvement: Reality is sufficient.

No dependency on motivation from words: Action arises naturally.

Maximized engagement: I "suck the marrow out of life" without overthinking.

Example:
Before, I played tennis indifferently. Now, I play not because I tell myself "I should win," but because the act itself is fulfilling. The same applies to work, relationships, and hobbies.

Conclusion: The Three Stages Summarized

Stage

Action

Outcome

Pitfall

One

Question and discard unverifiable words.

Loss of faith in language.

Clinging to "disbelief phrases" as new dogma.

Two

Forget all words entirely.

Neutral, wordless equilibrium.

Trying to "fix" the state with words.

Three

Accept the wordless state.

Natural motivation and engagement with life.

None—this is the resolution.

Final Thought:
This isn’t about nihilism or detachment. It’s about recognizing that reality doesn’t need words to be lived fully. When you stop trying to script your experience with language, you act instead of ruminating—and paradoxically, that’s when life feels most alive.

The Third State: A Reflection on Desire, Choice, and the Illusion of Verification

1. The Nature of the Third State

I found myself in what I call the third state—a final, almost pure state of being where words, doubts, and self-examination dissolve. In this state, I don’t question my desires or dissect them with language. I simply act. The first time I entered it, I felt an overwhelming, unshakable pull: I wanted to work, to earn money, specifically as a programmer building a career in IT. There was no ambiguity, no alternatives—just this singular, crystal-clear motivation. No other options even crossed my mind. I didn’t choose it; it was just there, and I began moving toward it with intense focus.

2. The Trap of Words and Questions

But then, something shifted. Others asked me: "What are you doing? What do you plan to do?" I answered honestly—I described my goal: earning money through programming. Yet the moment I put it into words, I started thinking about those words. I questioned them. "Why programming? Why IT? Why money? There are countless ways to earn a living—why this one?"

This was the mistake.

I began exploring alternatives. Could I monetize psychology? I have knowledge about the brain, after all. But the idea bored me, even if the potential earnings were higher. What about streaming games? Writing? Other careers? The more I thought, the more options unfolded—each with its own trade-offs, its own appeal. And with each new possibility, my certainty crumbled. "Why not this? Why not that?" The question expanded endlessly, paralyzing me.

Then came the deeper doubt: Why money at all? Maybe fulfillment matters more. Maybe I should chase what excites me and figure out the money later. Or perhaps I could live minimally, doing only what I love without worrying about income. The variations multiplied. For a full day, I lay there, mentally spinning through lives I could lead—each intriguing, none provably "right."

3. The Stress of Unverifiable Choice

I tried to choose. I’d pick one path—programming, psychology, streaming—and immediately stress would surge. "What if this is wrong? How can I know?" There was no way to verify the choice. No logic, no external truth could confirm that one path was the path. The uncertainty was suffocating. I realized: you cannot verify your desires. The brain makes a choice—this, not that—but it offers no receipt, no proof of correctness. You can’t audit your own motivation.

The error was in the questioning itself. The third state had given me a clear impulse: work, earn, program. But by translating that impulse into words ("I want to earn money as a programmer") and then examining those words, I’d broken the spell. Words are just… subtitles. They describe what’s already happening, but they don’t cause it. A film doesn’t change because you read its subtitles. Neither does life.

4. The Illusion of Alternative Lives

As I obsessed over other possibilities, I noticed something strange: new desires emerged. Making an audiobook from my recordings? Interesting. Streaming games? Sure. But were these real desires, or just artifacts of my overthinking? The more I imagined alternatives, the more they seemed appealing—yet none felt as immediate as the original pull toward programming.

This revealed another truth: thinking about desires can manufacture them. My brain, when left to its own devices, had one dominant priority. But when I forced it to consider other options, it generated artificial interest—like a computer rendering hypothetical scenes. These weren’t organic motivations; they were side effects of analysis.

5. The Only Way Out: Acceptance Without Verification

The solution became clear: stop verifying. The third state isn’t about choosing; it’s about acting on what arises without dissection. Here’s how it works:

A desire appears (e.g., "I want to program").

I describe it to others (or myself) in words—only for communication, not for scrutiny.

I do not ask: "Is this truly what I want? Is this the best option?" Because those questions have no answers.

I act. The desire may shift later (perhaps I’ll stream or write after earning money), but right now, the only honest move is to follow the impulse that’s already here.

Any other approach leads to paralysis. The brain has already "chosen"—not with logic, but with a raw, unfiltered pull. Resisting that pull by demanding justification is like asking a river to explain why it flows downstream. It just does.

6. The Fourth Guideline: Living in the Third State

So, I add a fourth rule to my guide:

Enter the third state (where words and doubts dissolve).

Accept it (stop fighting the lack of "why").

Act on what arises (without questioning the impulse).

Treat descriptions as subtitles—useful for communication, irrelevant for truth.

Desires may expand over time. Maybe I’ll edit audiobooks or stream as a hobby. Maybe not. But I won’t decide that now. The brain will signal when it’s time—just as it signaled "program" before. Until then, I work. I earn. I trust the process.

7. The Core Realization

The breakthrough? You cannot verify your life. No description of your path will ever be "proven" correct. No amount of analysis will reveal the "best" choice. The brain offers an impulse; you either follow it or drown in hypotheticals. The latter leads to stress, inertia, and a life spent thinking about living rather than living.

So I return to the third state. I feel the pull. I describe it if needed—just words, just subtitles. And then I act. No questions. No verification. Just movement.

Because in the end, the only life you can live is the one you’re already living.

Key Takeaways (In the Author’s Words)

"The brain makes choices you cannot verify." — Trust the impulse; don’t demand proof.

"Words are subtitles—they describe, but don’t define." — Describing your path ≠ questioning it.

"Thinking about desires can create artificial ones." — Overanalysis distorts organic motivation.

"The only way out is to act without verification." — Paradoxically, freedom comes from not choosing.

"Stress arises from trying to justify what needs no justification." — The brain’s choice is its own authority.

The Illusion of Desire and the Error of Self-Description

I live a certain way—let’s say I work as a programmer, earn money, build a career, and claim that’s all I want. I describe my life in these terms, observing my actions and concluding: "I want money, I want a career, I want to program." But then I ask myself: Is this description true?

No. It isn’t. Because what I’ve written is merely an observation of my behavior, and observations are not truth. The fact that I see myself striving for money, working as a programmer, or building a career doesn’t mean I truly want these things. My observations are just that—observations. They don’t equate to an objective truth about my desires.

The Fundamental Mistake: Treating Observations as Truth

My core error was this: I took my self-description—"I want money, I want to earn it through programming"—as a given fact. I treated it as if it were an indisputable truth. And once I did that, the questions began to spiral:

If I want money, why am I earning it specifically through programming? There are so many other ways.

But do I even want money? What if I want something else entirely—something meaningful, something interesting, something that helps others?

How much money do I actually want? Do I want "enough," or do I want to pursue my passion regardless of income?

What if what I really want isn’t money at all, but the satisfaction of the work itself? Or the lifestyle it affords?

All of these questions stem from the initial false assumption: that my observation ("I want money") is an absolute truth. But it isn’t. It’s just a description of what I appear to be doing.

The Problem with Verifying a False Premise

If I don’t actually believe that "I want money" is a true statement—if I recognize it’s just a description of my actions—then why would I try to verify it? Why would I ask, "Do I really want this?" when the premise itself is already shaky?

The question "Do I truly want this?" only makes sense if you first assume that the desire exists. But if the desire isn’t a fixed truth—if it’s just a temporary observation—then the question collapses. There’s nothing to verify.

The Absence of True Goals

Someone might look at my life—my job, my income, my career—and say:

"You must want money."
No.

"You must enjoy programming."
No.

"You must be working for future comfort or pleasure."
No.

None of these statements are truly accurate. They’re just interpretations of my actions. The reality is: There is no true answer to what I "strive for." My life doesn’t have an essential purpose or an objective goal that can be distilled into a single truth.

I go to work. I earn money. I write code. But to say that I "strive for money" or "strive for career growth" is a false simplification. These are just labels applied after the fact. They don’t capture the actual experience of living.

The Illusion of Choice

There’s another layer to this: the idea that I chose this path. Did I really choose to be a programmer? Did I really choose to want money?

No. The "choice" was never a conscious decision. It was something my mind already did before I even noticed. I didn’t sit down and declare, "I will now want money and programming." I simply found myself already moving in that direction.

But if I describe it as "I chose this," I create a false narrative. And once I believe that narrative, the questions start:

Why did I choose this?

Why not something else?

What if I made the wrong choice?

These questions are unanswerable because they’re based on a lie: the lie that I ever actually made a choice in the first place.

Breaking the Cycle of False Questions

The only way to stop this endless loop of unanswerable questions is to reject the initial assumption. To recognize:

"I want X" is not a truth—it’s just a description of my current actions.

My actions don’t define my true desires, because true desires don’t exist in any fixed, verifiable form.

There was no real choice—only the appearance of one, constructed after the fact.

Once I stop treating my self-descriptions as truth, the questions lose their power. There’s nothing to verify, nothing to doubt, nothing to second-guess. The cycle breaks.

Conclusion: The Freedom of Non-Attachment to Descriptions

The key realization is this:

My life is not a set of truths to be discovered.

My desires are not fixed points to be analyzed.

My choices are not conscious decisions to be interrogated.

They are simply what is happening—observations, not absolutes. And once I stop trying to prove or justify them, I stop drowning in questions that have no answers.

That’s all. For now.

The Conflict Between States: Work, Dependence, and the Illusion of Choice

1. The Third State: A Fragile Balance

I was living in what I call the third state—a state where my only desire was to work, to build a career as a programmer, to earn money, and to focus solely on that. There were no distractions, no conflicting wants, just a single, clear purpose. For a while, everything was stable.

But then, I began to question it.

At first, the questions were small: Why programming? Why this path? Then they grew deeper: Do I even want to earn money? What if I want something else? I started probing my own motivations, searching for some hidden truth beneath my choices. And that’s when the unraveling began.

2. The Awakening of Dependent Desires

As I questioned my third state, I stumbled upon something buried in my memory—old beliefs, old wants. The idea that I wanted quick pleasures: to relax, to entertain myself, to do nothing but consume—games, streams, YouTube. These weren’t new desires; they were remnants of what I had believed in before, dormant until I dug them up.

And once I remembered them, I believed them again.

Suddenly, I was torn. The third state demanded discipline, focus, and work—nothing else. But these resurrected desires pulled me toward instant gratification, toward the path of least resistance. They weren’t just wants; they were dependent wants. They felt irresistible, like an addiction. I believed I wanted them more than anything.

And because I believed it, I couldn’t refuse them.

3. The Collapse: Why It Happened

The root of the problem? I had forgotten one critical observation:

I cannot verify anything.

Not my feelings, not my thoughts, not the words I tell myself about what I "want." I had once understood this—truly seen it—but in the third state, I had stopped paying attention. I had stopped looking at the fact that none of my beliefs could be proven. And because I forgot, I became vulnerable to my own memories, my own old words.

I asked myself: Do I really want to work, or do I want something else?
But the question itself was flawed. It assumed there was a "true" answer to uncover, a hidden preference buried inside me. So I went searching—and found only the echoes of my past self, the self that believed in easy pleasures.

I didn’t realize I was falling into a trap. I thought I was seeking truth, but I was just reviving old illusions.

4. The Trap of Belief

Once I believed I wanted those pleasures, I was powerless. Dependence isn’t a choice; it’s a prison. If you believe you want something, you can’t say no. You’ll sacrifice sleep, health, goals—anything—to feed that belief.

I saw it clearly when I binge-watched a stream until 4 AM. I knew it was harmful. I knew I had responsibilities. But the belief was stronger: I want this. I need this. And so I kept going, even as everything else fell apart.

This is the nature of dependence: it doesn’t negotiate. It doesn’t care about consequences. It only cares about the belief that fuels it.

5. The Solution: Remembering the Unverifiable

The way out wasn’t willpower. It wasn’t forcing myself to "choose" work over pleasure. The only exit was to remember what I had forgotten:

I cannot verify any of this.

The moment I looked directly at that fact—when I saw that my desires, my feelings, my very sense of "wanting" were all unprovable—the spell broke.

The dependent desires didn’t just weaken. They vanished. Not because I fought them, but because the belief that sustained them collapsed. Without belief, there was no addiction. There was only… silence.

6. The Two States

Now I see the contrast clearly:

The Dependent State (Infantile State):

I believe my wants are real.

I chase quick pleasures—games, streams, laziness.

I feel powerless to resist because I believe resistance is impossible.

I live like a child: no discipline, no future, only immediate gratification.

This state is unsustainable. It leads nowhere.

The Third State (Neutral State):

I don’t believe in "wants." I don’t verify, don’t question.

My only focus is work—not because I choose it, but because it’s what remains when illusions fall away.

There is no conflict, no dependence. Just action.

This state feels adult—not in the sense of age, but of clarity. No illusions, no excuses.

7. The Lesson: Never Forget the Observation

The mistake wasn’t questioning the third state. The mistake was forgetting that no question has a verifiable answer.

When I asked, "Do I really want this?" I assumed the answer was hidden inside me, waiting to be found. But there is no answer. There is only the act of looking—and realizing that the question itself is built on sand.

Now, if dependent desires resurface, I know what to do:

Notice the belief. Recognize that I’m believing I want something.

Remember the observation. I cannot verify this belief. I cannot verify any belief.

Watch the illusion dissolve. The moment I see that verification is impossible, the belief—and the dependence—disappears.

8. The Path Forward

The third state isn’t a choice. It’s what remains when the noise of unverifiable wants falls away. It’s not about deciding to work; it’s about seeing that all other options are mirages.

I don’t need to force discipline. I don’t need to "motivate" myself. I only need to remember:

I cannot verify my desires.

Therefore, I don’t believe in them.

What remains is action.

And if I ever forget? The dependent desires will return. But now I know the antidote: Look. See. Remember.

That’s all it takes.

Final Reflection

This isn’t about suppressing wants or forcing productivity. It’s about recognizing that wanting itself is a construct—a story the mind tells, one that can’t be proven. When the story is seen for what it is, it loses its power.

The third state isn’t a goal. It’s the natural result of no longer being fooled.

A New State of Being: Trusting Feelings Without Words

1. The Discovery of a Third State

I realized I could believe in my observations, feelings, and sensations—if I forgot that I couldn’t verify them. The moment I stopped reminding myself that my perceptions were unverifiable, I found I could trust them. It was as if my belief in my own experiences had split from my belief in words. I no longer trusted any words—descriptions, explanations, or commands—but I could trust my direct sensations.

This was a third state: not thinking in words at all, and then, from that silence, considering different ways of living. I could think about playing, working, relationships, and feel desires arise—without relying on words to justify them. The problem before was choice: I saw many paths but didn’t know how to decide. Now, I realized I could choose what to believe in—not by logic, but by trusting my feelings in the moment.

2. Solving the Problem of Choice

How did I resolve the paralysis of choice? By asking: Which feeling do I want to trust right now?

Do I want to trust the feeling of wanting to watch a show?

Do I want to trust the feeling of wanting to eat, or work, or rest?

I don’t need a rulebook. I don’t need words telling me what’s "right." I just observe the consequences:

If I trust the feeling of wanting to binge a series, I’ll spend hours doing that. Is that okay? For now, yes.

Later, I might trust the feeling of wanting to work instead. And I’ll work with genuine desire, not obligation.

The key: I regulate my life by choosing which feelings to trust in the moment, based on how I want my life to unfold. No external guide—just awareness of outcomes and trust in the present sensation.

3. The Separation of Beliefs: Feelings vs. Words

Fundamental difference from before:

I used to try to solve problems with words—seeking a verbal "guide" for how to live.

Now, I don’t think in words at all. I don’t believe in them, don’t search for truth in them, don’t even remember them.

This is how I returned to a primordial trust in my senses and feelings—a trust we’re born with, before language complicates everything.

Why does this work?

Belief in words requires ignoring something. You have to overlook the fact that words can’t be verified.

Belief in feelings requires not thinking about words at all. The moment I stop entertaining the idea that my feelings are unverifiable, I can trust them freely.

It’s not that I decided to trust my feelings. It’s that nothing is stopping me anymore. The words that once blocked this trust ("You can’t verify feelings!") are gone—I don’t think about them, so they don’t interfere.

4. The Origin of the Problem: Why We Believe in Words

I remember being a child—14, 15, 16 years old—when I didn’t have a "worldview." I didn’t see the point. I just did what I felt like doing, and it was fine.

Then, I noticed something: Everyone around me had opinions. They told me what to do, what was "good" or "bad," what I "owed" them. I didn’t understand why they believed these things, but I felt pressure to conform. So I copied them.

First mistake: I started believing others owed me things.

I became aggressive, entitled, angry when the world didn’t comply.

This led to suffering—especially when I couldn’t express my anger (e.g., living with parents who demanded things from me).

Second mistake: I swung to the opposite extreme—believing I owed everything to myself.

"No one owes me anything; I must achieve everything alone."

This created stress (fear of failing my own demands) and isolation.

The breakthrough:

Both extremes were worldviews built on words—beliefs I’d constructed to "fight" the world.

But the world doesn’t care about my beliefs. Only actions matter.

Aggression, stress, and unhappiness came from clinging to these verbal constructs.

The solution:

Stop believing in any words at all.

Return to the state of a child—trusting feelings without needing justification.

5. The Mechanics of Belief: Why Words Fail

Belief in words is a logical error:

People think: "If my words accurately describe my feelings, then the words must be true."

But feelings aren’t "true" or "false"—they just are. Describing them doesn’t make the description valid.

Belief in feelings is natural:

It doesn’t require proof. It’s pre-verbal trust, like a baby’s instinct.

The only thing that blocks it is thinking about words—especially words like "You can’t trust feelings because you can’t verify them."

How I broke free:

I realized no belief can be verified—not feelings, not words, not choices.

Therefore, doubt is meaningless. If nothing can be proven, why hesitate?

I stopped thinking about words entirely. No internal commentary, no "shoulds," no debates.

Without words interfering, trust in feelings returned automatically.

6. The New Freedom: Choosing What to Believe

Now, I have total flexibility:

I can trust a feeling (e.g., "I want to rest") without believing the words "I want to rest."

I can switch beliefs instantly—if a desire becomes unattainable, I stop trusting that feeling and trust another.

No permanent commitments. I’m not "a person who wants X forever." I just trust what feels right now.

Result:

No stress (because I don’t resist my feelings).

No regret (because I don’t cling to past choices).

Constant adaptability (because I’m not bound by verbal identities like "I’m a hard worker" or "I’m lazy").

The only rule:

Never believe in words permanently.

Words are tools for description, not truth. The moment I start treating them as truth, I lose flexibility.

7. Testing the Limits: Can I Believe in Words Again?

I experimented:

Tried to believe "I want to become a psychologist."

Felt nothing. The words were empty.

Realized: My brain no longer can believe in words—unless I first believe in a false premise (e.g., "My feelings are objectively true").

Why?

Belief in words requires ignoring the unverifiability of everything.

My mind now sees through that illusion. I can’t un-see it.

Conclusion:

I can describe things with words (e.g., "I feel happy").

But I don’t believe the description. It’s just sound.

True belief is reserved for direct experience—feelings, sensations, observations.

8. The Final Insight: The Uselessness of Worldviews

Human invention of "worldviews" is a mistake:

We live in a world where nothing can be proven.

Yet we invent beliefs, ideologies, and moral codes—then suffer when reality doesn’t match them.

The alternative:

Live by feelings, not words.

No fixed identity ("I’m an ambitious person").

No demands on others ("You owe me respect").

No self-imposed obligations ("I must succeed").

Result:

No aggression (because I’m not fighting the world).

No stress (because I’m not failing my own rules).

No confusion (because I trust my immediate experience).

Final thought:
This isn’t a philosophy. It’s a return to the default state—the one we’re born with, before we learn to complicate life with words.

Closing Reflection

I don’t know if this is "enlightenment" or just sanity. But it works.

I’m happy because I follow what feels good.

I’m free because I’m not bound by any belief.

I’m peaceful because I don’t resist reality.

The only thing left to do?
Live. Test. See what happens.

The Return of Faith: Thoughts, Belief, and the Absence of Inner Dialogue

1. The Core Realization: Faith in My Own Thoughts

I’ve reached a point where something profound has shifted inside me. In my last recording, I mentioned regaining faith in observation, sensation, and feeling. But now, something even more fundamental has returned: faith in my own thoughts and the act of thinking itself.

This is the most critical change. I can now think about something—and believe in that thought. If a idea arises in my mind, I can trust it. I can have thoughts about work, my state of mind, or anything else, and I can choose to believe in them. This belief then generates emotions—motivation, calm, clarity—and I trust those emotions too. They become the foundation for action.

Before, this was impossible.

2. The Disappearance of the Inner Dialogue

What’s gone is just as important as what’s returned.

There is no longer an inner dialogue.

I don’t ask myself questions.

I don’t search for answers.

I don’t repeat past phrases or descriptions to myself.

I don’t check words—because I don’t think in words at all.

In the past, I would try to believe in a thought—say, "I want to believe in this"—but the moment I did, I’d recall old words I’d told myself: "You can’t trust thoughts because you can’t prove them." That memory would destroy my faith instantly. The same happened with feelings, observations, or any kind of mental process. I trusted nothing.

Now, I don’t recall those words. I don’t think in words. So when a thought arises, nothing interrupts my belief in it.

I trust everything except words.
Words were the barrier. Now, they’re absent.

3. The Nature of Thinking Without Words

I still think—but not in the way I used to.

Thinking ≠ Words. Before, "thinking" meant internal speech: arguments, questions, self-guidance. Now, it’s a flow of pure thought, untainted by language.

Observation Without Commentary. I notice this flow. I observe thoughts about work, my state, the world—but I don’t narrate them. I don’t say, "Oh, I’m thinking about X." I just think, and then I might believe in that thought.

No Verification. I don’t question my thoughts, my beliefs, or my feelings. If I believe I’ll work today, I don’t ask "Why?" or "Is this true?" I just act.

This is the key: I don’t think about words. I don’t use words to guide myself. I don’t even remember the words I once used to sabotage my own trust.

4. How Life Operates Now

I used to say I lived by feelings, but that’s not quite accurate. What truly guides me now is the content of my thoughts—the what, not the how.

Thoughts as Action Triggers. If I think, "I’ll work today," I believe it, and that belief creates motivation. The thought itself doesn’t control me—it complements my perception. For example, if I’m walking and think, "This nature is beautiful," the thought doesn’t change reality; it deepens my experience of it.

No Resistance. There’s no inner conflict because there’s no dialogue to argue with. If I believe something, I don’t second-guess it. If I feel something, I don’t analyze it. I observe, think, believe, and act—without friction.

Emotional Neutrality. Negative emotions and distress used to come from beliefs tied to words, opinions, or worldviews. Now, without those, there’s only calm and simplicity.

5. The Paradox: Everything is the Same, Yet Completely Different

On the surface, my mind still contains all the same elements it always did:

Thoughts.

Feelings.

Observations.

Sensations.

But the critical difference is the absence of:

Inner speech (no self-talk, no questions, no debates).

Belief in words (no reliance on past phrases, opinions, or "guides").

Verification (no need to prove or doubt my thoughts).

Before, my mind was a chaotic mix of all these elements, tangled with words I’d repeat, beliefs I’d question, and emotions I’d distrust. Now, it’s silent clarity. I don’t describe what I observe—I just observe. I don’t narrate my thoughts—I just think.

It’s as if I’ve forgotten all the words that once trapped me. What remains is an unshakable understanding that I can’t unlearn: I can trust my thoughts, my feelings, and my perceptions—because I no longer sabotage them with language.

6. The Practical Outcome: Effortless Living

No Overthinking. I don’t waste energy on internal debates.

No Self-Doubt. Beliefs aren’t undermined by remembered words.

No Forced Motivation. Action comes naturally from belief in my thoughts.

No Negativity. Without the stories words create, there’s only presence.

It’s not that I’ve become a different person. It’s that I’ve stopped interfering with myself.

Final Note: The Ineffability of the State

It’s hard to explain this because, in a way, nothing has changed—and everything has.

Imagine your mind as a room. Before, it was filled with noise: voices, echoes, arguments. Now, the room is silent, but all the furniture is still there. You can see the thoughts, feel the emotions, notice the sensations—but there’s no one talking about them.

That’s the difference.
And it’s enough.

A Personal Update: On Words, Work, and Absolute Freedom

1. The State of Not Thinking in Words

I’ve reached a state where I no longer think in words—not for myself, not for others. There are no internal monologues, no beliefs I cling to, no "truths" I try to verify or preach. I simply exist in a space where thoughts arise, and I trust them without dissection. This was the foundation that allowed me to move forward.

At first, I wanted to monetize my recordings—my notes, my transcripts, my years of self-dialogue. I saw them as something valuable to share, something others might pay for. But the moment I started framing them as words for others—as guides, advice, or answers—I fell apart. Symptoms returned. The problem wasn’t the work itself; it was the intent behind it.

I realized: Words are of two kinds.

Words for myself: Instructions, motivations, or frameworks I create to navigate my own life. These are tools for me, not for others.

Words for others: Anything I might say to guide, teach, or influence someone else.

The moment I treat my old recordings as words for others—as something I must "deliver" or "sell" with conviction—I suffer. Because I cannot verify any of it. I don’t believe in words. I don’t have answers. I don’t know what’s true for anyone else. I have nothing to say to others. My work is not about preaching, consulting, or offering solutions. It’s about processing my own text, packaging it, and selling access to it. That’s it.

The boundary is critical: If I cross into thinking my work is about helping others—if I start seeing myself as a psychologist, a guide, or an answer-giver—I lose myself. I’m not here to fix anyone. I’m here to do what I find meaningful: shaping my notes into something readable, something others might find interesting enough to pay for. No more, no less.

2. The Fear of Desire: Is This Even What I Want?

After resolving the "words" problem, I hit another wall: Was my desire to publish and monetize my work even genuine? Or was it just an unconscious belief that I had something to say—that my words were valuable to others?

I tested this. I imagined a world where I’d already published everything, earned all I could, and the world had absorbed my work. What would I do then? The answer: I’d move on to other things—programming, new projects, anything. This proved my desire wasn’t about ego or mission; it was simply what interested me most right now. Writing a book, structuring my notes, monetizing them—this is my current passion. Later, it might change. And that’s okay.

Key insight: Desire isn’t a trap. It’s just data. If this is what excites me now, I’ll pursue it. If it shifts, I’ll shift with it. There’s no deeper "meaning" to uncover—just the raw, unfiltered pull of curiosity.

3. The Tyranny of Others’ Requests

Here’s where things got brutal. I’d wake up, make my plans, and then—others would ask things of me. Family, dependencies, obligations. My first reaction was always resistance. I don’t want to do this. It’s not in my plan. But I’d often agree, out of guilt, dependence, or fear of consequences.

Every time I said "yes" to something I didn’t want, my motivation collapsed. I’d spend the rest of the day numb, scrolling YouTube, devoid of energy. Why? Because submission—even to small requests—put me in a slave mindset. My brain would shift from "I choose my life" to "I obey others." And in that mode, personal ambition dies.

The solution: Never do what you don’t want. Not as a rebellion, but as a survival tactic. If I force myself to comply, I lose my drive entirely. The only way to stay alive—creatively, emotionally—is to refuse anything that doesn’t align with my plans.

But this raised a terrifying question: What if the consequences are real? What if saying "no" means losing support, money, or safety?

The answer: Fear is the only prison.

If I fear consequences, I’ll obey—and hate myself for it.

If I don’t fear consequences, I’ll refuse—and stay free.

I chose freedom. Even if it means poverty, instability, or conflict. A free "failure" is better than a wealthy slavery.

4. The Illusion of Compromise

At first, I thought I could negotiate—balance my plans with others’ expectations. But negotiation is just another form of submission. It means I’m still letting external forces dictate my actions.

True autonomy has no middle ground. Either:

I live by my plan, or

I live by theirs.

There’s no "partial freedom." Even a 10% concession erodes my sovereignty. The moment I adjust my plans for others, I’m no longer in charge.

5. The Nature of Emotions: Fear, Anger, and Sadness

All negative emotions stem from one source: the conflict between desire and submission.

Anger arises when I feel forced to do something I don’t want—but still believe I can refuse. It’s the rage of a caged animal.

Fear arises when I believe I must comply—when I’ve internalized that disobedience will bring punishment. It’s the terror of a slave who’s forgotten freedom.

Sadness is the resignation of someone who’s chosen to obey, who’s given up on their own will.

The cure? Absolute refusal to submit.

If I don’t fear consequences, I won’t feel forced.

If I don’t feel forced, I won’t be angry.

If I never obey against my will, I won’t be sad.

Emotions are just signals. They tell me when I’m betraying myself.

6. The Myth of Rules

Society teaches us that there are rules—moral laws, obligations, debts. But rules are illusions. The only reality is:

What I want.

What others want.

Who yields.

If someone "forces" me, it’s because I’ve agreed to their power. If I stop believing in their authority, their power vanishes. No one can make me do anything. The only leverage they have is what I fear—and if I fear nothing, I’m unstoppable.

7. The Paradox of Selfishness

Living this way might seem "selfish." But here’s the irony: When I do only what I want, I often help others anyway.

My plans—my true plans, untainted by obligation—naturally include actions that benefit others. Not because I should, but because I choose to. There’s no resentment, no coercion. It’s a voluntary exchange, not a duty.

A society where everyone lives this way would be the healthiest possible. No manipulation, no guilt, no hidden agendas. Just people doing what they want—and letting others do the same.

8. The Final Rule: Never Submit

This is the core of it all:

I will never do what I don’t want to do.

I will never adjust my plans for others.

I will never fear consequences.

If I’m tortured or starving, maybe I’ll break. But until then? I am free. And freedom—true, uncompromising freedom—is the only state in which I can thrive.

Everything else is slavery.

Closing Thought

This isn’t a philosophy. It’s a survival mechanism. The moment I betray my own desires, I lose myself. The moment I obey out of fear, I become a ghost.

So I choose life. On my terms. Always.

Reflections on Forgetting Words and the Illusion of Guidance

1. The Trap of Remembering My Own Words
After my last recording, I lost the clarity I had because I started fixating on the words I’d spoken—the instructions, the "guide" I’d created for myself. I began overanalyzing them, replaying them in my mind, and this shifted my state for the worse. The solution? Forget every word I said. Not just some, but all of them—without exception.

Why forget? Because those words are unverifiable. I spoke about "not submitting," about "only doing what I want," but I can’t prove these are the right principles. Maybe the opposite is true—maybe submission is necessary. The words themselves don’t matter; they were just descriptions of my thoughts at the time. The key is to stop thinking in words entirely.

2. The Paradox of Memory Without Words
But how will I live if I forget everything? How will I remember why I refuse to submit or do what I don’t want? The answer: I don’t need to remember the words. I only need to remember the past itself.

I recall that yesterday, I decided the only viable way to live is to refuse what I don’t want.

I don’t need to verbalize this memory. My brain retains it without language.

Thinking in words doesn’t help me remember—it only distracts.

The mind remembers what it experienced, what it understood. I don’t need to control this with words. That’s the first realization.

The Cycle of Submission and Resistance

3. The Moment of Choice: Desire vs. Fear
I was in a state where I ignored words, avoided verification, and simply did what I wanted. Then, someone made a request of me. My immediate impulse: refuse. Say no, because I have other plans. But I also saw the consequences:

The person might be displeased.

If I depend on them, their displeasure could harm me.

Yet, despite this, I still wanted to refuse. So I paused to examine this desire—to ensure it was truly the best path.

4. The Deception of Memory
I dug into my past, recalling how I’d handled similar situations before. What did I find?

Fear of consequences. Either I was afraid of them, or I believed I needed to avoid them at all costs.

Submission as the default. To prevent harm, I’d comply—because I feared the alternative or believed compliance was the only way to survive.

This wasn’t a conscious, rational process. It was just habitual avoidance, disguised as logic: "If I submit, the consequences disappear, and I stay safe."

5. The Collapse of Motivation
I tried submitting—doing what was asked—and immediately felt worse. My motivation vanished. I realized: I don’t want to live this way. So I searched for alternatives, but there were none. The only way to preserve my well-being was:

Do not do what I don’t want.

Period.

My attempt to "verify" my choice had led me astray. I’d invented justifications—"I must avoid consequences, so I must submit"—but these were unproven lies. The truth? No choice can be verified. The best I can do is try alternatives, recognize when they fail, and stop repeating them.

The Resolution: Living Without the Noise of Words

6. The Final Decision
I will forget all of this deliberately. I will not remember these words. I won’t let unverified language alter my state. My goal is to remain in the best possible state, unburdened by thoughts of what I should think or do.

From now on:

If I want to refuse someone, I will refuse without hesitation.

I won’t second-guess or "verify" the choice, because I already know: there is no other viable way to live.

I don’t need to remember the words—only the outcome of my past exploration. I’ve already investigated this; I know where submission leads.

7. The Simplicity of Remembering Without Words
I don’t need guidelines or mantras. I just need to:

Remember the past (not the words).

Trust what I’ve already learned (that resistance to unwanted actions is non-negotiable).

Act without the interference of language.

This is enough to break the cycle of submission forever.

Closing Thought

The words end here. I will forget them. Not to erase the lesson, but to live it—freed from the noise of justification, verification, or fear. The only rule is the one I’ve already lived: Do not do what you do not want. The rest is silence.

The Illusion of the "Guide" and the Nature of Choice

At first, I kept obsessing over my earlier notes because I still didn’t fully grasp what was happening—what had happened. But now, I think I’ve finally understood the right way to look at this whole situation: submission, non-submission, and all that bullshit.

There is no guide.
No manual telling me whether to submit or not. No instructions. What is there? Only this: I live as I want. Then, at some point, I’m faced with a crossroads—a choice. Someone asks me to do something I don’t want to do. I stand there, deciding: do it, or refuse?

The first time this happened, I didn’t even think about it. I just saw that I didn’t want to do it. I thought about whether I truly didn’t want to, weighed the possible consequences—not guaranteed ones, just possible ones. And I told myself: "I don’t want those possible consequences. It’s easier to just do it. Then there definitely won’t be any consequences." So I agreed. But the moment I agreed to do something I didn’t want—just to avoid hypothetical fallout—my state instantly changed. It became joyless. My motivation vanished. I didn’t even notice it at first. I kept going, pretending everything was fine, holding on. Then I’d finish whatever I was doing, return to my room, and realize: I don’t want to do anything. Not a single thing. Just lie down, watch YouTube, because I felt… unused. Wasted.

I’m not being hyper-literal with these words—I’m speaking roughly, but the essence is this: something shifted inside me after that choice, and suddenly, I no longer wanted to do the things I had wanted before.

I started unpacking it: Why did I lose that state? I realized: every time I agree to do something I don’t want, I lose my good state. At first, I thought this was a bug, something to fix. "This shouldn’t happen!" But then I understood: this is fundamental. It’s how the brain works. The only way to preserve a good state is to not do what you don’t want.

But even now, there’s still no guide. No rulebook telling me what to choose in the end. So what happens next? Now, when I’m faced with that choice again—someone asks me to do something I don’t want—I understand what I’m choosing from. I know: if I agree, I will 100% lose my good state. I’ll feel worse, and it might be hard to recover. But I also know: if I agree, I’ll avoid possible consequences.

So now, when this happens, I don’t turn to some external guide telling me whether to submit or resist. The only source of my choice is what I want. What do I want more? To preserve my good state? Or to avoid consequences?

I compare the two. If I’m fairly certain there won’t actually be consequences for refusing—if the other person probably won’t retaliate—then of course I won’t agree to lose my good state over nothing. In other words: if the consequences are unlikely, I always choose to preserve my good state. Always.

The first time, I didn’t understand what I was losing. I thought avoiding conflict was more important. "Why risk it? It’s just a small thing they’re asking." But now I see how much my state deteriorates when I submit. So even in small things, if I don’t want to do it, I refuse.

That said, in some extreme situation—someone with a gun to my head—I might choose to submit to survive. Because in that moment, survival might matter more than my state. But in most of life’s situations, the consequences are theoretical. Unlikely. And I know: my good state is the most valuable thing in the world. More valuable than life itself. I’d rather die free than live as a slave, even temporarily.

The problem with submission is that it’s hard to recover from. You can only bounce back if you decide—truly, deeply—to never submit again.

The Trap of the "Guide" and the Freedom of Desire

At some point in my earlier notes, it felt like I’d convinced myself I knew the answer: "Never submit. Always do only what you want." I’d created a guide for myself—and for others—and thought it was the key to a good state. But the irony? Following that guide made my state worse. Because I didn’t believe in it. I didn’t want to follow words or rules. The state suffered.

So I abandoned the guide. And then I asked: How do I live now? The answer: shift focus from words telling me what to do to simply living as I want. Choosing what I want.

The issue before wasn’t that I wasn’t living as I wanted—I was. I just didn’t understand what I was choosing between. I didn’t realize what I’d lose by submitting. I thought: "If I agree, nothing bad will happen. I’ll still feel fine, just with one extra task done." But in reality, I lost something critical: my good state. And with it, my future. Because if I’m in a bad state, I have no future. I’m just existing to fulfill others’ interests, with none of my own.

Now, I can’t even imagine a situation where I’d agree to do something I don’t want. I’ll resist to the last. I’ll negotiate, argue, find alternatives—anything but submit. Even with a gun to my head, I’d try to reason with the person as an equal, not as a hostage. I’d rather die than act against my will.

But honestly? In reality, most of us would submit in that situation. And that’s fine. All "guides" are bullshit. The mind knows what’s best—when to submit, when to resist. When it understands what it’s choosing between, it makes the right choice.

The Two Layers of a Ruined State

Beliefs, Words, and Illusions
The first layer that destroys your state is believing in words, ideologies, or observations—thinking about them, testing them, letting them dictate your actions. Why? Because they force you to do what you don’t want. You believe you should do something, or that you’re forced to, or that you fear something (death, punishment, etc.). These beliefs generate negative emotions, stress, and dissatisfaction because they make you act against your true desires.

People cling to worldviews, duties, or "shoulds" because they think it’s better. But if they understood what they’re choosing—if they saw how much suffering comes from these beliefs—they’d stop believing instantly. No one would choose misery if they saw the alternative.

Doing What You Don’t Want
The second layer is simpler: when you stop thinking about words and guides, when you’re just living as you want—then someone asks you to do something you don’t want. Now you’re at a crossroads. If you do it, you ruin your state. That’s it. That’s the only other thing that can destroy it.

Most people don’t realize this. They think the world or other people force them to do things. But no—it’s their own beliefs that force them. They choose to believe they’re obligated, that they’ll be punished, that they need to comply. And that choice makes them unhappy, anxious, or angry.

But if you remove those beliefs? Then you’re left with only one question: What do I want? And you act accordingly.

The Freedom of Psychological Sovereignty

What have I achieved? Absolute certainty that I can refuse anything. Zero doubt that I can not do what I don’t want—no matter what it is, no matter who’s asking.

Example: My mom hates dirty dishes. Say I’m responsible for washing them, but my brother leaves a mountain of filth. I look at it and think: I don’t want to wash his dishes. I know my mom will be upset. But I also know I don’t have to. Not because I’m rebellious—because I have psychological freedom. There’s no scenario in my mind where I must do something I don’t want. None.

Does this mean I’ll never wash dishes? No. If I don’t mind, I’ll wash them without a second thought. The point is: the choice is mine. And because of that, I feel no resentment, no anger, no fear. If I don’t want to do something, I won’t. If I do, I will. No internal conflict.

This is what it gives me:

No negative emotions when others "demand" things, because I know I’m not forced to comply.

No fear of others’ reactions, because I’m not basing my actions on their approval.

No guilt, because I’m not betraying my own desires.

I plan my day exactly as I want. If something doesn’t fit, I don’t adjust—I don’t even consider adjusting. Because I don’t want to.

The Core Realization

People always live as they want. They just don’t always understand what they’re choosing between.

They submit because they think they want to (avoiding conflict, pleasing others, etc.), not realizing they’re sacrificing their state.

They believe in ideologies because they think it’s better—but they don’t see the cost.

They follow "guides" because they think it’s the right path—but they don’t see how it chains them.

When you see the full picture—when you understand what you’re truly choosing—you start wanting the right things. Not because of rules, but because you see the consequences.

And that’s the only "guide" you’ll ever need.

Final Thought:
I used to think I needed a system—a set of rules to follow. But now I know: the mind already knows what to choose. It just needs clarity on what it’s choosing between. The rest is noise.

The Core Realization: A Personal Breakthrough

I keep returning to the same mistake—obsessing over creating a guide for others. But recently, I had a profound realization, one that reshaped everything for me. Here’s what I discovered:

If I do what I don’t want to do, I lose my good state of mind.
If I don’t do what I don’t want to do, I preserve my good state.

This was a turning point. Immediately, my mind jumped to others: "They should live like me. My way is the best way." I started drafting mental instructions, repeating my own life as a template. But the moment I focused on words for others—how to phrase a guide, what to tell them—my state worsened. Because thinking about words for others is just as damaging as thinking about words for myself.

The Trap of "Guides" and the Illusion of Control

I saw a pattern:

Doing X = Bad state.

Not doing X = Good state.

And I thought, "Now I know what others should do!" But here’s the catch: I cannot verify any words I say to others. Not from any angle. Not ever.

I can describe my realization—a law I observed—but I cannot prescribe how others should apply it.

Any attempt to tell others "Do this, not that" is uncheckable. It’s baseless. Because what works for me is mine, not universal.

When I accepted this, the obsession with "guiding" others vanished. There is no guide. There never was.

The Only Honest Statement: Observation Without Instruction

What remains is pure description:

I noticed that forcing myself to do unwanted things ruins my state.

I noticed that refusing to do unwanted things preserves it.

This is not advice. It’s just a fact, like touching a hot stove and learning it burns.

I don’t say, "Copy me."

I don’t say, "This is how to live."

I only say: "This is what I saw. Make of it what you will."

Even this feels risky—because the moment I describe, it can sound like a guide. But the difference is critical:

A guide says: "Do Y to achieve Z."

An observation says: "When I did Y, Z happened. Your mileage may vary."

The Paradox of Sharing

Here’s the struggle:

I want to help others reach a good state. So I talk. I describe.

But the act of trying to help corrupts my own state. Because it’s still thinking about words—still trying to control outcomes.

The solution?

Forget all words. Mine and theirs.

Stop verifying, stop remembering, stop obsessing.

Trust my own senses, thoughts, and desires—not because they’re "right," but because they’re mine.

When faced with a choice—to obey or not to obey—I don’t need a rulebook. I just know:

Obeying what I don’t want = Losing my good state.

Refusing = Keeping it.

That’s it. No grand philosophy. No system. Just a fact, like gravity.

The Error of Prediction: What Happens "Beyond the Words"

The hardest part? Describing what comes after forgetting all words. Because:

To talk about it is to create new words—new potential guides.

But beyond words, there’s no guide. There’s just living.

I might say:
"You’ll start doing what you want because you’ll trust your feelings."
But even this is dangerous. It’s a prediction, a sneaky form of guidance.

The truth is simpler:

Forget the words.

Don’t try to "apply" anything.

If you’ve truly seen the pattern (like I saw the hot stove), you won’t need reminders. You’ll just act differently.

The Final Clarity: No Guide, Only Experience

I thought I needed to explain how to live after this realization. But that’s the old trap. There’s nothing to explain.

Before: I obeyed things I didn’t want (and suffered).

Now: I don’t. Not because of a rule, but because I saw the cost.

For others? They must see it for themselves. Or not. It’s not my call.

The only "guide" is this:

Observe your own mind.

Notice what destroys your good state.

Stop doing that.

Forget all words about it. Including these.

Closing: The Silence After the Storm

Now, when I finish recording these thoughts, I ask:
"Why did I even speak?"

To help? But my help is just more words—more noise.

To clarify? But clarity comes from silence, not explanations.

So I stop.
I forget the words.
I return to the state before language—where I simply choose what I want, not because a guide says so, but because I see.

And that’s enough.

The Paradox of Guides and True Freedom

1. The Two Conflicting Observations

I’ve realized something crucial: there are two observations that disrupt my sense of well-being, and they seem to contradict each other.

First Observation: If I have any kind of guide in my head—if I follow rules, think about certain words, or structure my actions around a framework—my state of mind suffers. The very act of adhering to a guide, even a well-intentioned one, corrupts my inner harmony. It’s as if the guide itself becomes a cage.

Second Observation: But if I don’t have any guide at all—if I live without direction and start doing things I don’t want to do—my state of mind also suffers, just in a different way. This time, the problem isn’t the guide; it’s the lack of alignment with my own desires. I lose ambition, motivation, and clarity. The absence of structure leads to its own kind of chaos.

At first, I thought the solution was to pick one: either follow a guide or reject all guides. But neither works alone. Both paths lead to a bad state, just in different forms.

2. The False Simplification

I tried to collapse these two observations into a single rule:
"Never do what you don’t want to do; always do what you want."

But this backfired. By framing it as a rule—a guide—I created the very thing I was trying to escape. I started following this new "guide" rigidly, and it ruined my state again. The problem wasn’t the advice itself; it was the act of turning it into a system, a mental script I had to obey.

I realized: The solution isn’t choosing one observation over the other. It’s fulfilling both simultaneously.

3. The Dual Conditions for a Good State

To achieve a truly good state of mind, two conditions must be met at the same time:

No Guide in the Mind

Forget all words, all rules, all frameworks.

Stop thinking in terms of "should" or "must."

Let go of any internalized instructions, even the ones that seem helpful.

No Submission to What You Don’t Want

Never act against your own will.

Reject external or internal coercion.

Stay aligned with your authentic desires—without needing a rule to remind you.

The mistake was trying to reduce this to a single principle. The truth is more nuanced: You must have no guide and never submit to what you don’t want. Not one or the other—both.

4. The Trap of Sharing the "Guide"

At first, I thought I should tell others about this realization. I wanted to give them a guide: "Don’t submit to what you don’t want!" But then I saw the irony: The moment I frame it as a guide, I’ve already undermined it.

If I tell people, "Follow this rule to be free," they’ll start obeying the rule—and that obedience will spoil their state.

If I say, "Forget all guides," they might turn that into a guide, creating the same problem.

I realized: The only way to help is to destroy all guides, not replace them with new ones.

5. The Resolution: Speaking Without Guides

Now, I no longer feel the urge to give people a "correct" guide. Instead, I do two things:

Kill the Guides

I say: "Forget all words. Forget all rules. Stop thinking in terms of any framework."

My goal isn’t to provide a better guide—it’s to erase the concept of guides entirely.

Describe, Don’t Prescribe

I might say: "If you don’t submit to what you don’t want, your state will improve."

But I don’t present this as a rule. It’s just an observation, a description of how reality works.

Personally, I don’t even think of it as a guide—because I know guides are the problem. Others might still turn it into one, but that’s their mistake, not mine.

6. The Freedom of Forgetting

Now that I understand this, I can finally let go:

I don’t need to remember any words or rules.

I don’t need to worry about "how to not submit" because my mind naturally remembers what aligns with my desires—without needing a guide to remind me.

The brain is designed to retain what matters. If I truly don’t want to do something, I won’t—not because of a rule, but because it’s inherent to my being.

Before, I was stuck in a loop:

"I need a guide to remind me not to submit."

"But guides ruin my state!"

"But without a guide, I might submit by accident!"

Now, I see: The answer isn’t a better guide. It’s the absence of guides entirely—paired with the natural refusal to act against myself.

7. The Final Realization

The moment I accepted that no guide is needed—not for me, not for anyone—I found peace. I can forget all words, all instructions, all frameworks, and trust that my mind will naturally avoid what doesn’t serve me.

And if I ever speak to others about this, I won’t give them a guide. I’ll only say:
"Forget the words. Forget the rules. And don’t do what you don’t want."
—Not as commands, but as truths that don’t require obedience to be true.

That’s it. That’s the state I was searching for.

The Core Problem: Overthinking Words

I used to believe my problem was about submission—that saying "yes" to others ruined my state of mind. I thought the solution was to create a guide telling myself not to submit. But that was a dead end. The real issue wasn’t about submission or rebellion at all. It was about thinking too much about words—the words I say to myself and the words I say to others.

When I live alone, everything is fine. I don’t think about words; I just exist. But the moment someone asks me a question—"Can you do this?"—I hesitate. I want to say "No, I don’t want to, it’s not in my plans." But instead of just saying it, I start analyzing the words. I ask myself: Are these the right words? Should I say something else? What if I agree instead? And that’s when my state crumbles.

The Illusion of Verification

Why do I overthink words? Because I falsely believe I can verify them. I think:

"If I say ‘no,’ will that be correct?"

"If I say ‘yes,’ will that be better?"

"Can I test which answer is ‘right’?"

But words cannot be verified. There is no objective standard for what I "should" say. The moment I try to verify my words—whether to myself or others—I fall into a trap. My state worsens not because of the answer itself, but because I’m trying to verify the unverifiable.

The Solution: Stop Thinking About Words

Words for Myself
I used to narrate my life internally—planning, describing, justifying my actions to myself. But these words were just unverified stories. Now, I realize: There’s nothing to verify, so there’s nothing to think about. I can still have internal words (thoughts, plans), but I don’t examine them. I don’t ask if they’re "true" or "right." I just live.

Words for Others
When someone asks me a question, I no longer:

Pause to "check" my answer.

Wonder if my words are "correct."

Fear consequences or judge my response.
I simply say what I want to say—whether it’s "no" or "yes"—without second-guessing. The words aren’t "verified"; they’re just what I chose in that moment.

Example: If someone asks, "Can you help me?" and I don’t want to, I say "No." I don’t debate whether "No" is the "right" answer. I don’t worry if it’s "selfish." I just say it and move on.

The Trap of "Guides" and "Truths"

Before, I treated my words—both to myself and others—as guides or absolute truths. I’d say things like:

"This is how you should live."

"Submission is bad; refusal is good."

"Here’s the correct way to respond."

But now, I see: None of these are "true." They’re just words I said in a moment. They’re not instructions, not laws—just expressions of what I felt then.

When I speak now, I don’t pretend to know "the truth." I don’t offer advice as if it’s a universal rule. I just say what I want to say, and that’s it.

The Paradox of Describing How I Live

Even this recording is a risk. If I try to explain "how I live now," I might start verifying those words—asking:

"Do I really live this way?"

"Am I describing it accurately?"

"Will others misunderstand?"

But that’s the old trap! My life isn’t a set of verifiable rules. It’s just what I do. If someone asks, "How do you live?" I can describe it, but I won’t obsess over the description. The words aren’t "true" or "false"; they’re just a snapshot of a moment.

The Final Realization: No Guide Needed

I don’t need a guide. I don’t need to:

Justify my choices.

Prove my words are "correct."

Fear that I’m "wrong."

I just live. If I want to do something, I do it. If I don’t, I don’t. If I want to say something, I say it. If not, I stay silent. No verification. No overthinking.

The moment I stop trying to verify my words—to myself or others—my state stays intact. The moment I accept that words are just words, everything becomes simple.

Key Takeaways (In the Author’s Words)

"Do not think about words for yourself."

Internal narratives aren’t "true" or "false"—they’re just thoughts. Don’t analyze them.

"Do not think about words for others."

Answers to questions aren’t "correct" or "incorrect." Say what you want and stop there.

"No verification is possible."

You can’t "test" if your words are right. The attempt itself ruins your state.

"Live without a guide."

The second you turn your life into a "system," you’re back in the verification trap.

"Say what you want, do what you want—no deeper meaning."

Words are tools, not truths. Use them lightly.

Testing the Theory

Now, I’ll observe:

When I don’t overthink words, does my state stay stable?

When I do slip into verification, does it worsen?

But even this "test" is just words I’m saying now. I won’t cling to them. I’ll just live.

Final Note:
This isn’t a manual. It’s not advice. It’s just what I realized—and if it helps someone, fine. But the second it becomes a "rule," it’s already wrong. Because the only rule is: There are no rules. Just words. Just moments. Just living.

First Stage: The Nature of Words and Observations

1. The Problem with Words in My Mind

All my problems arise from thinking about words in my head. The only thing I can think about words is thinking about their verification. Every word in my mind is tied to some observation I’ve made.

2. What Do I Observe?

I observe two things:

Myself: My life, my words, actions, thoughts, feelings, and sensations.

Others: Their lives, words, actions, thoughts, feelings, and sensations.

3. The Impossibility of Proof

I cannot prove any of my observations to myself from any perspective.

I have no way to confirm that my observations are true, real, honest, or not illusions.

I cannot verify any of my observations from any perspective.

I cannot check if they are true, real, or free from perceptual errors.

This applies to:

My observations of myself.

My observations of others.

4. The Impossibility of Verifying Words

I cannot prove any words in my head from any perspective.

I cannot confirm they describe truth, reality, or existence—not illusions or errors.

I cannot verify any words in my head from any perspective.

I cannot check if they describe truth, reality, or existence.

5. Categories of Words in My Mind

Words fall into four groups:

Words I say to myself about myself (my life, words, actions, thoughts, feelings).

Words I say to myself about others (their lives, words, actions, thoughts, feelings).

Words I say to others about myself.

Words I say to others about others.

All these words are unverifiable from any perspective.

6. Belief Beyond Words

I can believe in everything except words.

I can believe in feelings, observations, and thoughts—because the words that forbid me from doing so are unverifiable.

But I cannot believe in words, because belief in words only comes from the illusion of their verifiability.

Key Insight:

The guide is to believe in everything except words.

When I say I can believe in observations and feelings, it’s because the words prohibiting that belief are unverifiable.

But words about words being unverifiable are also unverifiable—so I can believe even in words, without believing they are verified.

The point is: I can believe in anything, but I don’t believe anything is proven.

7. Living Without Word-Focus

I live, but I don’t think about words.

When I wake up, I think about what I want—not the words “what do I want?” but the actual desire (e.g., to get up and eat breakfast).

I act based on observations (which I believe in), not the words describing them.

Second Stage: Eliminating the Influence of Words

1. Forgetting All Words

To remove the influence of words, I must:

Permanently forget every word I’ve ever said to myself or others about myself or others.

Never recall them again.

2. The Only Permissible Thought About Words

The only thing I can think about words is their verification—but since words are unverifiable, there’s nothing to think about.

3. Why Words Are Meaningless to Dwell On

I cannot verify any words I’ve said (to myself or others, about myself or others).

All words describe observations, but observations are unverifiable—so even accurate descriptions are unverifiable.

Conclusion: There’s nothing to think about regarding words.

4. Categories of Observations

My observations fall into two groups:

Observations of myself (my life, actions, thoughts, feelings).

Observations of others (their lives, actions, thoughts, feelings).

Neither can be verified from any perspective.

5. Final Rule: Stop Thinking About Words

I do not think about any words I’ve said, say, or will say—because there’s nothing to think about.

When I speak about myself or my life, I don’t reflect on the words—because reflection is pointless.

Core Principle

Live by observations, not words.

Believe in everything (observations, feelings, thoughts).

But never believe anything is proven—especially not words.

The only harm comes from thinking about words. The only permissible thought about words is their unverifiability—which leads to not thinking about them at all.

The Collapse of Verifiable Words: A Journey into Unchecked Observation

1. The Initial Framework: A Guide to Letting Go of Words

I began with a guide—a set of steps I believed would free me. The process was this:

Understand words: Recognize that I cannot verify any of them.

Forget all words: Stop thinking about them entirely.

Accept a new state: Embrace observation, sensation, feeling, and thought—not because they were proven, but because no words remained to forbid me from trusting them.

Reclaim belief in experience: I argued that since no verifiable words existed to contradict my trust in my senses, I could safely believe in them.

At first, this worked. My state improved dramatically. I felt liberated, as if I had cracked a code. I even began drafting a guide for others, convinced I had found a universal truth: "You can believe in observation, sensation, and feeling because no unchecked words can stop you."

But beneath this confidence, a conflict simmered.

2. The Hidden Conflict: Words I Didn’t Realize I Was Using

I noticed a persistent tension:

I wanted things (e.g., to share this guide, to influence others), but I also didn’t want to act on certain impulses (e.g., conforming to others’ expectations).

I told myself: "Just stop thinking about what you say to others." Yet I kept thinking about it, and this caused distress.

Then came the critical realization:
The words I was avoiding were still lurking—words describing myself. I had assumed these were exempt from the "unverifiable" rule because they felt obvious. But they weren’t. Not a single word about me—my actions, my life, my feelings—could be verified. Even my observations of myself were built on unchecked perceptions.

This shattered everything. All my previous states—yesterday’s clarity, the day before’s confidence—had been propped up by thinking about these unverifiable words. Once I saw this, those states became impossible to reclaim.

3. The Illusion of Verifiable Self-Description

I had believed:

"I can describe my life, my actions, my feelings—these are facts I observe directly."
But this was a lie. My "observations" of myself were just more unchecked words. I couldn’t prove:

That I was really observing myself.

That my memories of past states were accurate.

That my sensations were anything more than fleeting, ungrounded experiences.

Even the phrase "I can believe in my observations because no words forbid it" was itself an unverifiable word-game. I had been tricked by my own language.

4. The Final Collapse: No Words Left to Stand On

I tried to salvage the idea:

"Maybe I can still use words as tools—just don’t believe them."
But this failed. The moment I used a word (even internally), I was implicitly treating it as verifiable. And since no words could be verified, this was impossible.

I reached the ultimate conclusion:

All words fall into two categories:

Words about me (my observations, actions, feelings).

Words about others (their observations, actions, feelings).

Neither category can be verified. My observations of myself are as unprovable as my observations of others.

Therefore, all words are meaningless in a foundational sense. They cannot be trusted, relied upon, or even remembered without reinforcing the illusion of verifiability.

5. The State of Forgetting: What Remains

Today, I woke up empty of words. Not just the words I’d used to describe others, but all words I’d ever used about myself. I don’t want to recall them. I don’t want to think about them. They are irrelevant.

What’s left?

Pure observation: I see, feel, and experience—but I do not describe these things, even to myself.

No internal dialogue: I no longer narrate my life, because narration requires words, and words require false verification.

A childlike state: It’s like being a child again—just being, without the burden of self-definition.

Key distinctions in this state:

Speaking vs. asserting: I can still speak (e.g., recording this), but I’m not asserting anything as true. Words are just sounds now, not vessels of meaning.

Memory vs. presence: I remember nothing of my past words or self-descriptions. They’re gone, and I won’t resurrect them.

Influence vs. truth: If I speak to others, it’s only to influence—not to convey truth. Language is a tool for effect, not communication.

6. The Guide That Destroyed Itself

My original "guide" was built on a flaw:

It assumed I could describe a path to freedom using verifiable steps.

But the steps themselves were unverifiable words.

The real guide is this:

Realize you can’t verify any words—about yourself, others, or the world.

Forget all words you’ve ever used to describe yourself or others.

Never recall them. Never try to replace them with "better" words.

Stop trying to speak or think in verifiable terms. It’s impossible.

The moment you accept this, you’ll stop needing words to define your state. You’ll just be.

7. The Paradox of Describing the Indescribable

Even this retelling is a contradiction:

I’m using words to explain why words are useless.

But I’m not believing these words. I’m just... speaking.

The core insight:

Reality (as I perceive it) is only my observations.

My observations cannot be verified, described, or shared meaningfully.

Therefore, the only honest state is silence—internal and external.

But here I am, speaking. Why?

Not to convince, not to assert, but because the habit of language dies hard.

Maybe, in time, even this will fade.

8. The End: No Further Steps

There is no "next level." No deeper truth to uncover. The investigation is over.

I’ve traced every word, every thought, every self-description back to its unverifiable root.

I’ve forgotten them all.

I’ve stopped trying to replace them.

What’s left?
Just this:
A state of being without definition. Without words. Without the illusion that any of it could ever be proven.

And that’s enough.

Final Note:
This isn’t nihilism. It’s the opposite—a radical acceptance of experience without the distortion of language. The peace comes from no longer needing to verify, describe, or justify anything.

I don’t know if this helps anyone else. But for me, it’s the end of the search.

The Collapse of Belief: Losing All Words About Myself

I recorded this update because I’ve been struggling since my last entry. I spent a long time trying to fix the fact that I felt terrible, and I think I’ve figured something out.

Here’s what happened: I lost faith in all the words I used to describe myself—the ones I once believed were proven, the ones I trusted. Suddenly, every word I’d ever used to define myself vanished. They no longer felt true. And when that happened, I was left with nothing. No framework, no identity, no way to think about who I was.

I oscillated between two options:

Do nothing. Just live as I am, without any "proven" words about myself. But how? My mind only knows how to think in terms of words about me—and if none of those words feel true, what’s left? I tried to recall old beliefs, the words I used to trust, but I couldn’t force myself to believe them again. They felt hollow. So I thought: Fine. Let’s just exist in this state. Let’s see what happens if I don’t try to change anything.

And what did I find?

My desires shifted dramatically. Many things I used to want—ambitions, goals, relationships—disappeared because they were built on those "proven" words. Without them, I was left with only the simplest cravings:

Working a basic job (like McDonald’s) for minimal pay.

Watching TV shows.

Playing video games.

Maybe, maybe, some relationships—but even that felt like too much effort. Why bother when games and shows are easier?

At first, this terrified me. Is this really it? A life of mindless routine, just to scrape by and distract myself? It felt like a nightmare. I refused to accept it.

Try to restore the old words. I frantically searched my memory for the words that used to motivate me—the ambitious, driven version of myself who wanted money, success, impact. I tried to believe in them again, to reclaim that fire. But it didn’t work. I no longer trusted those words. They felt like lies. I realized: I made that version of myself up. And believing in him only caused me pain—fear, anger, sadness.

Then a thought struck me: Maybe this is the real me. The one who just wants to watch shows, play games, and work enough to survive. Maybe all those other people—the ambitious, the driven—they’re just believing in their own made-up selves too. Their motivation isn’t real; it’s just faith in a story they tell themselves.

But if that’s true, then how do I live with this? How do I accept that the "real me" is so… small?

The Breakthrough: Describing Without Believing

I couldn’t go back to the old words, and I couldn’t live without any words. My brain seems wired to think in terms of self-description. So I tried something new:

Instead of searching for "proven" words about myself, I’d simply describe what I observe.

I don’t believe these descriptions are true or proven.

I don’t try to verify them or cling to them.

I just notice them, like a neutral observer.

And something incredible happened: My state improved instantly.

My mood lifted.

My motivation returned—not the forced, ambitious kind, but a natural, effortless drive.

I started enjoying life again.

The key difference? I stopped trying to change myself.

Before, I was constantly:

Inventing a version of myself I wanted to be.

Believing in that version as if it were proven.

Struggling when reality didn’t match the fantasy.

Now, I just observe:

What do I actually want? (Right now, it’s simple things.)

What do I feel? (Right now, it’s contentment.)

Who am I? (Right now, it’s someone who doesn’t need to compete or prove anything.)

And because I’m not believing in these descriptions—just noting them—nothing can hurt me. If I don’t get what I want, I don’t spiral into frustration or self-hatred. There’s no "should" anymore.

The Illusion of the "Proven Self"

I realized: Everyone else is doing the same thing. They invent a self, believe it’s real, and then suffer when reality doesn’t align.

Some believe they must achieve maximum success.

Some believe they must live minimally.

Some believe they must be the best at everything.

But it’s all just faith in a story. And when the story collapses (as mine did), you’re left with two choices:

Panicking and trying to rebuild the illusion.

Accepting the raw, unfiltered version of yourself—the one that exists before the stories.

I chose the second option. And for the first time, I feel stable.

What Changed?

Before

Now

I believed in a "proven" self.

I describe my observed self.

I fought to maintain that belief.

I accept what I see, without judgment.

I suffered when reality contradicted my self-image.

I adapt effortlessly because I’m not attached to any image.

I wanted to be ambitious, competitive, "successful."

I notice that I don’t naturally crave those things—and that’s okay.

I feared being "less than" others.

I realize comparison is just another story.

The Freedom of No-Stakes Living

Now, when I play tennis with my brother, I don’t need to win. I just enjoy the game. Before, I’d have forced myself to care, to want to dominate—but that wanting was exhausting.

Now, if I lose, it doesn’t matter. If I win, great. I’m free.

This is what it feels like to live without the burden of shoulds:

I don’t should want more money.

I don’t should want a prestigious career.

I don’t should want to "prove myself."

I just… am. And surprisingly, this feels like enough.

The Paradox: More Desire Without Effort

Here’s the strange part: When I stopped forcing myself to want things, I started wanting more.

Not in a greedy or ambitious way, but naturally. I still enjoy simple pleasures—games, shows, easy work—but now I’m open to other experiences too. Because I’m not fighting myself anymore.

Before, my desires were rigid:

I must want X (because my "proven self" says so).

If I don’t want X, I’m broken.

Now, my desires are fluid:

I notice I want Y. Cool. I don’t need to justify it.

If Y changes tomorrow, that’s fine too.

The Final Realization: I’ve Returned to My Original Self

This feels like coming home. I’m back to who I was before I broke myself—before I started believing in all those "shoulds" and "musts."

I used to love games and shows unapologetically.

I never cared about competition or status.

I worked simple jobs (like McDonald’s) and was content.

Then, somewhere along the way, I decided I should be different. I forced myself to want ambition, success, validation. And it destroyed me.

Now, I’ve let go. And for the first time in years, I recognize myself again.

The Recommendation: Try It

If you’re exhausted from the cycle of self-invention and self-betrayal, try this:

Stop believing in any "proven" version of yourself.

Observe what’s left when the stories fade.

Describe what you see—without judgment, without clinging.

Live from that place.

You might find, as I did, that the real you was never broken. You just couldn’t see them through all the noise.

Final Thought:
For the first time, I’m not at war with myself. And that’s the greatest victory of all.

The Illusion of the "Guide" and the Search for Verified Words

1. The Initial Belief in a "Guide"

I started by believing in a certain guide—a set of words I told myself that seemed logical: "Think about the words that describe you." At first, this felt right. I thought, "There is a ‘me,’ and there are words that describe me—why not think about them?" I didn’t even notice I had created this guide; I just assumed it was valid. For a while, life improved. I worked well, felt motivated, and everything seemed fine.

But then, I began checking—constantly verifying this guide in my head. It became exhausting because the checking led to psychomatic symptoms. I realized: I was trying to verify something that couldn’t be verified. The guide was just words I had told myself, but they weren’t proven. The moment I questioned whether these words were truly the "right" thing to focus on, the guide collapsed. I lost faith in it, and with that, my motivation vanished. My desires, my sense of purpose—all of it disappeared because it had been tied to this unexamined belief.

2. The Two Categories of Words in the Mind

I realized there are only two types of words the mind can hold:

Words that describe me (e.g., "I am X," "I feel Y").

But none of these words are verified. They’re just labels, assumptions, or temporary observations. They can’t be proven true in any absolute sense.

Words that tell me what to do—a guide.

A true guide would have to be verified instructions on what to do. But here’s the problem: no such verified guide exists. Any words I tell myself ("Do this," "Focus on that") are unproven. The moment I examine them, they lose their power because I realize they’re arbitrary.

Conclusion: Both categories are illusions. The first is unprovable self-description; the second is an unprovable command. Neither can be trusted.

3. The Cycle of Dependency on Guides

I noticed a pattern:

I’d find a guide (e.g., "Don’t attach meaning to anything").

I’d follow it unconsciously, feeling good.

Then I’d start checking it—"Is this really the right thing to do?"

The moment I questioned it, the guide dissolved, and I’d spiral into confusion.

I’d search for a new guide, repeat the cycle.

The core issue: I was addicted to the idea of a verified guide because it gave me motivation and structure. But no guide can withstand verification. The second I examined it, it crumbled.

4. The Breakthrough: There Is Nothing to Verify

Last night, I had a critical realization:

There is nothing in the mind that can be verified.

Not self-descriptions (they’re just temporary labels).

Not guides (they’re just unproven commands).

Therefore, there’s nothing to verify. The mind’s obsession with checking is a trap—it’s searching for something that doesn’t exist.

I thought: "What if I stop trying to verify anything? What if I accept that no words in my head—about myself or what to do—can ever be proven?"

5. The Shift: From Thinking to Observing

When I woke up today, something had changed. I wasn’t thinking about guides or descriptions. I wasn’t asking, "What should I do?" because I knew:

Any answer I gave myself would be unverified—and thus meaningless.

Motivation doesn’t require a guide. It can arise from simply observing the world and responding to it directly, without internal commentary.

Key observations:

Desires still exist, but they’re not created by words. They emerge from direct experience—seeing, feeling, sensing.

I don’t need to describe myself or my actions. I can just act without the mental layer of "Am I doing this right?"

The mind’s job isn’t to verify—it’s to perceive. When I stop demanding proof, I stop the endless loop of doubt.

6. Why Sleep Was the Solution

I couldn’t decide to stop thinking about guides. The more I tried, the more I reinforced the habit. Sleep was the only way to reset. When I woke up:

I had forgotten the concept of a guide entirely.

I wasn’t trying to live without one—I was just living.

Motivation returned, but it wasn’t tied to any internal narrative. It was organic, arising from engagement with the world.

7. The Final Insight: The Problem Was the Search Itself

All my suffering came from searching for what doesn’t exist:

A verified guide.

Verified words about myself.

A mental system that could guarantee motivation or happiness.

The solution wasn’t finding a better guide—it was realizing the search was the problem.

Good states of mind aren’t created by guides. They emerge when the mind stops demanding proof and just exists.

The only "guide" that works is no guide at all. When I stopped looking, I found what I needed: direct experience, unmediated by words.

8. What Remains

Now, I’m in a state where:

I don’t think about guides or descriptions.

I don’t ask, "What should I do?" because the question implies there’s a right answer—and there isn’t.

Motivation and desire arise naturally, not from mental commands but from being present.

This feels familiar. I’ve been here before—when I worked at McDonald’s, for example. Back then, I wasn’t overthinking; I was just acting.

The irony: The "good" states I chased through guides were actually glimpses of not needing a guide. The more I tried to recreate them with words, the more I lost them.

Closing Thought

The mind’s default mode is to seek control through words—descriptions, commands, verifications. But freedom comes when you realize:

No word is verified.

No guide is needed.

Life doesn’t require proof—it just requires presence.

And with that, the searching stops.

The Illusion of Verifiable Description: A Reflection on Language and Observation

1. The Act of Recording and Its Aftermath

I wanted to begin by noting something that struck me after my last recording. Once I finished documenting my observations—my experiences, the events that unfolded—I found myself returning to them in my mind. Not just recalling, but examining. I began to question whether the words I’d used truly captured what had happened. It wasn’t idle curiosity; it was a compulsion to verify.

I realized I was approaching this verification from a peculiar angle—one I couldn’t quite articulate at first. It felt like a specific perspective, a lens through which I could somehow confirm the accuracy of my description. But the more I probed, the more elusive this perspective became.

2. The Core Problem: The Impossibility of Verification

Here’s the crux of it: I cannot verify that any words I use correctly describe my observations.

Let me unpack that.

When I say, "This is what happened to me," I’m making a claim. But how do I know the claim is true? To verify it, I’d need to confirm that my observations themselves are accurate—that what I perceived actually occurred as I perceived it. Yet observations cannot be verified. They are raw, unchecked data. They simply are.

If I can’t verify the observations, then any words I use to describe them are inherently unverifiable. To call a description "correct" would mean it aligns with a verified observation—but since observations can’t be verified, no description can ever be proven correct.

This isn’t just a practical limitation. It’s a fundamental impossibility.

3. The Paradox of "Correct" Words

I used to think the issue was that I couldn’t find verified words for my observations. But now I see it’s deeper: I cannot even find correct words.

Take a simple example: I see a cat. I say, "I see a cat." Is this correct? How would I know? Maybe I’m seeing a dog. Maybe my perception is flawed. The description "I see a cat" is only "correct" if my observation of the cat is accurate—but since I can’t verify the observation, the description’s correctness is unprovable.

Thus, correct descriptions do not exist. They cannot. A "correct" description would require a verified observation, and verified observations are a myth.

4. The Harmful Cycle of Seeking Verification

This realization has practical consequences. After I record something—whether for myself or others—I used to spiral into endless rumination: "Did I describe it correctly? Did I choose the right words?" I’d obsess over whether my language matched my experience, as if there were some objective standard to meet.

But there isn’t. And the attempt to find one is harmful.

It’s a loop:

I observe.

I describe.

I doubt the description.

I try to verify it.

I fail (because verification is impossible).

Repeat.

This cycle is exhausting. It pulls me away from the present, from the act of living, and traps me in a futile quest for linguistic perfection.

5. The Liberation: Accepting the Unverifiable

The breakthrough came when I understood: I can describe, but I cannot describe correctly.

This isn’t nihilism. It’s freedom.

I can say, "I saw a cat," but I cannot prove it was a cat.

I can say, "This is what happened to me," but I cannot prove it happened as I perceived it.

I can share my observations, but I must accept that their "correctness" is fundamentally unknowable.

Once I internalized this, the compulsive checking stopped. I no longer feel the need to endlessly scrutinize my words because I know: the standard I was chasing doesn’t exist.

6. The Natural State: Observation Without Judgment

This morning, I woke up without the burden of verification. I wasn’t thinking about whether my words matched my experiences. I was just observing.

Then I decided to record my thoughts for others—and the cycle threatened to restart. But this time, I caught it. I remembered: there are no correct words. Only words. Only observations.

Now, when I describe something, I do so without the illusion of correctness. I observe. I describe. I let go.

Final Thought: The Futility of Proof

The most counterintuitive part? We assume correct descriptions are possible. We think, "Of course I can describe what I see accurately!" But accuracy implies verification, and verification is impossible.

This doesn’t mean communication is meaningless. It means we must release the demand for certainty. We describe not to capture truth, but to share perspective—flawed, subjective, and unverifiable as it may be.

And in that release, there is peace.

The Illusion of Description: A Realization of the Unspeakable

1. The Collapse of "Correct" Description

I have been thinking deeply, and now I believe these thoughts supersede everything I’ve said before—this is the purest, most refined version of my prior ideas.

First, I tried to define what a correct description is. When I look at something and describe it, that description only becomes "correct" after I verify it. Verify what? Its truthfulness—whether it accurately reflects my observations without error. If I test a description and confirm it aligns with true, unflawed observations, then and only then does it become "correct." But how can I verify a description? I’d need to check if the observation it claims to depict is indeed true. Yet this is impossible.

I realized that in my final state of understanding, I no longer even attempt to describe what I see. I used to believe I could describe many things, but now I see: no description of mine can ever be verified as correct. If it cannot be verified, it cannot be a true description. So when someone asks, "Describe what you see," I must answer: I cannot. Whatever I say about what I see will be unverified—and thus, not a description at all. An unverified "description" has no real connection to what I observe. It is meaningless noise.

This is the broadest insight: to exit the illusion that description is possible. All my past talk of "guides" or self-description? Merely specific cases of my failed attempts to describe.

2. The Two Failed Modes of Description

A. The Guide: Describing "What to Do"

I wake up and think: "I should describe what to do today." If I believe this description is verified and correct, it becomes my "guide"—a trusted instruction for action. But here’s the truth: I cannot create such a description. If I cannot verify it as correct, it is not a description of what to do. It is nothing. It has no relation to action. Thus, I cannot describe what to do. Any attempt is a delusion.

B. The Self: Describing "Who I Am"

The second mode is describing myself—my observations, my feelings, my sense of being. Again: I cannot. If a verified, correct description of myself does not exist, then no description of myself exists. An unverified one is not a description at all. I cannot describe myself.

3. The Core Problem: The Obsession with Description

My fundamental error was the desire to describe. I assumed I could describe myself, my actions, the world. This assumption led me to endlessly chase descriptions, then stress over whether they were "correct." But now I see: I cannot describe anything. Not myself, not my actions, not the world.

This realization liberates me. I no longer think about description because I know it’s impossible. And when I stop trying to describe, everything changes.

4. The State Beyond Description

What am I doing now? I cannot describe it. Any words I use to label my current state would be unverified—and thus, not a description. My actions, my observations, my very existence: none of it can be captured in language.

Observations and Words Are Separate:
There is "me" observing, and there is "me" producing sounds (words). These two things—observation and utterance—have no inherent connection. They merely occur simultaneously. For example:

I see a cat.

I say "cat."
But the word "cat" does not describe the cat. It is just a sound I make after seeing it. The word is not the thing.

Speech as Meaningless Sound:
All I can do is emit sounds. I cannot say anything in the sense of making verified statements. If what I say is unverified (and thus incorrect), then I am not truly saying anything at all. I am not asserting, not communicating—just vibrating air.

5. The Silence of the Un-described Mind

Human speech typically revolves around descriptions:

"I saw X."

"I feel Y."

"You should do Z."
But if no description is possible, then no speech is possible. I cannot say anything—to myself or others—because speech, for me, was always an attempt to describe.

When this dawns on me, my mind falls silent. It stops generating descriptions, and thus, it stops generating words. This silence is not emptiness. It is a state of pure, undistorted presence—life without the intermediary of language.

6. The Paradox of the Indescribable State

How to convey this state? I cannot. But I can hint at its qualities:

No emotions (emotions arise from words and descriptions).

No thoughts (thoughts were just attempts to describe).

Yet:

Motivation flourishes.

Pleasure in existence intensifies.

Life feels effortless, unburdened by the need to label or justify.

This is not a "life without description." It is life with the knowledge that description is impossible. I do not choose silence—I simply recognize that description was never an option.

7. The Final Realization: Thought Itself Collapses

If I cannot describe, I cannot think. Thinking, for me, was always thinking about descriptions—about how to label, categorize, or explain. But if descriptions are impossible, then there is nothing to think about. My mind, freed from this futile task, stops entirely.

This is not a void. It is a state beyond the reach of language—a way of being that cannot be named, only experienced.

Epilogue: The Freedom of the Unspeakable

I used to say, "The world is indescribable." But now I see it differently: the failure is not in the world, but in the act of description itself. I cannot verify any description, so none can be correct. Thus, I cannot describe—and this is not a limitation, but a liberation.

The mind, no longer chained to the illusion of description, falls into a silence that is alive, vibrant, and complete.

Final Note:
This is not a philosophy to adopt. It is the dissolution of philosophy itself. There is nothing to say, nothing to describe—only this.

The Struggle to Help Through Words

I find myself trapped in a paradox: I want to give something meaningful to others—something that will help them. But the only way I can offer help is by saying something, by articulating ideas that might guide or support them. Yet to say anything meaningful to others, I must first describe what has helped me. I must translate my own experiences, my own understanding, into words.

But here’s the problem: I don’t know how to describe. Not just anything—I don’t know how to describe myself, or the things I’ve realized, in a way that would resonate. So I start inventing words, crafting phrases, believing they might help others. And for a moment, it feels possible.

Then the doubt creeps in. I begin to obsess over these words—whether they’re the right ones, whether they’ll truly help, or if others need something entirely different. This cycle of questioning poisons my state of mind. The act of trying to describe, of searching for the perfect formulation, becomes a burden.

The Illusion of Verification

I realize I’m not even checking whether my descriptions are correct. I’m not testing them against reality or seeking proof. Instead, I’m chasing words that feel like they might help—words that sound convincing, that carry the weight of intention. But this pursuit destroys me.

I arrive at a brutal conclusion: I cannot describe anything for others. Not because I lack the vocabulary, but because description itself is flawed. I cannot package my insights into something transferable. And if I can’t describe, I can’t help. At least, not in the way I’ve defined help: as the act of delivering verified, accurate descriptions that others can use.

The Myth of "Enough"

At one point, I thought: Maybe I’ll reach a moment when I’ve said everything I can to help others. Then I can stop. But now I see the fallacy in this. There is no finite set of "important information" to transmit. There is no endpoint where I can declare, "I’ve given them all they need."

The truth is harsher: The "important information" doesn’t exist. Or if it does, it’s not something I can access or convey. I will never reach a point where I’ve said enough, because enough is an illusion. The words I seek—those perfect, proven, helpful phrases—do not exist. And so I am doomed to keep searching, forever unable to stop "helping," forever failing.

The Nature of Help

This leads me to question: What is help, in my understanding? To me, helping means offering a description that is both correct and useful—something grounded in my own observations, something I’ve tested and confirmed. But if I speak words that are unverified, arbitrary, or disconnected from my actual experiences, is that really help? It feels dishonest. It feels like a betrayal of the very idea of assistance.

The Paradox of Language

I wonder if language was even designed for this. Maybe words were meant for simple exchange—for sharing practical information, not for the weighty task of helping in the way I imagine. If I cannot describe anything with certainty, then I have nothing to give. No insights to transmit, no wisdom to offer.

And so I’m left with a hollow realization: I cannot help others. Not in the way I’ve defined it. Not through description, not through words. The act of trying to help—this relentless, self-consuming process—has become the very thing that prevents me from living.

The Only Way Out

The only escape, then, is to accept that I cannot describe. Not for others, and not even for myself. There are no words that will bridge the gap between my understanding and someone else’s need. There is no help to be given in the form I’ve imagined.

Perhaps the first step is to stop trying. To release the obsession with description, with verification, with the illusion that words can carry the burden of meaning I’ve placed on them. To admit that in this framework, I have nothing to say—neither to others nor to myself.

And maybe, in that silence, there is a different kind of help. One that doesn’t rely on words at all.

Final Reflection:
Is there another way to help that doesn’t depend on description? Or is the very act of wanting to help—the need to give, to transmit, to be useful—itself the problem? The words will never be enough. So what remains?

The Core Realization: Why I Can’t Guide Others

1. The Mistake of Over-Simplification

I spent so much time suffering from the desire to tell others how to reach my state. The root of my struggle was a critical error: I tried to reduce everything—all my words, all my explanations—into a single, oversimplified idea: "I cannot describe anything." I convinced myself that all my previous attempts were just fragmented descriptions, private cases, and that the only truth was this inability to describe.

But this simplification broke everything. It made me stop understanding. I understood it logically, but I lost sight of something essential—the very thing that would help me grasp why I couldn’t describe. I was stuck in a loop: I knew I couldn’t, but I didn’t see why.

2. The Two Fundamental Impossibilities

Then, two realizations hit me with absolute clarity:

A. I Cannot Give a "Guide" (Principally Impossible)
A guide implies verified words—tested, proven instructions on what to do. But I cannot, in principle, provide any such guide. It’s technically impossible. The moment I accept this, the urge to share anything with others vanishes. No questions remain. This alone dissolves my entire desire to tell people how to reach my state.

B. I Cannot Speak Verified Words About Myself (Principally Impossible)
Similarly, I cannot utter a single verified word about myself. Not one. This isn’t a limitation—it’s a fact. Once I see this, the compulsion to describe myself or my experiences to others evaporates. There’s nothing left to say.

These two truths—no guides, no verified self-description—are enough. They erase the need to explain, to teach, to share. For the first time, everything feels fixed.

3. The Third Insight: The Illusion of Description

But one question lingered: What if I describe to others what happened to me yesterday? That’s when the third realization emerged—not replacing the first two, but completing them.

Option 1: Describing Myself (But It’s Unverified)
I could describe myself, but those words would be unverified. And if they’re unverified, they’re wrong. They don’t reflect reality. So in truth, I can’t describe myself at all—not accurately, not meaningfully.

Option 2: Describing My Actions (But It’s Not a Guide)
I could describe what I do, but that’s not a guide. A guide would require verified instructions, and I can’t provide those. So even this is impossible.

The Conclusion: Description Itself Is Impossible
Any description I attempt is unverified, hence invalid. It doesn’t correspond to what’s real. Therefore, I can’t describe anything—not myself, not my actions, not my state. This understanding extinguishes the last ember of desire to explain, to share, to try.

The Triad of Impossible Tasks

My mind kept striving for three things it cannot do:

Give a Guide – Principally impossible. No verified instructions exist.

Speak Verified Words About Myself – Principally impossible. No true description is possible.

Describe Anything at All – Because any description would be unverified, hence false.

When I see these three impossibilities clearly, my mind stops. The obsession with explaining, with guiding, with describing—it all dissolves.

The Ideal State: Silence Beyond Words

Now, I exist in a state where:

I don’t think about describing anything.

I don’t think about giving guides—to myself or others.

I don’t think about verified words, memories, or explanations.

This is the state I’ve longed for. The peace that comes when the illusion of description collapses.

A Final Thought:
If I say, "I cannot speak verified words about myself," that statement itself is a description—and thus, a private case of the larger truth: I cannot describe myself at all. Because description, to me, means verified, correct words. And those don’t exist.

The category of "guide" stands alone. It’s not just description—it’s a command, an instruction. And that, too, is impossible.

The Resolution

The problem wasn’t solved by telling myself, "I can’t describe anything to others or myself." That’s just words. The real solution came from understanding why:

The only things I could say were a guide or a description.

Both are principally impossible for me.

Therefore, the urge to speak vanishes.

Now, I don’t do anything. I don’t even try to label what I’m doing now as "not describing." I simply… am. And in this space, the noise stops.

A State of Unfiltered Instinct: The Collapse of Cultural Illusions

1. The Absence of Motivation in Tennis

Yesterday, after my last recording, I entered a peculiar state. At first, everything was normal—I was working efficiently, focused. Then, I was invited to play tennis (something I do regularly with my mother and brother). I thought: Let’s see how I perform in this state.

The strange thing was, I played well—but I felt zero motivation to win. It wasn’t frustration or fatigue; I simply didn’t care. And because I didn’t care, I didn’t try. My focus waned, my effort dropped, and my performance suffered. I realized: I’m playing far below my potential because I don’t want to win.

I tried to force motivation: "Think about victory. Imagine winning." And when I did, my game improved. But the moment I stopped—when I relaxed, when the thought slipped away—I played poorly again. Eventually, I gave up. Why force it? I didn’t see the point. The only scenario where I’d care is if money were on the line. Otherwise? Indifference.

This was the first revelation: I no longer had the innate drive to compete for its own sake.

2. The Futility of Trying to Change

I started obsessing: How do I fix this? How do I regain motivation? I tried to construct a version of myself in my mind—someone who wanted to win, who cared about tennis. But it felt hollow. I couldn’t believe in that version. It was like trying to wear a mask I knew wasn’t mine.

Then it hit me: I can’t change what I don’t believe. Any "improved" version of myself would require faith in a description of me that isn’t true. And I no longer had that capacity. I couldn’t trick myself into wanting something I didn’t.

The only alternative was acceptance. This is who I am now. No gimmicks, no self-deception. Just raw, unfiltered reality.

3. The Inventory of Desires: What Remains?

I decided to audit my desires. What do I actually want in this state?

Money—but only as a means to survive.

Sex with women—not for love or connection, but as a biological imperative.

Secondary desires:

Watching a show with someone (but only if it’s low-effort).

Driving my car with good music (occasionally).

Upgrading my audio system (but this felt weak, derivative).

That was it. 95% of what once motivated me—hobbies, respect, creativity, social validation—was gone. I didn’t even crave pleasure for its own sake. My wants were reduced to survival and reproduction, stripped of cultural embellishment.

I tested this hypothesis: What if everyone disappeared? Instantly, my will to live evaporated. Without the possibility of sex (reproduction), existence felt meaningless. In the past, I might’ve enjoyed solitude—games, exploration, art. Now? Nothing.

4. The Illusion of Culture: Guides, Identities, and Lies

I realized: Everything else was cultural programming.

"Guides"—rules for how to live (e.g., "Be respected," "Seek pleasure," "Be productive").

"Identities"—labels we adopt ("I’m ambitious," "I’m kind") that dictate our desires.

These are shared delusions, passed down through generations. Parents, societies, religions—all peddle their versions of "how to be human," and we absorb them uncritically. We believe these constructs are real, but they’re just stories.

Example: My past desire to win at video games wasn’t about the game. It was about social approval—being seen as skilled, earning "love" (respect) from other players. Now? I don’t care what others think. The only "love" that matters is the kind that leads to sex.

Even friendship felt pointless. Why maintain male friendships? They don’t serve reproduction. The only social interaction I craved was with women—or, at most, passive companionship (like watching a show with someone).

5. The Genetic Truth: Survival and Reproduction

What remained was pure instinct:

Work → Only to fund survival and access to women.

Sex → The primary drive. Monogamy or promiscuity? Both had appeal:

Promiscuity: Maximum reproductive output, no emotional baggage.

Monogamy: Stability, potential offspring. Interestingly, the idea of a family suppressed my desire for other women—a built-in mechanism to focus on raising children.

I didn’t want children in the emotional sense, but I wanted to propagate my genes. The thought of grandchildren—continuing the lineage—resonated. This was the only "purpose" that felt inherent.

6. The Freedom of Rejecting Culture

The breakthrough: No culture, guide, or identity is "true." They’re all human inventions, tools for control or comfort.

Religions, philosophies, social norms—all are manipulations. They convince us we need things (status, morality, legacy) to be happy. But happiness, in this state, was fulfilling my genetic programming.

Suffering comes from resisting this truth. People chase cultural fantasies (wealth, fame, virtue) and feel empty because none of it aligns with our biological core.

I saw this clearly: Most human misery is self-inflicted—a side effect of believing in lies.

7. The Social Instinct: A Conflict

A paradox emerged: I wanted to help others see this truth.

Part of me recognized that spreading this realization could reduce suffering. If people shed cultural illusions, they might find contentment in simplicity.

But another part knew: This could threaten systems built on control. Governments, religions, economies—all rely on people believing in something beyond instinct.

Yet, I didn’t care about power or influence. My urge to share felt almost instinctual, like a social bond. Maybe a residual tribal impulse—the need to protect my group (even if "my group" was now just an abstract idea of "awakened" individuals).

8. The New State: Clarity Without Illusion

This morning, I woke up in the same state—no guides, no identities, just pure presence. It wasn’t exhaustion or forgetfulness. It was the natural result of seeing through the lies.

No internal conflict. Acceptance replaced resistance.

No wasted energy on desires that don’t serve survival/reproduction.

A strange peace. I was no longer at war with myself.

I thought of Alex Leslie—the pickup artist who sleeps with countless women, teaches others to do the same, and lives solely for reproduction. His life mirrored my new priorities, though I sensed I wasn’t quite like him. But the core was the same: biology over culture.

9. The Final Realization: There Is No Choice

I understood: I can’t "choose" to want cultural things again. That would require believing in another illusion—another "me" that isn’t real.

Option 1: Cling to old desires (but they’re built on lies).

Option 2: Accept this state (the only honest path).

This is who I am. A being stripped of pretense, left with only what’s hardwired.

And surprisingly? It feels right. Like a machine operating at peak efficiency—no distractions, no doubt. Just life, reduced to its essence.

Closing Thought

Perhaps this is what it means to be truly free—not free from constraints, but free from the illusion of constraints. No shoulds. No musts. Just what is.

And for the first time, what is is enough.

The Paradox of Self-Description: A Reflection on Silence and Existence

1. The Illusion of Self-Description

I began to realize something unsettling after my last recording: the act of describing myself—of trying to capture who I am—actually worsens my state of mind. The more I attempt to define myself, the more trapped I feel in those definitions.

At first, I thought: "There is a part of me that observes myself, and I can imagine becoming a different person by changing how I describe myself." But this is a mistake. The core issue isn’t that I can choose a different description—it’s that no description of me can ever be true. There is no "me" to describe.

When I try to write down who I am—my observations, my desires, my plans—what I produce isn’t me. It’s just a record of my observations of myself. But those observations are not the same as my essence. I can’t verify that they are me. So where, then, is the real description? It doesn’t exist. I cannot see my true self, so I cannot describe it.

This leads to a frustrating cycle: I observe myself, dislike what I see, and want to observe something else—a different version of myself. But the act of trying to describe that "different self" is just another layer of the same illusion.

2. The Harm of Self-Narration

The problem deepens when I realize that the very act of describing myself alters me. If I say, "I want to earn money," I suddenly become the kind of person who wants to earn money—even if I wasn’t that person before. The description conditions me. It turns me from a living, fluid being into a static label.

This is why writing about myself—even in private recordings—destroys my peace. The moment I put words to my thoughts, I start believing those words define me. And that belief poisons my mind.

I notice the effects already: I speak less. When others talk to me, I listen silently. Before, I had opinions, knowledge, descriptions to share. Now, I have nothing to say—because there is nothing true to say. Any words I use would just be approximations, and those approximations would trap me further.

3. The Impossibility of Communication

If I can’t describe myself, how can I communicate at all?

Option 1: Stop describing entirely. Live in silence, never explaining my inner world to anyone. This seems inevitable—because any attempt to describe would be a lie, and the act of lying (even unintentionally) would corrupt my state.

Option 2: Use words without describing. Speak only in terms of direct information, not self-representation. For example, if asked, "What are you doing?" I could say, "I am going to the store," without attaching that action to my identity. The words become tools, not confessions.

But even this is tricky. The moment I think, "I am describing myself," the damage is done. The only way out is to forget the description the second it’s spoken—to detach from it immediately, like shedding a skin.

4. The Final Recording?

This might be my last attempt to put these thoughts into words. If I can’t describe myself without harm, then I must stop trying.

From now on, I will live without explanation:

I will not tell others about my plans, my feelings, or my observations of myself.

If I speak, it will be pure information—words used for effect, not for truth.

I will exist internally, in a space no one else can access.

This isn’t just a choice—it’s a survival mechanism. The alternative is to remain stuck in a loop of self-definition, forever dissatisfied, forever distorted by my own words.

5. The Unanswered Question

Is there another way? Can I describe myself without believing the description? Can I share my thoughts without being enslaved by them?

I don’t know. If I find an answer, I might record one last time. If not, then this is the end of the experiment.

The end of description. The beginning of silence.

Key Themes in the Author’s Reflection

Theme

Original Phrasing

Self as Illusion

"There is no description of me. My observations are not me."

Description as Trap

"The moment I describe myself, I become that description—and it ruins my state."

Silence as Freedom

"I will live without telling anyone anything about my inner world."

Words as Tools

"I will use words only for effect, not to transmit truth."

The Final Choice

"Either I find a way to describe without harm, or I stop describing forever."

The Guide to the Right State of Mind

(A First-Person Retelling)

1. The Core Insight: Words Are All You Have—And They’re Useless

I realized something fundamental: the only words that can exist in my mind are the words I say to myself or about myself, for myself or for others. There are no other words. None. Every thought is a variation of:

Words I say to myself or to others,

Words I say about myself or about others.

That’s it. No other categories exist.

But here’s the critical part: I cannot verify a single one of these words from any perspective. Not the words about myself, not the words about others. They’re all just observations—my observations—and observations can’t be checked. They’re unprovable by definition.

This is the first step: understanding that all words in my head are unverifiable.

2. The Necessary Erasure: Forgetting Every Word

Once I grasp that none of these words can be verified, the next step becomes obvious: I must forget every word I’ve ever spoken or thought.

Forget the words I’ve said to myself or to others.

Forget the words I’ve thought about myself or about others.

All of them. Without exception. Without holding onto a single one.

Why? Because they’re all unverified. They’re noise. They’re not just useless—they’re actively harmful if I cling to them. So I let them go. Completely.

After this, something remarkable happens: my mind stops generating words. I don’t think in words anymore because I’ve forgotten them all. There’s no internal dialogue, no self-narration. Just silence.

(Note: If I skip this step, I’m doomed. I’ll keep spinning in circles, trying to stop thinking in words using words—which is impossible. The cycle never ends unless I erase them entirely.)

3. The Illusion of Guides and Descriptions

Now, with all words forgotten, only two possible mental movements remain. Both are traps—but understanding why they’re traps is the key to freedom.

Trap #1: The Guide

I might think: "Okay, now I need a guide—verified words telling me what to do."
But here’s the truth: verified words don’t exist. Any "guide" I try to give myself is just more unverified words. It’s not a guide; it’s nonsense.

Realization: I cannot give myself a guide. The very idea is impossible. Once I see this clearly, all urge to create a guide vanishes. The thought doesn’t even arise anymore.

Trap #2: The Description

I might think: "Maybe I can describe myself, my state, my goals—accurately, this time."
But again: descriptions require verified words, and those don’t exist. I can’t describe myself, my mind, or my reality in any meaningful way.

Realization: I cannot describe anything. The moment I accept this, all urge to describe disappears. I stop trying to label, categorize, or explain.

4. The Result: Genetic Desires Emerge

With no words, no guides, no descriptions—what’s left?

Only my base, genetic desires:

Survival (but only as a means to…)

Reproduction (the core drive).

These aren’t thoughts. They’re not ideas. They’re hardwired impulses, hidden beneath layers of verbal noise. Only in this wordless state can I see them clearly.

(Note: If I can’t reproduce, the desire to survive evaporates. Survival is just a stepping stone.)

5. The Choice That Isn’t a Choice

Now, I face a false dilemma:

Live in this state, acting on genetic desires.

Return to words, trying to create guides or descriptions to "improve" myself.

But here’s the catch: both options are impossible.

I can’t create a real guide or description (as established).

I can’t sustain the wordless state if I start thinking in words again.

There is no choice. The wordless state is the only stable reality. Any attempt to "guide" or "describe" myself collapses into the same verbal traps.

6. The Reward: Alignment with Nature

In this state, something shifts. My brain rewards me for acting on genetic imperatives—surviving, reproducing. There’s a deep, primal satisfaction in this. No conflict, no second-guessing. Just direct action toward what I’m built to do.

(Note: Earlier, I tried to jump straight to Step 3—"I can’t guide or describe myself"—without Steps 1 and 2. It failed every time. Without forgetting all words first, the later steps make no sense. The words just become more noise.)

7. The Paradox of Description

Here’s the irony: I can still speak or write without breaking the state.

In the past, describing things would "knock me out" of the wordless state because I was thinking in words.

Now, I can describe things without attachment. The words don’t stick. They’re just sounds or symbols, not hooks for my mind.

(Example: This very transcription doesn’t disrupt my state because I’m not believing the words. I’m just recording them.)

8. The Non-Negotiable Order

The steps must go in this sequence:

Realize all words are unverifiable.

Forget all words entirely.

See that guides/descriptions are impossible.

Skip any step, and the system collapses. Today, I spent hours trying to force Step 3 without Steps 1–2. It was like banging my head against a wall. The words felt meaningless because they were—without the foundation, they’re just noise.

Final Note: The State Itself

This isn’t a "technique." It’s not a hack. It’s the default state—the one I’m in when I wake up, before the verbal mind kicks in. The goal isn’t to "achieve" something. It’s to stop sabotaging myself with words.

When I do that, what’s left is simple, direct, and deeply satisfying.

Morning Awakening: The Void and the Search for Words

I woke up this morning in a state of complete emptiness—no memories, no emotions, no desires. I couldn’t even get out of bed because something was missing in my mind. I realized I needed to remember something to move, but what?

At first, I considered recalling a "guide" or a "description" of myself—something I’d told myself in the past about who I am or what to do. But I dismissed that immediately. Descriptions and guides don’t exist. They’re illusions. So what was left?

I thought and thought, stuck, until my state shifted. I found a way to "jump" into a different mental space—one where desire appeared. Not by recalling instructions or definitions, but by remembering words about myself—not as descriptions or guides, but as raw, unchecked phrases. Words like "what I want." These words filled my mind and, by their mere presence, created desires. I didn’t believe them or analyze them; I just remembered them, and that was enough to act.

The Theory: Words as Labels, Not Definitions

My new theory is this:
When I wake up empty, I have three options for what to recall:

A "guide" (instructions for how to live).

A "description" (a fixed identity or set of traits).

Words about myself that are neither.

The first two are impossible. No guide or description is verifiable or real. They’re stories we tell ourselves, but they don’t hold up under scrutiny. So I’m left with the third option: words about myself that I don’t treat as definitions or rules.

For example, the phrase "I want X." This isn’t a description of me—it’s just a word-cluster in my head. It doesn’t claim to be true or proven. It’s like hearing someone else talk about me: their words aren’t me, they’re just words about me. The same goes for my own internal phrases. They’re not instructions or identities; they’re just labels—neutral, detached, functional.

When I recall these words, desires arise. But I don’t think about the words. My brain only thinks about things it believes are "real" (like verified descriptions or guides). These words? They’re not real in that sense. They’re just… there. And that’s enough.

The Problem with Guides and Descriptions

My old "guide" had three steps:

Realize no words can be verified.

Forget all words without exception.

Understand that you can’t describe yourself or create a guide.

But Step 2 is flawed. If you forget all words, you can’t function. You need some words to live—just not the harmful ones. So I revised it:

Realize no words can be verified. (Unchanged.)

Forget only descriptions and guides. Keep the rest.

Understand that descriptions and guides are impossible. (Unchanged.)

Now, I don’t think about words at all—unless they’re labels. My brain ignores anything that isn’t a "verified" description or guide. So if a word isn’t one of those, it’s invisible to my overthinking. It just exists, like background noise, and creates desires without resistance.

The Mechanism: Thinking About Names, Not Definitions

Here’s how it works in practice:

I don’t recall "I am X" (a description) or "I should Y" (a guide).

I recall "I want Z"—but not as a statement about myself. It’s just a label, like pointing at a cat and saying "cat." The word doesn’t define the cat; it just names it.

The act of recalling this label triggers a desire. I don’t analyze the label; I just feel the pull of the want.

Key insight: Thinking about names (labels) is different from thinking about definitions (descriptions/guides).

If I think about the word "cat," I’m stuck in language.

If I think about the cat itself, I’m engaged with reality.

Similarly, if I think about the phrase "I want X," I’m trapped in abstraction.

If I think about what I actually want, I’m free.

The Trap of Descriptions and Guides

Most people live in a prison of their own descriptions and guides. They:

Observe their behaviors/desires.

Invent a story about why they’re that way ("I’m an introvert," "I need security").

Treat the story as true—as if it’s a verified fact about themselves.

Start living for the story, not for reality.

But these stories are unverifiable. They’re not facts; they’re just words we’ve repeated until they feel real. And once we believe them, we’re stuck:

We only want what the "description" allows.

We only do what the "guide" permits.

We’re anxious if we deviate, because the story must hold true.

Freedom comes when you realize:

No description of you is provable.

No guide for you is binding.

All you have are labels—neutral, flexible, temporary.

The New Approach: Living by Labels

Now, my mental process is:

Wake up empty. No memories, no automatic desires.

Recall a label (e.g., "I want coffee" or "I want to work").

This isn’t a command or identity. It’s like a Post-it note in my mind.

Feel the desire the label points to.

Act on the desire without questioning the label.

Why this works:

Labels don’t claim truth. They’re tools, not tyrants.

Desires arise naturally when you’re not busy policing them with "shoulds" or "musts."

You’re not limited by a fixed identity or rulebook.

Result: Infinite adaptability. No fear of "wrong" desires or actions, because there’s no guide to violate or description to betray.

The Illusion of Guides for Others

At first, I thought I needed to create a "guide" to help others escape their mental prisons. But now I see:

A guide is just another description—another cage.

People don’t need instructions; they need to see the illusion.

If I explain that descriptions/guides are impossible, and that labels are enough, they might wake up the same way I did.

The only "guide" worth sharing:

Notice you’re trapped in unverifiable stories about yourself.

Drop the stories. Keep the labels.

Live by what you want, not by what you think you should want.

The Childlike State: Before the Stories

I remember being a teenager, living without descriptions or guides. I just wanted things and did them. No overthinking. No identity crises. Then, like everyone, I started building stories:

"I’m the kind of person who…"

"Life should be lived this way…"

"I need to follow these rules to be happy…"

These stories weren’t true. They were just habits of thought—repeated until they felt inevitable. The way back is to:

Stop treating words as truth. They’re just labels.

Think about what you want, not about the words for what you want.

Act without needing permission from a "guide" or "description."

Final Realization: The Power of Naming Without Defining

Everything reduces to this:

Descriptions/guides = Illusions. They claim to explain or direct, but they’re just words we’ve overvalued.

Labels = Tools. They point to experiences (like "wanting" or "cat") without claiming to be those experiences.

Freedom is:

Using labels to navigate life.

Never confusing the label for the thing itself.

Letting desires arise without filtering them through a story of who you "are" or how you "should" live.

In practice:

You wake up. You’re empty.

You recall a label ("I want to paint").

You feel the desire it points to.

You paint.

Repeat.

No guides. No descriptions. Just life, labeled lightly and lived fully.

Closing Thought: The Paradox of Sharing This

Even this explanation is just a label. It’s not a guide or a description of "how to live." It’s a pointer, like saying "That’s a cat"—useful only if you look at the cat, not at the word.

If you treat these words as a guide, you’re back in the trap.
If you see them as labels and look past them to your own experience, you’re free.

A New State of Mind: The Discovery of Adaptive Guidance and the Temporary Self

1. The Crisis of Choice and Planning

I found myself in a state where I couldn’t make decisions or plan my day. I would sit down to write a plan, but I didn’t know what to include—what to prioritize, what to discard. The more I tried to figure it out, the more paralyzed I became. I realized the problem wasn’t the plan itself, but the lack of a foundation for making choices.

I understood that to make a choice, I needed two things:

A "guide"—some internal compass telling me what to choose.

A description of myself—a clear sense of who I am and what I want.

Without these, choice was impossible. And without choice, planning was impossible. I had been living under the illusion that I needed a permanent, universal guide—a single set of rules to follow for the rest of my life. But such a thing doesn’t exist.

I tried living without any plan at all, just doing whatever my brain told me in the moment. But this left me directionless, drifting from one second to the next without any sense of continuity or purpose. I didn’t like how it felt.

2. The Illusion of the Absolute Guide

I spent hours lying in bed, trying to force myself to remember some old guide I once believed in, or to invent a new one. But every attempt led to the same dead end: no guide could ever be absolute. Life is too fluid, too situational.

Then, a realization struck me:
What if the guide didn’t have to be permanent?
What if it could be adaptive—something my brain generates automatically, tailored to each moment?

For example:

If I have no money, my brain tells me: "You need to earn money."

If I have money, it shifts: "Now, spend it wisely."

If I’m tired, it adjusts: "Rest first."

This isn’t a rigid, universal rule—it’s a temporary, context-dependent instruction. My brain already knows what to do in any given situation. The problem was that I kept rejecting these temporary signals, searching instead for something eternal and verified.

But no such guide exists. Life isn’t a single, unchanging problem to solve. It’s a series of ever-shifting circumstances, and my brain is already equipped to navigate them—if I let it.

3. The Two Forces Inside Me

Once I accepted the idea of a temporary guide, my motivation returned. But then I noticed another problem: fatigue.

I realized my brain’s adaptive guide was purely survival-oriented. It didn’t account for whether I was exhausted, burned out, or needed rest. If I followed it blindly, I’d work myself to the bone without ever stopping.

This led me to discover the second force inside me:

The Adaptive Guide (survival-based, rational, future-oriented).

The Temporary Self (desire-based, irrational, present-oriented).

The Adaptive Guide says:
"You need to work, earn money, plan for the future."

The Temporary Self says:
"I want to lie in bed a little longer. I want to relax. I want to enjoy this moment."

Both are valid. Both are temporary. And both are necessary.

4. The Balance: Letting the Brain Decide

The mistake I’d been making was trying to choose between them. I’d either:

Suppress my desires (becoming a workaholic, ignoring my need for rest), or

Suppress my survival instincts (becoming lazy, ignoring my responsibilities).

But neither extreme works. The solution? Stop choosing. Stop controlling. Let the brain balance them automatically.

When the alarm goes off:

The Adaptive Guide says: "Get up. You have work."

The Temporary Self says: "Five more minutes…"

My brain weighs both, and one wins for that moment. Sometimes I stay in bed. Sometimes I get up. But I don’t force it. I don’t guilt-trip myself for resting, and I don’t resent work when it’s time to act.

This creates harmony:

When I work, I do it willingly, because my brain has decided it’s the right time.

When I rest, I do it fully, because my brain has decided I need it.

There’s no internal conflict. No "I should be working" vs. "I just want to relax." The brain handles the negotiation, and I trust it.

5. The Danger of Fixed Descriptions

The moment I try to define myself or my guide, I create problems.

If I say, "I am a person who values hard work above all else," I become a slave to productivity, burning out.

If I say, "I am a person who prioritizes pleasure," I become lazy, neglecting my future.

Descriptions are traps. They turn fluid, adaptive states into rigid identities. And rigid identities break under pressure.

Instead, I observe:

"Right now, I feel like working."

"Right now, I feel like resting."

No labels. No permanent rules. Just temporary states, allowed to shift as needed.

6. The Role of Words: From Absolute to Temporary

Before, I used words to create absolute truths:

"I must be productive."

"I should always follow my desires."

"This is who I am."

Now, words are just temporary names for what I observe:

"Right now, my brain is telling me to work."

"Right now, I feel like taking a break."

They’re not commands. They’re not identities. They’re descriptions of the present moment, nothing more.

7. The Final Realization: Trust the Process

The brain is already doing the work. It knows:

What I need to do (survival, growth, responsibility).

What I want to do (joy, rest, exploration).

My job isn’t to control these forces, but to observe and trust them.

If I’m tired, my brain will push me to rest.

If I’m rested, my brain will push me to act.

If I’m inspired, my brain will push me to create.

If I’m bored, my brain will push me to seek novelty.

There is no need to force, to plan, or to judge. The moment I stop interfering, everything falls into place.

Conclusion: Living Without the Burden of Certainty

I no longer search for a perfect guide or a fixed identity. Instead, I live in the adaptive present, where:

My actions are guided by what’s needed now.

My desires are honored as they arise now.

My mind balances both without my interference.

This isn’t laziness. It’s not recklessness. It’s the most efficient, harmonious way to live—because it’s aligned with how the brain already works.

The moment I stopped fighting my own nature, I found peace. And for the first time, I’m truly free.

The Illusion of Guides: A Reflection on Living Without Self-Imposed Rules

1. The Problem with "Guides"

I woke up yesterday with a familiar pain in my eye—a psychomatic symptom I’ve learned to recognize. It flares up when I obsessively check some internal "guide" in my head, a set of rules or principles I feel compelled to follow. I ask myself: Am I following it? Do I know it well enough to share it with others? The thought of having a guide—something I know, something I could teach—becomes an obsession. I can’t stop thinking about it, even though it causes me stress.

I realized the root of my suffering is this: I want to write guides for others. But the more I try to stop thinking about it, the more I feel like I should write them because I believe I have something valuable to say. This creates a paradox—stress from wanting to share, stress from resisting the urge, and a constant tension between what I want to do and what I think I should do.

I traced it back to its source: the idea of a "guide" itself. My previous recording was just a description of the emotions and observations this guide in my head had created. Nothing more.

2. The Temporary Guide Experiment

Yesterday morning, I woke up and thought: Either I recall some guide, or I describe myself in a new way. I spent hours trying to come up with something, but nothing worked. Then, out of frustration, I invented a new idea—a new guide—and believed it instantly. The phrase was:

"Live by temporary guides."

I convinced myself that my mind contains temporary guides, temporary versions of myself. I didn’t invent this from scratch; I’d felt it before, but now I framed it in words. And as soon as I did, my state changed. I felt motivated, like I knew what to do. Any guide—even a temporary one—gives the illusion of knowledge, purpose, and direction.

But then the complications started:

Motivation & Desires: The guide created desires—temporary versions of myself that wanted things.

Stress & Conflict: My eye hurt. I felt compelled to share this guide with others. I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

The Trap of Choice: I struggled to decide whether to follow what I wanted (pleasure, instinct) or what I knew (the guide’s rules).

I realized: Any guide, no matter how temporary, becomes a prison if I believe in it too much.

3. The Morning After: Rejecting All Guides

This morning, I woke up and remembered yesterday’s experiment. I saw that the "temporary guide" was just words—empty phrases that could alter my state if I let them. I didn’t want to go back to that stress, that conflict, that eye pain.

So I decided:

No recalling any guides. Not yesterday’s, not any past ones.

No creating new guides. No new phrases, no new self-descriptions.

No internal dialogue. Just… living.

I lay in bed for hours, thinking. I had no answers. But this time, I didn’t force myself to invent a guide just to do something. Yesterday, I had only done that because I was tired of lying there, stuck. Today, I accepted: The only stable, stress-free state is the one I wake up in—before any guides take over.

4. Life Without Guides: Observations

a) Choice is Impossible Without a Guide

Without a guide, I have no instruction manual for life.

I can’t make a "plan" because I don’t know what to choose.

Desires exist, but they’re vague—no clear priority, no urgency.

Conclusion: Choice requires either:

A self-description (a fixed idea of what I want/don’t want), or

A guide (external rules telling me what to do).

Without either, I’m paralyzed by infinite options.

b) Survival Instincts Replace Guides

I still know basic laws of reality: To live, I need money. To get money, I need to work.

These aren’t guides—they’re observed patterns, not prescriptions.

They don’t tell me what to do, just how things work.

Example: I can list possible actions for the day (exercise, work, hobbies), but I have no internal hierarchy telling me what’s "first." Yet, eventually, I do choose something—slowly, without urgency.

c) Empathy Disappears

Without guides, I have zero empathy. Not just for strangers—for everyone, including family.

Before, I faked empathy using guides ("Help others so they’ll help you back").

Now, I see that as a human invention, not a natural law.

Implication: In a world where everyone thinks like me, people only help others if it benefits them. If you’re useless and can’t save yourself, you die. I accept this. If I’m not needed, I’m okay with that.

d) Independence Becomes the Only Goal

I want to stop depending on others (especially family) as fast as possible.

My priority: Move to a city, live alone, earn my own money.

Why? Because I now operate on: "If I don’t take care of myself, no one will."

I don’t trust others’ empathy or moral codes—I only trust my own survival instincts.

5. The Loneliness of a Guide-Free Mind

I feel alone in the truest sense. Not lonely, but singular—no one is responsible for me but me.

I don’t need companionship. I don’t even need friends—just acquaintances for shared activities (gaming, sports, etc.).

Relationships? Maybe a girlfriend, but only if she fits seamlessly into my life. No emotional labor, no sacrifices.

Family? I’ll repay what I owe (financially), but I won’t pretend to care beyond that. I don’t feel guilt, obligation, or love—just transactional fairness.

6. Testing the Guide-Free State: Tennis as a Metaphor

I played tennis with my brother today. Here’s what happened:

First game (no guide): I played naturally, instinctively—and won.

Next games (searching for a guide): I started thinking, "How do I win? What’s the right strategy?" I lost three times in a row.

Lesson:

Guides make me worse. When I try to "optimize" my performance with rules, I fail.

Instinct is enough. My best state is when I’m not trying to be anything—just acting based on experience and observation.

High stakes don’t change this. Even if I were playing tennis for my life, inventing a guide ("Now I must try harder!") would only distract me. The only way to perform is to stay in the default state.

7. The Future: A Return to Isolation

This feels like a return to how I lived at 20:

No guides. No self-descriptions, no moral dilemmas.

Pure self-interest. Work, hobbies, minimal socializing.

No illusions. No pretending to care about things that don’t affect me.

I’m comfortable with this. The only "problem" is that society expects empathy, sacrifice, and connection—but those are guides I no longer follow.

8. Final Realization: The Guide is the Enemy

Any phrase I believe in becomes a guide. Even "live by temporary guides" became a permanent rule.

The only freedom is no guide at all. Not even the meta-guide of "avoid guides."

Life works when I stop trying to control it. I observe, I act on survival instincts, I accept that I don’t know what to do—and that’s okay.

This is my natural state. Everything else is noise.

Closing Thought

I used to think I needed a guide to live. Now I see: The guide was the problem all along. The less I try to define myself, the more clearly I see what’s real—and what’s just words in my head.

The Core Problem: Fear of Saying "No" and the Birth of a Self-Destructive Guide

At 20, I found myself trapped in a suffocating situation. I was living with my parents, financially dependent on them, and paralyzed by fear—specifically, the fear of saying "no." I couldn’t refuse their demands, even when those demands made me miserable, because I was terrified of the consequences: being kicked out, left to fend for myself, or worse. The threat wasn’t just about homelessness; it was about survival. I imagined physical suffering, the struggle of clawing my way out of poverty, the humiliation of taking a soul-crushing job just to stay alive. The fear was visceral.

But it wasn’t just the fear of refusal. My parents also forbade me from expressing anger or frustration. "You have no right to show emotions," they’d say. "We provide for you—how dare you be upset?" I was caught in a vice: agreeing to things I despised, unable to voice my resentment, and drowning in silent rage.

To cope, I invented a guide—a mental framework that rewired my identity. Its core rule was brutal in its simplicity:

"I must do everything asked of me. I owe everyone. No one owes me anything."

I believed it. I needed to believe it. It was the only way to function without collapsing under the weight of my own resistance. The guide didn’t make me happy, but it made me compliant. I performed my duties mechanically, my motivation drained, my anger simmering beneath the surface. But at least I wasn’t homeless. At least I wasn’t dead.

The Guide’s Collapse: When Compliance Became Torture

For a while, the guide worked. I was the "good" son, the reliable friend, the person who never said no. But over time, the psychological toll became unbearable. The stress, the suppressed fury, the constant self-betrayal—it shattered me. I realized the guide wasn’t saving me; it was destroying me.

I needed to escape it. But how? The guide existed because I was terrified of the alternative: refusal, conflict, abandonment. To dismantle it, I had to stop fearing the consequences of saying "no." And to do that, I had to stop fearing everything—even death.

I had to become a person who no longer cared about survival, about comfort, about others’ opinions. Only then could I refuse without flinching. Only then could I live without the guide.

The Paradox of Freedom: Becoming the "Bad" Person

When I finally let go of the guide, I became someone I never wanted to be: an unapologetic egoist. No empathy. No obligation. No pretense of kindness.

I saw it coming. Without the guide, I’d refuse requests I once fulfilled without hesitation. I’d ignore my mother’s pleas, abandon a suffering dog, let people fend for themselves. The thought horrified me—not because I’d hurt others, but because they’d despise me for it. I’d be the villain in their stories.

For days, I resisted this outcome. I searched for a middle ground: a way to be "good" without the guide, to care without obligation. But there was no middle ground. Kindness, as I’d known it, was a performance—a role I played to avoid rejection. Without the guide, the performance ended.

I had to accept it: I would be hated. And that was okay.

The Illusion of Temporary Guides

At one point, I thought I could create temporary guides—flexible rules for specific situations. But I realized: there’s no such thing as a temporary guide. Every rule, every self-imposed identity, leaves a residue. It alters your state, creates desires, spawns conflicts. Even if you discard it later, the damage lingers.

I tested this. I’d wake up with no desires, no emotions, no sense of self—just a blank slate. Then I’d recall yesterday’s guide, and poof: the old patterns reappeared. The stress, the psychomatic symptoms, the urge to preach my "wisdom" to others. It was a trap.

I decided: No more guides. Not even for a day. Not even if they promised relief. I’d rather live in the void than be shackled again.

Life Without Motivation: Operating on Pure Law

With no guide, I lost something else: motivation. Not the fleeting kind, but the deep, driving force that makes you get out of bed. I had no "shoulds," no "wants," no beliefs about what was meaningful.

At first, this was terrifying. How do you function without desire? Then I realized: I don’t need motivation. I only need laws.

Law: If I don’t eat, I’ll die.

Law: If I rest, I’ll have energy later.

Law: Some actions bring pleasure; others bring pain.

I didn’t want to eat or rest or work—I just observed the consequences and acted accordingly. It wasn’t inspiring, but it worked. My brain, deprived of its usual scripts, moved slowly, deliberating like a computer processing data. "Option A leads to X. Option B leads to Y. Choose." No passion, no regret. Just cause and effect.

The Freedom of Indifference

The most surprising outcome? I stopped caring about others’ opinions. Not in a defiant way, but in a genuine way. I no longer feared being seen as selfish or heartless because I no longer needed to be seen any way at all.

If someone asks for help and it costs me nothing? I might help.

If it demands sacrifice? I won’t—unless the person is useful to me (e.g., a potential partner, an ally).

If my refusal sparks conflict? I’ll stay silent or evade, but I won’t comply out of guilt.

I don’t hate those who suffer. I don’t think about them at all. My focus is solely on my own existence, moment to moment. There’s no guilt in this. No shame. Just a quiet, unshakable peace.

The Final Realization: There Is No "Should"

The hardest truth? I was never "good." My kindness was a transaction: a performance to avoid abandonment. My empathy was a tool for survival. When the guide collapsed, so did the illusion of my virtue.

Now, I live without pretense. If I help, it’s incidental. If I refuse, it’s absolute. I don’t justify myself. I don’t apologize. I exist—nothing more, nothing less.

And for the first time, I’m not at war with myself.

Epilogue: The Cost of Truth

This isn’t a happy ending. It’s not a story of transformation or growth. It’s the chronicle of a man who burned every crutch he had and learned to walk on the ashes.

Some will call me a monster. Others will call me free. I don’t care either way.

The only thing that matters? I’m no longer lying to myself.

Key Themes in the Author’s Journey:

Theme

Original Phrasing

Fear of Refusal

"I couldn’t say ‘no’ because I feared being thrown out—fearing death, suffering, poverty."

The "Good Person" Guide

"I created a guide: ‘I must do everything asked of me. I owe everyone. No one owes me.’"

The Guide’s Collapse

"The stress, the suppressed fury, the self-betrayal—it shattered me."

Freedom Through Indifference

"I stopped fearing death, fearing loss, fearing anything. Only then could I refuse."

Life Without Motivation

"I don’t need motivation. I only need laws: cause and effect."

The Illusion of Empathy

"My kindness was a transaction. When the guide collapsed, so did the illusion."

The Struggle with "Guides" (Гайды) and the Fear of Rejection

1. The Core Conflict: Living Without a "Guide"

I’ve been living without a guide—a set of internal rules dictating how I should behave to avoid conflict or meet others’ expectations. At first, this felt liberating. But then, once again, someone asked me to do something I didn’t want to do. And I did it. Not because I wanted to, but because I wasn’t ready for the escalation, the conflict, the confrontation. It was such a small request, trivial even. I thought, "Fine, I’ll do it this once, and then I’ll think about this problem later."

But afterward, I realized: I don’t want to keep living like this. I don’t want to keep agreeing to things I don’t want to do. Yet I’m also not ready to refuse outright. I need to understand this deeper—why it happens, how to navigate it. If I want to start saying no, I need to offer something in return. But what? The people asking things of me are often those I depend on. I don’t want to refuse them, but I also don’t want to comply.

I thought: "Maybe I should just become self-sufficient. Get a job quickly, pay my own way, and then no one can demand anything of me." But as I explored this, I realized there are no easy, accessible ways to earn money fast. And even if there were, I don’t want to pursue that right now. I’d rather try refusing first and see if I can still live the way I want.

But I know: 100% of the time, people will react negatively. The people I live with, the people I depend on—they’ll be angry, resentful. And I’m not ready for that.

2. The Illusion of Compromise

I spent hours trying to solve this. First, I thought: "Maybe I can negotiate. Set boundaries. Do only certain things, in certain amounts, for a certain pay." But even as I imagined this, I stressed over where to draw the line. What exactly would I do? What wouldn’t I do? How much? How to agree on it?

Then I realized: I don’t want to negotiate at all. I don’t want to commit to any rules, any structure. I just want to do what I want. Why should I negotiate when I can simply not do what I don’t want to do?

But if I don’t negotiate, if I don’t create some guide for myself, then I’ll just keep refusing—and people will hate me for it.

I thought: "Maybe I’ll just live as I am, and sometimes do things I don’t want if it benefits me." But the problem isn’t the fear of doing unwanted things—it’s that to do them, I’d have to tell myself a guide first. I’d have to say: "Okay, I’ll do this even though I don’t want to, because it’s beneficial." And that guide—that internal command—ruins my state of mind. It causes stress.

I tried another approach: "What if I create temporary guides? Only for the moment, only when needed, and then forget them?" But even that requires a permanent guide: "When faced with a request, create a temporary guide if it’s beneficial." And that permanent guide would still stress me out.

I thought: "What if I just… don’t decide in advance? Just live, and in the moment, choose—yes or no?" But even that is a guide: "I will choose between yes and no in each situation." And that, too, stresses me.

Every solution leads back to the same problem: any guide I create to change my behavior will cause me stress.

3. The Root Fear: Abandonment and Hatred

Why was I so desperate to find a solution? Why did I spend hours trying to figure out how to stop refusing people?

Because my greatest fear is being hated. Not just disliked—hated. The fear that if I refuse even the smallest request, the people around me will turn against me. They’ll be aggressive, resentful. They’ll cut me off.

And if they cut me off, I’ll be alone.

I realized: the only reason I ever consider creating a guide is to avoid this hatred. To avoid the negative emotions of others. A guide is just a way to reshape myself so that no one is angry at me, no one resents me, no one abandons me.

But why do I care so much about their emotions? Because I don’t want to lose what I have—relationships, support, comfort. I don’t want to be alone.

Yet the only way to avoid their hatred is to create a guide—and that guide will destroy me from the inside. It will make me stressed, anxious, depressed. It will make me a slave to others’ emotions.

4. The Truth About Guides

A guide is a tool for avoiding conflict at the cost of your own freedom.

What is a guide? It’s an internal rule you create to modify your behavior so that others don’t get angry at you.

Why do people create guides? Because they fear abandonment, rejection, or punishment.

What does a guide do? It forces you to act against your own desires to keep others happy.

But here’s the truth: the world isn’t ready for people who refuse. People believe their desires are true—that if they want something, you should give it to them. And if you don’t, they’ll hate you for it.

Most people live by guides because they’ve been conditioned to. They’ve learned that to survive, to be loved, to avoid punishment, they must comply. But compliance comes at a cost: you lose yourself.

I saw this in my own father. He lives by no guides. He does only what he wants, refuses what he doesn’t, and doesn’t care about others’ reactions. And because of that, almost everyone hates him. He’s alone. But he’s free.

I realized: I’d rather be alone and free than loved and enslaved.

5. The Two Types of People

I see two kinds of people in the world:

Those who believe they are kings.

They demand what they want.

They refuse to create guides for themselves.

They expect others to comply with their desires.

They get angry when others don’t obey them.

They live in constant frustration because the world doesn’t bend to their will.

Those who believe they are slaves.

They create guides to avoid conflict.

They comply with others’ demands to avoid punishment.

They live in constant stress, fearing they’ll displease someone.

They often develop anxiety, depression, or other mental health issues.

Most people fall into one of these categories. But I don’t fit either.

I don’t demand that others serve me.

I don’t create guides to serve others.

I don’t expect compliance, nor do I offer it.

I have no pretense toward others, and I accept none in return.

I simply live as I am.

6. The Freedom of No Guides

If I refuse to create a guide, here’s what will happen:

People will ask me to do things.

I’ll say no if I don’t want to.

They’ll get angry.

They’ll hate me.

They might cut me off.

And that’s okay.

Because the only alternative is to live in constant stress, constantly shaping myself to avoid others’ displeasure. And I refuse to do that.

I’ve realized: the fear of being hated is an illusion. It’s not my problem if someone hates me for living authentically. It’s their problem—their belief that I owe them compliance.

If the world isn’t ready for people who refuse, then the world is broken. But I won’t break myself to fit into it.

7. The Psychopath’s Clarity

I’ve thought a lot about psychopathy—not the violent, criminal kind, but the pure, unadulterated freedom from guides.

A true psychopath:

Does only what they want.

Feels no guilt for refusing.

Doesn’t care about others’ opinions.

Doesn’t create internal rules to please others.

Lives without stress, without anxiety, without depression.

They are the most mentally healthy people on Earth because they are free.

Most people’s suffering comes from their guides—their constant effort to avoid conflict, to be "good," to please others. But a life lived for others is no life at all.

I don’t want to be a psychopath in the harmful sense. But I do want their clarity: the understanding that my only obligation is to myself.

8. The Final Acceptance

I’ve spent years trying to find a way to refuse without consequences. But now I see: there is no way.

If I live without a guide, people will hate me. They will abandon me. I may end up alone, struggling, even destitute.

But I accept that.

Because the alternative—living by a guide, shaping myself to avoid others’ anger—is worse. It’s a slow death of the self.

I’d rather be alone and free than loved and chained.

I’d rather face the world’s hatred than betray myself.

I’d rather die authentic than live a lie.

Conclusion: The Only Way to Live

There is no middle ground. Either:

You create a guide and live in stress, constantly shaping yourself to avoid conflict. (You will be "loved," but you will not be free.)

You refuse all guides and live as you are. (You will be hated, but you will be free.)

I choose freedom.

Even if it means being alone.
Even if it means being hated.
Even if it means struggling.

Because the only life worth living is the one you choose for yourself.

The Core Realization: Fear of Others’ Emotions

I began by realizing that in my previous reflections, I had fixated too much on the idea of "guides" (гайды)—those internal rules I created to dictate my behavior. But I overlooked something deeper: the act of describing myself. Both—guides and self-description—were traps. I had forgotten that even describing myself (my wants, my fears, my boundaries) was a form of self-imposed limitation. When I stripped away both the guides and the self-description, I returned to a raw, unfiltered state—the state in which I naturally wake up.

And in that state, I discovered something astonishing: I had become completely fearless.

Not in the sense of reckless bravado, but in a profound, unshakable way. I no longer feared saying "no" to people. I no longer feared their anger, their sadness, their disappointment. I didn’t fear ruining relationships, losing approval, or facing consequences. It wasn’t that I wanted to hurt others—I simply no longer cared if my actions triggered their negative emotions.

This was a revelation because, before, I had feared those reactions. Not consciously, but deep down, in a way I hadn’t even noticed.

The Hidden Belief: "I Must Not Cause Negative Emotions in Others"

I uncovered a primordial, subconscious conviction buried in my mind since childhood:
"If my actions or inactions cause anger, sadness, or frustration in others, then what I’m doing is wrong. I must stop. I must change my behavior to avoid provoking those emotions."

This wasn’t a logical belief—I hadn’t sat down and decided this. It was instilled in me before I could think critically, likely by my parents. As a child, I learned that when I did something that upset my mother (or others), their negative emotions meant I had done something bad. Their disapproval, their anger, their sadness—these were signals that I needed to adjust myself to avoid those reactions.

This wasn’t about fear of punishment. It was deeper: a fear of being the cause of someone else’s pain. And because I trusted my parents absolutely, I internalized this as an unquestionable truth.

The Mechanism: How This Belief Controlled Me

This belief operated in two ways:

When I wanted to do something (but it might upset others):

"If I say no to this request, they’ll be angry. Anger means I’m doing something wrong. Therefore, I must say yes—even if I don’t want to."

When I didn’t want to do something (but refusing might upset others):

"If I don’t help them, they’ll be disappointed. Disappointment means I’m failing as a person. Therefore, I must force myself to act—even if it goes against my own will."

In both cases, my own desires were secondary to others’ emotional states. I wasn’t living for myself—I was living to prevent discomfort in others.

The Escape: Breaking the Cycle

For years, I tried to "fix" this problem by creating guides—internal rules to govern my behavior. But these guides were just another form of self-control, another way to suppress my true wants and avoid triggering others.

Then, I realized: The guides weren’t the problem. The problem was the belief that others’ emotions should dictate my actions.

When I saw this clearly—when I truly understood that this belief was arbitrary, learned, and not an inherent truth—the fear dissolved.

I no longer needed guides because I no longer feared others’ reactions.

I no longer needed to describe myself (as "kind," "considerate," "non-confrontational") because those labels were just tools to avoid disapproval.

I could say "no" effortlessly, not because I wanted to hurt anyone, but because my actions were no longer hostage to others’ emotional responses.

The Freedom: What It Feels Like Now

Now, I experience a profound liberation:

No fear of authority: I can tell my boss, my family, or a stranger exactly what I think—without flinching.

No fear of rejection: If someone gets angry and walks away, it doesn’t bother me. Their emotions are their responsibility, not mine.

No fear of manipulation: People can’t guilt-trip me, shame me, or pressure me by playing on my empathy—because I no longer absorb their emotions as my problem.

No need for approval: I don’t crave others’ validation because I’m not measuring my worth by their reactions.

This isn’t coldness. It’s clarity. I don’t want to hurt others, but I also don’t need their happiness to justify my existence.

The Root Cause: Childhood Conditioning

This entire pattern traces back to early childhood, where survival depended on keeping my parents happy. As a child, I learned:

"If I upset Mom, she might withdraw love, attention, or care."

"If I make others angry, I might lose their support—or worse, their presence."

This wasn’t a conscious choice. It was an evolutionary adaptation: children who don’t learn to avoid their parents’ anger risk abandonment. But as an adult, this same mechanism became a prison.

Empathy: The Illusion of Virtue

I used to think empathy was a virtue. Now, I see it differently:

Empathy is learned, not innate. It’s a tool children develop to predict and avoid their parents’ displeasure.

Empathy is self-referential: When you "feel for others," you’re really imagining yourself in their position and reacting to your own hypothetical pain.

Without personal desires, empathy disappears: If you don’t fear loss, pain, or rejection for yourself, you won’t project those fears onto others.

This doesn’t make me a psychopath. It makes me free from the illusion that others’ emotions are my burden.

The Paradox of "Good" People

Society praises empathy, kindness, and self-sacrifice. But these traits often stem from deep-seated fear:

Fear of abandonment.

Fear of judgment.

Fear of being "bad."

The most "successful" people—those who act boldly, take risks, and refuse to be controlled—are often the ones who never internalized this fear. They weren’t broken by childhood conditioning. They don’t need others’ approval to feel whole.

The Final Insight: Problems Are Illusions

All my struggles—my anxiety, my hesitation, my self-doubt—were never about external reality. They were about misplaced beliefs:

"I must avoid causing negative emotions in others."

"If others are upset with me, I must be wrong."

"I need guides/rules to control my behavior."

When I saw these beliefs for what they were—arbitrary, learned, and false—they lost their power.

Now, I live without:

Guides (no artificial rules).

Self-description (no labels like "I am kind" or "I am fearless").

Fear of others’ emotions (no obligation to manage their reactions).

I simply act, and the world responds. If others are happy, that’s fine. If they’re upset, that’s also fine. Their emotions are not my commandments.

The Takeaway

The deepest prison is the one we don’t see. For me, it was the unquestioned belief that others’ emotions should dictate my life. When I recognized it, examined it, and rejected it, the chains vanished.

Now, I move through the world with a quiet, unshakable confidence—not because I’m invincible, but because I no longer confuse others’ feelings with my own freedom.

The Core Mistake: Forgetting the Danger of Words

Yesterday was a terrible day because I made a serious mistake—one I didn’t even realize until this morning. The entire day, I felt awful, unable to recover because I couldn’t pinpoint what was wrong. I thought I was doing everything right, but my state kept deteriorating. The issue? I had forgotten a fundamental rule: I must not think about words at all.

In my last recording, I focused heavily on avoiding guides and descriptions—how I shouldn’t dwell on them, how they distort my state. But I overlooked something even more basic: the act of thinking about words themselves. Yesterday morning, I woke up and told myself, "Okay, I won’t think about guides or descriptions." But then I started thinking about other words—words I’d said in the past, words that weren’t guides or descriptions but still lingered in my mind. And that ruined everything.

The realization: Any word I recall—whether it’s a guide, a description, or just a random phrase—is unverified. If I think about it, it alters my state. And I don’t want that. So the solution is simple: forget all words, without exception. Never recall them. Never think about them.

Why Guides and Descriptions Lost Their Power

For years, my life revolved around two things:

Descriptions of myself (e.g., "I want to be loved, I don’t want to hurt anyone").

Guides (rules for how to act to achieve those descriptions).

But this morning, I woke up and realized: I no longer care about either.

The Collapse of the Guide System

Guides existed for one purpose: to modify my behavior so I wouldn’t upset or anger others. The moment I saw this—that every guide was just a tool for social approval—I lost all interest in them. Why? Because I no longer believe that avoiding others’ disapproval is a meaningful goal.

The Description Was Just a Tool for the Guide

My self-descriptions (e.g., "I’m a good person who doesn’t hurt others") were never about me. They were just raw material for creating guides. If I don’t need guides anymore, then I don’t need descriptions either. They served no other purpose.

Key insight: My descriptions were always about other people’s emotions—how to earn their love, avoid their anger. But if I don’t need to control others’ emotions, then the descriptions become meaningless.

The Childhood Root: Love as Survival

This obsession with guides and descriptions didn’t come from nowhere. It started in childhood, where love = survival.

As a child, I learned: "If I’m good, I get love (and rewards). If I’m bad, I get punishment (or withdrawal of love)."

So I built my entire identity around being "the good one"—someone who never upsets anyone, who earns approval.

This became my default setting: "If my actions cause negative emotions in others, I’m doing something wrong."

But here’s the problem: This is a child’s logic. An adult doesn’t need to live by it. The moment I saw that my guides and descriptions were just leftover survival strategies from childhood, they lost their power over me.

The Two Types of People: Love-Seekers vs. Pleasure-Seekers

I noticed something fascinating: People fall into two broad categories, based on their childhood conditioning.

Love-Seekers (Like Me)

Grew up in environments where love was conditional (e.g., "Be good, and I’ll love you").

Developed guides/descriptions centered on earning approval and avoiding disapproval.

Struggle with confidence because their self-worth depends on others’ emotions.

Prone to depression, anxiety, and people-pleasing.

Pleasure-Seekers (The "Psychopaths")

Grew up in environments where love was unconditional (always given or always withheld).

Never learned to tie their survival to others’ emotions.

Developed guides/descriptions centered on personal pleasure (e.g., "I do what feels good").

More resilient, less empathetic, but also less burdened by guilt or shame.

My case: I was a Love-Seeker, but now I’ve outgrown the need for the game. I no longer believe that my worth depends on others’ emotions.

The Three Pitfalls (and How to Avoid Them)

Now, I see three ways my mind can still sabotage me—and how to prevent them:

Thinking About Words

Problem: If I think about any word (past or present), it’s unverified and will alter my state.

Solution: Forget all words. Treat them as meaningless labels. Don’t memorize, don’t recall.

Recalling Old Guides/Descriptions

Problem: My mind might drag up old guides ("Don’t upset people") or descriptions ("I’m a good person") to "fix" my behavior.

Solution: Recognize that these are childhood relics. They have no power unless I give them power.

The Deep Belief: "Upsetting Others = Wrong"

Problem: The unconscious conviction that "if others are upset, I’m bad" can still trigger guilt or anxiety.

Solution: This belief is arbitrary. It’s not a law of the universe—it’s just a leftover child’s strategy.

The New State: Freedom from Words

Now, when I wake up:

I don’t recall any words (guides, descriptions, or otherwise).

If a word pops into my head, I recognize it as unverified and let it go.

I don’t try to "be good" or "avoid upsetting others"—because those concepts no longer control me.

Result: I live in a state where no words dictate my emotions. I’m not trying to earn love or avoid disapproval. I just… exist.

Final Thought: Why This Works

The old system (guides + descriptions) was built on a false premise: "My value depends on others’ emotions." But that’s not true. It was just a child’s survival tactic.

Now, I see that:

Guides were just instructions for earning love.

Descriptions were just excuses to create those guides.

Words were just tools for both—and none of them were ever "true."

So I let them all go.

Closing Question

The only thing left to ask: What’s next?
But maybe that’s the point—there doesn’t need to be a "next." Maybe it’s enough to just be, without words, without guides, without the constant need to fix myself for others.

For the first time, I’m not trying to become anything.
I’m just here.

The Illusion of Description and the Absence of Motivation

1. The Futility of Description

I’ve come to realize that none of the details matter—none of the words, the explanations, the attempts to articulate how things unfolded or how I feel. In the end, it all circles back to one truth: I cannot describe anything. Not myself, not my thoughts, not even the mechanisms of my own mind.

Yesterday, I spent hours trying to map out how the brain works—how everything connects, where thoughts originate, how dependencies form. I crafted what felt like a complete schema, a framework to explain it all. But the moment I finished, I understood: this isn’t description. It’s just words. Unverified, untethered to reality. A house of cards built on assumptions. And because it’s untested, it means nothing. It’s not knowledge; it’s noise.

This morning, I woke up and instinctively tried to recall yesterday’s thoughts—the words I’d used, the structures I’d imagined. But then I stopped. I don’t want words to dictate my state. The act of remembering them would only pull me back into the same illusion: that description has power, that words can shape reality. But they can’t. They’re just symbols, floating in the void.

2. The Collapse of Motivation

I have no motivation. No desires. Because desires are born from description—from some internal "guide" or narrative that tells me what to want, how to feel, what to pursue. But I’ve abandoned all guides. I’ve stopped believing in the possibility of accurate description, so the machinery that once generated motivation has ground to a halt.

This morning, I lay in bed for hours, searching for a reason to move. But where could motivation come from? The only place I knew to look was in words, descriptions, guides—the very things I’ve rejected. I could try to reconstruct yesterday’s insights, to revisit the mental models I’d built. But why? Those models were just more words, more unproven abstractions. I don’t want a state of mind that depends on language.

Eventually, I accepted it: motivation is nowhere to be found. Not in memories, not in logic, not in the external world. So I stopped searching. I let go of the idea that I should feel driven. I stopped waiting for a spark. And in that resignation, I simply… continued.

3. Life Without Guides: The Mechanics of Existence

Now, I live by lawfulness alone. I know the rules:

If I don’t eat, I’ll die.

If I don’t work, I’ll lose the means to eat.

If I neglect my health, my body will fail.

But knowing these things doesn’t motivate me. It’s like observing a machine from the outside: I see the gears turn, but I don’t care about the outcome. The knowledge is sterile. It doesn’t pull me forward; it doesn’t push me to act. I just… function.

Actions happen without desire. I move, I eat, I work—not because I want to, but because the alternative is collapse. There’s no urgency, no passion. Just the slow, methodical following of cause and effect. It’s delayed, sluggish, like wading through thick fog. Decisions aren’t made; they simply occur, unguided by preference or purpose.

I tell myself I’ll adapt. That this numbness will become normal. That I’ll learn to navigate without the crutch of motivation. But for now, it’s a life on pause—neither painful nor joyful, just… ongoing.

4. The Trap of Observation and the Rejection of Guides

Yesterday, I fell into the same old trap: I was describing again. Not myself, not directly—but my observations. I sat for hours, dissecting how the mind works, tracing the origins of thoughts, building a theory of consciousness. And for a while, it felt powerful. The act of framing my perceptions into words created a temporary state of intensity—a rush of clarity, even motivation.

But today, I see it for what it was: another illusion. The state wasn’t real. It was a byproduct of the describing itself. The words shaped my mood, my energy, my sense of purpose. But the moment I stopped—when I refused to revisit those descriptions—the state vanished. And I realized: I don’t want a reality that depends on language.

The core problem? I can’t describe anything accurately. Any attempt is just words detached from truth. Whether it’s my self, my observations, or the world around me, the descriptions are unverified, ungrounded. They’re not knowledge; they’re stories. And stories, no matter how compelling, are not a foundation for living.

5. The Dissolution of Guilt and the Freedom of Indifference

There’s one shift that feels permanent: I no longer believe I can “hurt” or “anger” others in any meaningful way. Before, I thought my actions had moral weight—that if I caused someone pain or frustration, it meant I was doing something wrong. This belief drove me to seek guides, rules, descriptions of how to be “better”.

But now, that’s gone. I see that the idea of “hurting” others was just another description—another story I told myself to justify the search for self-improvement. Without it, the need for guides evaporates. There’s no longer a reason to change, to adapt, to mold myself into something else.

I am what I am. My actions will have consequences, but those consequences don’t carry moral weight. They’re just… events. And without the burden of shoulds, I’m left with pure indifference.

6. The Paradox of Knowing Without Feeling

I know the laws of my existence. I understand the mechanisms. But knowledge doesn’t translate to feeling.

I know I need to eat. But I don’t want to eat.

I know I should work. But I don’t care about working.

I know health matters. But the knowledge doesn’t compel me.

It’s as if I’m a disembodied observer, watching a life unfold without attachment. The only thing that moves me is habit, the slow accumulation of automatic responses. Maybe, in time, I’ll grow accustomed to this. Maybe the fog will lift, or maybe I’ll learn to navigate it. But for now, it’s a life without guides, without desire, without the illusion of control.

And strangely, in that emptiness, there’s a kind of quiet.

Final Reflection: The Silence After Words

I used to fill the void with descriptions—endless attempts to capture, to explain, to make sense. But now, I’ve stopped. The silence that remains isn’t peaceful, exactly. It’s neutral. A blank page. A life lived without the narrative.

And perhaps that’s the only honesty left.

A Journey Through the Void: The Collapse and Rebirth of Motivation

1. The Descent into Total Apathy

For the past few days, I have been trapped in a state of complete paralysis. Each morning, I wake up and cannot bring myself to get out of bed. Not because I am physically exhausted, but because I have lost all motivation—utterly, completely.

I used to tell myself things—guidelines, observations, little "guides"—to coax myself into action. But now, I realize something devastating: I forget everything I tell myself the next morning. And worse, I don’t want to remember. Because if I remember, I might believe those words again, and if I believe them, they might change my state. But I no longer trust any words. They are all untested, unverified. So why bother?

This realization has left me in a void. I lie in bed for hours, staring at nothing, feeling nothing. No fear of others’ emotions, no guilt, no shame—just emptiness. Before, I would force myself to move out of fear: What if I disappoint someone? What if they get angry? But now, even that is gone. I no longer care about others’ reactions. I am untethered.

I tried experiments—eating pre-made food, doing the absolute minimum—but nothing brings pleasure. Nothing motivates me. I am a ghost, drifting through motions without purpose.

2. The Trap of Forced Forgetting

Last night, I understood something critical: I have been commanding myself to forget.

Every night, as I fall asleep, I tell myself: "Forget all words. Forget everything." And every morning, I wake up in the same state—empty, because I have obeyed that command. I believed that if I forgot all words, no untested ideas could influence me. But in doing so, I trapped myself in a cycle of erasure.

I was so afraid of words changing my state that I chose oblivion. But oblivion is its own kind of prison.

Then, I had a breakthrough: Words only affect me if I think about them. Simply remembering them isn’t enough. I don’t need to forget—I just need to stop engaging with them. The moment I realized this, the weight lifted. I no longer had to force myself to forget. I could simply let go.

And just like that, my state shifted. Instantly. The heaviness dissolved.

3. The Two Kinds of Guides (and Why They Fail)

Every person operates on two kinds of internal "guides":

The Self-Control Guide – "I must do X to get what I want."

This guide is rooted in fear: If I don’t act a certain way, I will disappoint others, or worse, myself.

It creates anxiety, stress, and self-doubt. I lived by this for years, believing I had to earn everything through sheer willpower.

The Others-Control Guide – "Others must do Y so I can get what I want."

This guide is rooted in entitlement: The world owes me. People must behave in ways that serve me.

It creates anger, frustration, and a sense of injustice when reality doesn’t comply.

Most people oscillate between these two. Some lean heavily on one or the other. I, for a long time, was trapped in the first—believing I had to control myself perfectly to avoid harming others. But both guides are built on the same lie: that words and rules have inherent truth.

They don’t.

4. The Illusion of "Wanting" and "Should"

All suffering comes from two fundamental beliefs:

"I want X." (A description of desire.)

"To get X, I/others must do Y." (A guide to action.)

But here’s the truth: Neither of these statements is objectively verifiable.

"I want X" is just a thought, not a fact. It’s a story I tell myself.

"I/others must do Y" is a command I’ve invented to fulfill that story.

When I stopped believing in "I want," the entire structure collapsed. There was no longer a need to control myself or others. No need to remember or forget. No need to obey or resist.

I was free.

5. The State of Pure Being

Now, I exist without guides. Without commands. Without the compulsion to remember or forget.

I don’t wake up and try to feel a certain way.

I don’t wake up and avoid feeling a certain way.

I don’t wake up and plan how to manipulate my state.

I simply… wake up. And life happens.

This doesn’t mean I’m passive. It means I act when action is natural, not when it’s forced. If someone asks me to do something, I don’t resist out of spite (as I might have before, when I was rebelling against "shoulds"). I also don’t comply out of fear. I just… see if it aligns with the moment.

And if it does, I do it. Effortlessly.

6. The Psychopath’s Clarity (Without the Cruelty)

People call this state "psychopathic," and in some ways, they’re right.

I feel no empathy. Others’ emotions don’t sway me.

I feel no fear—of death, pain, or consequences.

I don’t cling to "good" or "bad." Those are just more words.

But unlike a true psychopath, I’m not cruel. I’m not driven by a need to dominate or harm. I’m simply… unburdened.

I walk outside, and the world is vivid. The sky is bluer. The air is crisper. I don’t need to think about happiness—I just am it. Not the fleeting joy of achievement, but the deep, quiet contentment of existence.

I could stand like this forever. Just being. No past, no future. No words.

7. The Final Realization: The Mind as a Tool, Not a Master

The mind is not the boss. It’s a tool.

Before, I treated it like a tyrant—obeying its commands, fearing its judgments.

Now, I treat it like a computer. It solves problems when needed. The rest of the time? It’s silent.

This is the state I’ve been searching for. Not happiness in the conventional sense, but freedom from the tyranny of thought.

And the best part? Anyone can reach it. All it takes is seeing the illusion for what it is—and letting go.

Epilogue: A Life Without Guides

I still don’t "want" things in the old sense. But I do things. I help my family with the dying dog, not out of guilt or obligation, but because in that moment, it feels right.

I am no longer a slave to my own mind. And that, more than anything, is liberation.

Final Note:
This isn’t enlightenment in the spiritual sense. It’s something far simpler: the end of the war with myself.

And it’s available to anyone willing to stop fighting.

My Current State: The Absence of Interest in Words and Reflection

I’ve reached a point where I feel no interest in my past recordings, my own words, or the act of describing anything to anyone. The previous entry was forced—I pushed myself to create it because I knew it could be useful to others, but I had no personal motivation. Even now, starting this recording feels like a struggle. In this "final state," as I call it, I simply don’t care about articulating things, explaining, or even engaging with language at all. What I do want is to live my life—just exist, without the burden of having to verbalize or document everything.

Yesterday, I confronted this reality head-on. The question became: What do I actually want? The answer is clear in some ways. For example, I want to work as a programmer. Not just for the money (though that’s part of it), but because I genuinely enjoy solving problems, coding, and creating things. If I get paid well for it, that’s a bonus. But my ideal life? It would look nothing like this. Ideally, I’d live somewhere like Thailand, surfing all day, free from financial constraints. I’d have relationships, explore, eat, walk—just be in nature, breathing the air, engaging in physical activity (surfing, longboarding) rather than intellectual labor. Programming is the exception: I enjoy the mental challenge, but the rest? I just want to experience life, not analyze or describe it.

Yet here’s the conflict: I know I have knowledge that could be incredibly valuable to others—and potentially lucrative for me. But the idea of monetizing that knowledge feels hollow. Why? Because the process of packaging it—writing books, recording guides, consulting—requires me to do the very thing I’ve grown exhausted by: thinking in words. For five years, I’ve lived inside my head, crafting descriptions, guides, and frameworks for myself and others. Now, the thought of continuing that feels like a prison. I’m done with words. I don’t want to think about them, refine them, or use them to teach. It’s all noise to me now.

The Dilemma: Money vs. Authentic Desire

I need money—that’s undeniable. Without it, the life I want (surfing in Thailand, freedom) is impossible. So how do I reconcile this?

Option 1: Programming. I enjoy it, and it pays decently. But I haven’t coded in five years. Rebuilding those skills will take time, and the salary won’t be extraordinary. Could I afford Thailand? Barely.

Option 2: Monetizing my knowledge. Theoretically, this could earn me far more. But the catch? I hate the idea of it. Writing books, recording courses, consulting—it all feels like a chore. Worse, it forces me back into the world of words, which I’ve outgrown.

Here’s the crux: I see the potential in my knowledge. Ignoring it feels foolish. But engaging with it feels like betraying my current state. I don’t want to be the person who teaches, explains, or sells words anymore. Yet walking away entirely also feels wrong—because my knowledge could help people. But giving it away for free? Absurd. I’ve invested years into these insights. I deserve compensation. But the process of monetizing it—marketing, writing, promoting—drains me. I have zero motivation for that kind of work.

The Trap: Trying to Force Motivation

At first, I thought the solution was to change myself. If I could just want to monetize my knowledge, the problem would vanish. So I tried to construct a mental "guide" or narrative: "You should want this because it’s profitable and helpful." But this approach backfired. Forcing myself to desire something I don’t naturally want led to stress, psychosomatic symptoms, and a sense of inauthenticity. Why? Because the only way to "change" my desires was to revert to old habits—relying on words, frameworks, and self-convincing scripts. But I’ve moved past that. Those tools no longer work for me. They’re relics of a phase I’ve outgrown.

This morning, I woke up with a realization: I cannot change my fundamental state. I am who I am right now, and no amount of self-talk will alter that. The old me would have tried to "hack" my motivation with some clever mental framework. The new me accepts that some things are simply not for me—no matter how logical or profitable they seem.

The Compromise: Defining Boundaries

So how do I resolve this? By accepting that:

Not everything I do needs to feel amazing. Some tasks are just work—neutral, neither joyful nor painful. I can tolerate them for a defined purpose (money) without expecting them to fulfill me.

I must set strict limits. I’m willing to:

Write one book and sell it for a modest price (e.g., 200 rubles on LitRes).

Include a donation link or paid access to my full archive for those who buy the book.

Not do consultations, streams, YouTube videos, or subscriptions. Those feel like empty hustles, and I refuse to engage just for money.

This is a temporary phase. Once I’ve done the bare minimum to monetize my knowledge (the book, the archive), I’ll close this chapter. No overcommitment. No forcing myself to "want" more. Just execute the plan and move on.

The key insight: I don’t need to be in a "perfect state" all the time. Life isn’t about constant bliss. Sometimes, you do uninteresting things for practical reasons—like earning money to fund the life you actually want. The mistake was thinking I had to enjoy the monetization process. No. I just need to endure it briefly, then return to what truly matters: programming, surfing, freedom.

The Three Categories of Action

I’ve realized my activities fall into three buckets:

Things I love (no money needed).

Surfing, longboarding, being in nature.

Programming (if it’s creative and engaging).

State: Pure joy. No trade-offs.

Things I don’t love but will do for money/help.

Writing the book. Sharing my archive.

State: Neutral. Not happy, not miserable. Just working.

Things I will never do.

Consulting, YouTube, endless content creation.

State: Absolute refusal. No amount of money or guilt will change this.

The error was believing I could (or should) eliminate the second category. Now I accept it—as long as it’s limited and purposeful.

The New Framework: No Self-Betrayal

The old approach—trying to make myself want something—was self-sabotage. It led to stress because it violated my authentic state. The new approach:

Acknowledge my limits. I will not do what I’m unwilling to do, no matter the potential reward.

Act within them. Do only what I’ve predefined as acceptable (e.g., the book, not the consultations).

Exit quickly. Complete the task efficiently, then return to what aligns with my desires.

This way, I avoid the trap of endless "shoulds" ("I should want to help more! I should maximize profits!"). No. I help on my terms, then disengage.

A Glimpse of a Deeper Insight

As I reflected on this, I stumbled upon something deeper—a new perspective on human nature itself. But that’s a topic for another recording. For now, the immediate takeaway is this:

Freedom isn’t about doing only what you love. It’s about choosing your trade-offs wisely.
I’ll do the minimal necessary to secure my future, then live as I please. No guilt. No force. Just clarity.

Final Thought:
Perhaps the ultimate wisdom is knowing when to stop explaining—even to yourself.

The Fundamental Desire: The Pursuit of the Best Possible State

I want to record my thoughts because I see something profound. My most fundamental desire—what I believe is the core desire of every human being—is to exist in the best possible state. Not just a good state, but the absolute best state available to me. And I think everyone, deep down, strives for this.

The question is: How do we achieve it?

Two Paths to the Same Destination

1. The Conventional Path: Changing Reality to Fit the Guide

Most people follow a path where their best state is conditional. They have internal guides and descriptions—mental frameworks that dictate:

"If I do X, I will feel better."

"If I don’t do Y, I will feel worse."

"I must achieve Z to be happy."

These guides motivate them to alter reality—whether by acquiring things, avoiding pain, or fulfilling obligations—because they believe only then will they reach their best state. Their happiness is hostage to external conditions.

I used to live this way too. I chased unrealistic realities, thinking, "If only I could have that, I’d feel good." But the stress of constantly striving—of never quite reaching what I thought I needed—became unbearable.

2. The Alternative Path: Dissolving the Guides Themselves

Then I realized: the guides themselves are the problem. They don’t just show the way to a good state—they block it. They create a gap between where you are and where you think you need to be.

So I tried something radical: I removed the guides entirely.

No more "I must do this to feel good."

No more "I need that to be happy."

No more "If I fail, I’ll suffer."

And in that moment—without changing a single thing in reality—I instantly accessed the best possible state. No effort. No conditions. Just being.

The Paradox of Motivation

People often ask me:
"If I stop believing in my guides—my desires, my ‘shoulds,’ my expectations—won’t I lose motivation?"

My answer:
Yes, you will lose motivation—but only the kind that was holding you hostage.

You’ll lose the motivation to struggle for a better state because you’ll already have it. Why chase happiness when you’re no longer deprived of it? The need to "get somewhere" vanishes when you realize you’re already there.

State as a Choice, Not a Condition

Most people’s states fluctuate with reality:

If reality matches their expectations (shaped by their guides), they feel good.

If it doesn’t, they feel bad.

My state is different. It doesn’t depend on reality at all. It depends solely on my choice in any given moment.

When I do what I love—what aligns with my curiosity, joy, or passion—my state is optimal.

When I do what I don’t love—but choose to, say, for money—my state shifts slightly. It’s not "bad," but it’s functional. A "working state," where I’m present but not ecstatic.

That’s it. Only two states exist for me now, and both are fundamentally good. The rest is noise.

The Universal Desire: We All Want the Same Thing

Here’s the revelation:
Every human wants the exact same thing—to feel as good as possible in every moment.

My brother wants it.

A stranger on the street wants it.

You want it.

The difference? How we try to get it.

Most people believe they must control reality to feel good. Their guides tell them:
"If I get the job/praise/money/love, I’ll be happy."
So they chase, avoid, and manipulate—always one step away from satisfaction.

I realized the guides themselves were the barrier. By dissolving them, I accessed the state directly—without prerequisites.

Why the Shortcut Works

People resist this idea because they fear losing direction. They say:
"If I stop believing in my goals, what’s left?"

But the truth is:

Your goals exist only because you believe they’ll give you a better state.

If you remove the belief that you need them, you automatically gain the state you were chasing.

It’s not about giving up. It’s about seeing that the state you want is already yours—if you stop insisting it’s not.

The Only Real Question

So why would anyone choose the harder path?
Why cling to guides that steal your peace and promise to return it later—when you can have it now?

I don’t see the point in complicating life. The state we all want is not out there. It’s here. It’s a choice.

And once you see that, everything else becomes optional.

Final Note: The Limits of Language

I struggle to articulate this because the insight feels obvious in my mind, but words make it clumsy. The clarity is there—I see it—but translating it into language dilutes it.

Still, the core remains:
We all want the same thing. The difference is in how we look for it.

Morning Awakening: The Problem of Motivation and Words

I woke up this morning, as usual, remembering nothing. Again. And again, I found myself unable to get out of bed—not because I was physically tired, but because I had no motivation to move. I realized that to even want to get up, I needed to recall certain words. Not just any words, but a specific "guide" I had internalized: "Do not forget anything on purpose, and do not remember anything on purpose."

This guide had shaped my state over the past 2–3 days. I had believed it was logical, and it had altered how I felt—subtly, without my noticing. I thought I wasn’t forcing myself to remember or forget, but in reality, I was holding onto it. And this morning, I woke up empty: no emotions, no motivation, no trace of yesterday’s state.

I understood that to return to how I felt yesterday, I needed to recall those exact words and let them influence me. But the moment I saw this, I resisted. I didn’t want any unverified words—especially this guide—to dictate my state. The guide was unproven. I couldn’t validate it from any angle, yet it had power over me. I refused to let untested words shape my morning, my motivation, my life.

And so I was stuck: unable to get up, because the only way to move was to recall a guide I no longer trusted.

The Core Dilemma: Words as the Only Path

I realized something critical: to function—to get up, to feel pleasure, to live—I must let words alter my state. Without them, I was a blank slate: no motivation, no joy, no reason to exist. The problem was that I couldn’t accept unproven words changing me.

I thought about how the brain works. Normally, people reject unproven ideas but accept those they believe are true—even if they’re not objectively verified. They trust certain words to shape their reality. But in my case, I had dismantled this trust. I saw all words as unproven. There were no "true" words left, only claims—and so I rejected them all.

This left me in a paradox: I needed words to live, but I couldn’t accept any because none were verifiable.

The Breakthrough: "Correct" vs. "Proven" Words

Then, I had a shift. I had been fixated on proven words—words I could trust as absolute truth. But what if I focused instead on words that seemed correct?

Not "proven," but aligned with my observations. For example:

The sun rises in the east. I can’t prove this absolutely (my senses could deceive me), but it feels correct based on my experience.

I want to drink water. I can’t prove this desire is "real," but the feeling matches the words "I am thirsty."

I realized: I don’t need absolute proof. I only need words that appear to describe my reality accurately.

This was a radical departure. Before, I had two categories:

Proven words (which didn’t exist).

Unproven words (which I rejected).

Now, I saw a third category:
3. Words that seem correct—even if unproven.

These were words that resonated with my observations, feelings, and self-perception. They weren’t "true" in an absolute sense, but they felt true to me.

The New Framework: Living by "Seems Correct"

I tested this idea:

If I think, "I want to get up," and that thought aligns with a bodily sensation (e.g., restlessness), then the words "I want to get up" are correct for me—even if I can’t prove the desire is objectively real.

If I think, "I enjoy music," and playing music brings me joy, then the statement is correct by my experience—proof irrelevant.

Key insight: I don’t need to believe these words are absolutely true. I only need to accept that they accurately describe what I observe in myself.

This changes everything:

Before: I demanded proof → rejected all words → no motivation.

Now: I accept "seems correct" → words can guide me → life becomes possible.

The Nature of the Self: A Cluster of Words

With this shift, I saw myself differently. Before, I believed in an "essential self"—a core consciousness with true desires. Now, I see that I am just a collection of words:

Words that seem to describe me correctly ("I like tea").

Words that don’t ("I hate sunlight").

There is no deeper "me" beneath them. I am the words I accept as correct.

This is liberating. I’m not searching for absolute truth anymore. I’m simply curating words that fit my experience.

Practical Implications: Morning Ritual Reborn

Now, when I wake up:

I recall that I need words to function—not as truths, but as tools.

I choose words that seem correct:

"I want to stretch."

"I enjoy fresh air."

I let them shape my state, not because they’re proven, but because they align with my observations.

This gives me freedom:

Desires arise when I focus on "correct-seeming" words.

They fade when I stop—no attachment, no struggle.

No more chasing "real" motivation; I create it by choosing words that fit.

The Big Picture: A Life Built on "Seems"

My old principle: "I must know exactly what I want."
My new principle: "It’s enough that I think I know what I want."

I no longer need to prove my desires. I only need to trust that:

Some words feel right.

Some don’t.

And that’s enough to live by.

This isn’t resignation—it’s a new kind of honesty. I’m not pretending to have absolute truths. I’m working with what appears true to me, and that’s sufficient.

Final Thought: The Beauty of the Shift

For years, I was trapped in the quest for proven words. I never considered that correctness and proof are separate. Now, I see:

Proof is about external validation (impossible to achieve fully).

Correctness is about internal alignment (always accessible).

I don’t need to believe in my words as truths. I only need to use them as maps—maps that help me navigate, even if they’re not the territory.

And with that, I can finally get out of bed.

A Journey Through States of Mind: From Guides to Freedom

1. The Collapse of Self-Imposed Guides

I began by recording this update because so much has changed since my last entry. Back then, I was still clinging to guides—words I told myself about how to think, what to believe, or how to act. I’d wake up, repeat these phrases, and for a moment, they’d feel logical, even comforting. But by morning, they’d vanish. The words were just tools to alter my state, and I resented that. I’d forget them intentionally because I didn’t want my mind to be shaped by arbitrary rules.

I realized: no guide works. Whether it was "Remember these words" or "Forget everything", each one crumbled by dawn. The last guide I tried was "Forget all guides"—ironically, another rule. It failed too. So I decided to live without any guide at all. Just wake up and exist as I am.

And something shifted. My state wasn’t empty—it was new. Lighter. I wasn’t fighting my own instructions anymore.

2. The Three States of Being

Without guides, I discovered three distinct ways my mind could operate in relation to others and society. Each is a setting for how I process expectations, my own desires, and the demands of those around me.

State 1: The Puppet with a Brain (Worst)

This is the default mode I’d been stuck in for years. Here, I obsess over:

What others expect of me (especially those I depend on, like family).

The moral frameworks and beliefs of society—what they deem "right" or "wrong."

How to avoid triggering negative emotions in others, even if I don’t believe in their rules.

The problem? I don’t share these beliefs. I don’t think I owe anyone anything. But I’m forced to act as if I do, because my survival depends on it. It’s exhausting. I’m a puppet with a brain—constantly calculating how to please others while resenting every second of it. My face twists into a permanent scowl. I’m living by a script I hate.

State 2: The Mindless Puppet (Better, but Hollow)

Here, I stop thinking about others’ expectations or my own desires. I just do what I’m told, like a robot. No resistance, no internal conflict. If someone says "Go eat," I go eat. If no one tells me, I might not eat at all.

The upside? No more anger or resentment toward society’s rules. I’m not fighting myself.
The downside? I have no will of my own. No ambitions, no personal goals. I’m a tool, not a person. This state is sustainable only if I’m okay being a hollow shell.

State 3: The Free Agent (Ideal, but Risky)

This is where I stop obeying entirely. I don’t think about:

What others expect.

What society believes.

What I’m "supposed" to do.

Instead, I focus only on my own plans and desires. I listen to others’ requests, but I treat them as suggestions—not commands. I ask: "Does this align with what I want? Can I fit it into my life on my terms?" If yes, I might do it. If no, I ignore it.

The catch? The people I depend on (family, patrons) often demand obedience. They want a puppet, not a free agent. So I risk losing their support. But here’s the breakthrough: I can still be useful to them—on my terms.

I don’t obey commands, but I choose to contribute in ways that benefit both of us.

I negotiate: "I won’t be your puppet, but I’ll offer value. If that’s not enough, we part ways."

I bet on the idea that being a productive, independent person might actually serve them better than being a broken, resentful puppet.

Why this works for me:

I’m no longer drained by resentment or hollow compliance.

I’m motivated to escape dependence entirely (e.g., earn my own money).

I’m happy—something I never was as a puppet.

The hard truth: Some people only accept puppets. If they can’t have that, they’ll cut me off. But I’ve decided: I’d rather take that risk than live as a slave.

3. The Core Problem: Dependence vs. Freedom

My entire struggle boils down to this:

Dependence forces puppetry. If my survival relies on others, they’ll demand control.

Freedom requires independence. But building independence takes time, resources, and a mind unshackled by fear.

The cycle I broke:

I was free as a child, then became dependent (no money, no skills, no options).

My family demanded obedience. I resisted, then gave in, creating guides to cope (e.g., "Just forget your desires").

The guides failed because no self-deception lasts. I’d wake up, remember the truth, and the resentment would return.

I realized: The only stable path is to stop lying to myself. No guides. No pretending. Just live as I am, and find ways to reduce dependence.

The solution I’m testing now:

Be useful, not obedient. Offer value to those I depend on, but never surrender autonomy.

Negotiate openly. Say: "I won’t obey, but I’ll contribute. If that’s not enough, we’ll see."

Prioritize escape. Use my energy to build skills/income, not to perform for others.

4. The Social Contract I’m Redefining

People assume that if they provide for you, you owe them total submission. But I’ve rewritten the rules:

Old Rule

New Rule

"Do what I say, immediately."

"I’ll consider how I can help—when it fits my plans."

"Your time is mine to command."

"I’m busy with my own life. Ask later."

"You exist to serve me."

"I’ll be useful where it aligns with my goals."

Key shifts:

"I’m busy" is my default response now. It’s not a refusal—it’s a boundary.

Usefulness ≠ obedience. I can contribute more when I’m not a resentful puppet.

Freedom is non-negotiable. If someone won’t accept this, the relationship isn’t sustainable.

5. The Bigger Picture: Why This Matters

Most people are trapped in State 1 or 2 because:

They depend on others (financially, emotionally).

They believe they must conform to survive.

They’ve never realized State 3 is possible.

The tragedy: Society rewards puppets. But puppets cannot grow. They’re stuck in a loop of fear and compliance, with no energy left for their own lives.

The hope: Even in dependence, you can negotiate for autonomy. Start small:

Stop obeying automatically. Pause. Ask: "Do I want to do this?"

Offer value proactively (not reactively). "Here’s how I can help—does this work?"

Build exit routes. Every skill, every dollar earned is a step toward freedom.

6. Where I Am Now

I’ve stopped creating guides. My mind is clearer without them.

I fluctuate between State 2 (when I’m tired) and State 3 (when I’m strong).

I’m testing how far I can push State 3 before my dependencies force me back.

I’m optimistic because for the first time, I’m not fighting myself. I’m just living—and seeing what happens.

The ultimate goal: A life where I don’t have to choose between being a puppet and being abandoned. A life where I can say:
"I’ll help where I can, but I won’t be owned."

And maybe—that’s enough.

Final Thought:
Freedom isn’t the absence of obligations. It’s the power to choose them.

The Core Tension: Between Autonomy and Compliance

I wanted to record an update after my last entry because I was feeling a deep tension. It stemmed from a dilemma: I didn’t want to be a puppet of others—someone who blindly follows commands—but at the same time, I feared missing out on personal benefits if I never complied. The stress came from feeling trapped between two bad options:

Always being a puppet—obviously terrible.

Never being a puppet—but what if there are moments where compliance is beneficial?

I couldn’t find a third path. Until I did.

The Breakthrough: Voluntary Compliance

The realization hit me: The problem isn’t being a puppet—it’s being a puppet against your will.

I thought of examples:

Work scenario: My boss calls on my day off, demanding urgent repairs. If I refuse, I might lose my job. But if I choose to help—because I value my role, my income, or my team—then I’m acting voluntarily. There’s no internal conflict.

Safety scenario: Someone warns me about dangerous animals in the forest. If I turn back, it’s not because I’m forced—it’s because I voluntarily prioritize my safety.

The key isn’t to reject all external influence or blindly obey. The key is to act only when I voluntarily agree.

The New Framework: Willingness as the Compass

Now, my rule is simple:

If I want to do what’s asked of me, I do it.

If I don’t want to, I don’t.

This removes the rigidity. Before, I saw only two extremes:

Never follow others (but risk missing opportunities).

Always follow others (and lose myself).

Now, I reject that false dichotomy. I don’t pre-decide what I’ll do or won’t do. Instead, in each moment, I ask:
“Do I voluntarily choose this?”

Why This Works: Freedom Without Guilt

No forced sacrifice: If I comply, it’s because I see value in it—not because I’m coerced. My ambitions aren’t crushed; they’re paused for a chosen purpose.

Example: Fixing something at work on my day off isn’t a violation of my autonomy if I choose to do it for my own reasons (e.g., job security, teamwork).

If I later regret it, I stop. No guilt—because the choice was mine.

No lost opportunities: I’m no longer paralyzed by the fear of “missing out” on benefits by refusing to comply. If compliance ever aligns with my will, I’ll do it. If not, I won’t.

No internal conflict: Stress arose when I forced myself to act against my will—whether out of fear, obligation, or external pressure. Now, I only act when my will aligns with the action.

The Illusion of Control (and Its Collapse)

Before, I relied on guides—moral rules, social expectations, or personal codes—to dictate my choices. But these were rigid and often conflicting. They created tension because:

They demanded I predict the “right” choice in advance.

They ignored context. (What’s “right” in one situation might be wrong in another.)

They made me second-guess myself: “Am I being a puppet? Am I missing out?”

Now, I’ve abandoned guides. My only rule is voluntary action. This isn’t a choice I make—it’s a state I maintain. I don’t decide what to do; I decide how to do it: willingly or not.

The Psychology Behind It: Emotions as Signals

Negative emotions (anger, fear, resentment) often stem from acting against our will:

Anger: When others force us to comply.

Fear: When we force ourselves to comply (e.g., out of guilt or obligation).

By eliminating non-voluntary action, I eliminate the root of these emotions. My state improves because my actions align with my will, always.

Addressing the Extremes

Some might argue:

“What if someone demands absolute obedience?”
→ I have nothing to offer them. My freedom isn’t negotiable. But I can offer voluntary cooperation when it suits me.

“What if your ‘will’ is flawed or manipulated?”
→ My will isn’t a fixed thing. It’s dynamic, responding to each moment. I trust it because it’s mine—not imposed by fear, duty, or external rules.

“Isn’t this just selfishness?”
→ Not necessarily. My will might align with helping others when I choose to. The difference is that I’m not obligated to help—I do it because I want to, in that moment.

The Result: Calm and Clarity

The tension dissolved because:

No more “wrong” choices: I’m not bound by pre-set rules. My will decides in real time.

No fear of missing out: If compliance is ever beneficial, my will will guide me toward it.

No guilt for refusal: If I don’t comply, it’s because I chose not to—not because I’m rebelling or missing an opportunity.

I am neither a rebel nor a slave. I am simply present, acting as I will in each moment.

Final Thought: The Only Rule That Matters

The old question was: “Should I ever be a puppet?”
The new question is: “Am I acting voluntarily?”

If the answer is yes, there’s no conflict—no matter what I’m doing.
If the answer is no, I stop.

This isn’t a strategy. It’s a state of being. And in this state, there’s no room for tension—only clarity.

Reflections on Description, Speech, and State of Being

1. The Problem with Description

I noticed a pattern: after recording my thoughts, my state changes. I start questioning which version of myself is "correct"—the one before the recording or the one after. Here’s what I realized:

Unspoken Insights Fade: When I understand something intuitively, I don’t immediately put it into words. Later, I feel the urge to capture it, but by then, the raw insight is gone. The only way to share it is to describe it—yet description forces me to reconstruct the experience, not relive it.

Description Alters Reality: Words aren’t neutral. If I describe myself as "unhappy," I start feeling unhappy. If I call myself "happy," I feel happy. But these labels are arbitrary—they don’t reflect absolute truth. They’re just words that shape my state.

The Stress of "Getting It Right": Description demands precision. I stress over whether my words accurately capture what I meant. This is impossible—language is flawed—and the effort distorts my original state. I end up describing not the initial insight, but the changed state caused by the act of describing.

"Description is a trap. It forces me to think about words, not the thing itself. And thinking about words changes how I feel."

2. Two Modes of Being

I discovered two distinct states:

A. The "Description Mode"

Triggered by Sharing: When I try to convey an idea to others (or even to myself later), I default to description. I replay past thoughts, pick words carefully, and stress over accuracy.

Consequences:

Loss of Productivity: I become hyper-aware of fatigue, pain, or distractions. If I describe myself as "tired," I become tired. The act of labeling amplifies limitations.

Stress and Memory Loss: The pressure to "get it right" creates anxiety. Ironically, the harder I try to preserve an insight, the more I distort it.

Ease of Answering Questions: In this mode, I can easily respond to questions about myself (e.g., "Tell me about your plans") because I’ve already framed my life in descriptive terms. But these answers are performative—they don’t reflect my true state.

B. The "Flow Mode" (Non-Description)

Pure Speech: I speak without filtering or labeling. Words emerge spontaneously, like a stream of consciousness. There’s no stress because I’m not judging accuracy.

Consequences:

Effortless Action: I don’t notice fatigue or pain. I operate like a "steam engine," moving from task to task without resistance.

Authentic Expression: What I say isn’t polished, but it’s alive. It’s not a "guide" or a "correct" version—it’s just what is.

Difficulty with Questions: If asked to "describe myself," I draw a blank. There’s no pre-packaged narrative. I can only speak, not explain.

"In Flow Mode, I don’t ‘describe’—I just am. In Description Mode, I’m a storyteller, but the story isn’t mine anymore."

3. Why We Cling to Description

The Illusion of Usefulness: I thought description was the only way to share insights. If I didn’t label my experiences, how could others learn from them? But this is a myth.

The Cost of "Helping": My desire to help others (by describing my path) backfires. The act of describing changes me, so what I share is no longer pure. It’s filtered through stress and self-doubt.

Social Conditioning: We’re taught that "useful" communication requires structure—clear descriptions, logical explanations. But this is a limitation. True understanding happens in the unfiltered flow.

"I used to think: ‘If I don’t describe it perfectly, others won’t understand.’ Now I see: No description is perfect. So why stress?"

4. The Solution: Speak, Don’t Describe

Trust the Mind’s Natural Flow: My brain knows what to say. I don’t need to "reconstruct" insights—I just need to speak them again, roughly, imperfectly. The core meaning emerges anyway.

Avoid the "Description Trap":

If I must recall something, I can speak about it without labeling it. No judgments, no stress.

If I catch myself describing (e.g., "I’m tired"), I pause and ask: Is this true, or just a word? Then I drop the label and return to flow.

Productivity Without Limits: In Flow Mode, I don’t notice obstacles. Pain, fatigue, or doubt don’t disappear—they just don’t matter. I act without resistance.

"The goal isn’t to describe life perfectly. The goal is to live it—and let words follow, not lead."

5. Key Takeaways from Recent Recordings

Never Be a Puppet:

Act only by choice. If someone asks me to do something, I comply voluntarily or not at all. My freedom isn’t negotiable.

My value to others isn’t in obedience—it’s in being usefully free. I help when it aligns with my energy and desires.

Description vs. Speech:

Description = Stress, distortion, lowered productivity.

Speech = Flow, authenticity, effortless action.

Use speech to share; avoid description unless absolutely necessary.

The Paradox of Sharing:

I once believed I had to describe my insights to help others. Now I see that the act of describing corrupts the insight.

The alternative? Just speak. Trust that the listener will extract what they need—just as I trust my mind to say what’s needed.

Permission to Exit Description Mode:

It’s okay to be in Description Mode temporarily (e.g., answering questions). But I must recognize it as a tool, not a default state.

To return to flow: Stop labeling. Stop judging words. Just speak.

"I am not my descriptions. I am what I do—and what I say when I’m not trying to say it ‘right.’"

6. Final Thought: The Neural Net Analogy

Right now, I feel like a neural network generating words probabilistically. Each word emerges not from a plan, but from the context of what came before. There’s no script—just flow.

This is how I want to live:

Not as a curator of perfect descriptions, but as a channel for what is.

Not as a slave to words, but as someone who uses them lightly, then lets them go.

"The best insights aren’t described. They’re lived—and if they’re shared, they’re shared in the speaking, not the labeling."

Closing Reflection

This recording was 26 minutes of unfiltered speech. I didn’t plan a single sentence. Yet everything I needed to say emerged—without the stress of description.

The lesson? Trust the flow. The mind knows. The rest is just noise.

The Four (Now Five) States of Being

1. The Core Distinction: Description vs. Non-Description

I’ve realized there are four primary states—no, actually five now—but the most critical division is this:
You are either in a state of description or you are not.
Everything else branches from there.

The fourth state is the state of description—I’ve already spoken about it in my last recording. The other three states are all non-description states, but they differ drastically in how they function.

The Three Non-Description States

State 1: The Puppet (Level 1) – Obsessing Over Others’ Frameworks

This is the most entangled state.

I don’t just do what I’m told—I anticipate what’s expected of me.

I constantly think about other people’s worldviews, their morals, their guidelines.

I adjust myself preemptively, even before anyone asks. I’m a puppet, but a proactive one—always calculating, always conforming to invisible scripts.

The stress comes from the mental labor: the endless guessing, the self-policing, the fear of misalignment.

State 2: The Puppet (Level 2) – Blind Obedience

This is a simpler, dumber version of the first state.

I stop overthinking others’ expectations. I just do what I’m told—nothing more, nothing less.

If no one tells me to do something, I don’t do it. No initiative, no anticipation.

It’s mechanical compliance, like a basic puppet with no internal monologue about "shoulds" or "oughts."

State 3: The Free State – Beyond the Puppet

This is where I escape the puppet modes entirely.

I don’t think about others’ worldviews.

I don’t obey or rebel against commands—I act voluntarily.

I don’t describe, explain, or justify myself.

What defines this state?

No description: I don’t frame my actions or words as "descriptions" of reality, myself, or anything else.

No checking: I used to obsessively verify my words—are they accurate? Do they capture the "right" meaning? But now, I realize: there’s nothing to check because I’m not trying to describe anything. I’m just speaking.

No attachment to outcomes: Words flow without needing to "land" a certain way. They’re not tethered to observations, feelings, or external validation.

The result?

Productivity soars because I’m not drained by self-monitoring.

Motivation is steady—no more psychic friction from "should I do this?" or "am I doing it right?"

Physical tension vanishes (e.g., my eye stopped hurting—it was psychosomatic, tied to the stress of "checking").

The Fifth State: The Relapse into Checking

I almost forgot—there’s a fifth state, which is a trap:

It’s when I slip back into "checking"—even though there’s nothing to check.

Old habits die hard: I catch myself trying to verify words, as if they were still descriptions.

But now I recognize it’s pointless. If I’m not describing, what am I checking? Nothing. So I shut it down immediately.

The Mechanism of "Just Speaking"

I discovered a new way to communicate: speaking without describing.

Old method: I’d try to describe things—my thoughts, my actions, my intentions. Then I’d check those descriptions for accuracy. It was exhausting.

New method: I just speak.

No attempt to capture reality in words.

No pressure to be "correct."

Words emerge like a stream—self-sufficient, untethered to any need for validation.

How it works in practice:

Someone asks, "Tell me about yourself."

Instead of describing myself (which would trigger anxiety: "Is this accurate? Is this enough?"), I just start talking.

I recall memories, observations, whatever comes—and let it flow.

The words aren’t "about" anything in a rigid sense. They’re just sound and meaning in motion.

The magic? It works. Conversations feel lighter. I’m never stuck. The right words appear without effort.

The Boundary Principle: Voluntary Action Only

I’ve established a personal boundary:

I only do what I voluntarily choose to do.

Not what others expect.

Not what I "should" do.

Not what avoids conflict.

If I don’t want to do something, I don’t do it. Period.

This isn’t selfishness—it’s integrity. I’m not a puppet, and I’m not a rebel. I’m just a person acting from genuine willingness.

Key insight:

The problem was never what I was doing. It was doing things non-voluntarily.

Now, if I choose to act like a puppet (e.g., helping someone by following their lead), that’s fine—because it’s voluntary.

The Practical Benefits

No more "checking":

Checking was tied to description. No description = nothing to check.

My mind is clearer; my body is lighter.

Effortless communication:

I don’t plan what to say. I don’t analyze after. I just speak, and it’s always enough.

Unshakable productivity:

Without the drag of self-description or external expectations, I move through tasks seamlessly.

"Fatigue" and "stress" lose their grip because I’m not resisting anything.

Freedom from others’ frameworks:

I don’t adopt or rebel against others’ morals, guidelines, or worldviews. I operate from my own center.

What Remains?

A stream of action: I see, I speak, I do. No layers between me and the moment.

Curiosity without attachment: I have plans, ideas, memories—but they don’t define me. They’re just material to engage with.

A quiet mind: No more background noise of "Am I doing this right?" or "What do they think?"

Final Thought: The Illusion of Description

I used to believe description was necessary—to communicate, to understand myself, to navigate the world.
Now I see: it was all optional.

Speaking without describing is not only possible—it’s liberating.

Acting without justifying is not reckless—it’s honest.

Living without checking is not lazy—it’s trusting.

The lesson?
Stop describing. Start speaking.
Stop checking. Start trusting.
Stop obeying. Start choosing.

That’s all. I think I’ve said everything.
(Though if I start talking again, more will come—but it won’t be a description.
It’ll just be words in motion.)

A New State of Being: The Art of Describing Without Verifying

1. The Discovery of a New State

Last night, I entered a new state of mind—one I hadn’t fully grasped before. At first, I wasn’t entirely satisfied with how I felt in it, but then I realized something critical: I could describe things without falling into the trap of verification.

Previously, whenever I described something—even a simple intention like "I want to go wash the dishes"—I would immediately start checking that description. I’d ask myself: "Do I really want this?" And the moment I checked, the desire would dissolve. The act of verification undermined the description itself, leaving me paralyzed, unable to act on anything. Every word, every thought about myself or my actions, crumbled under scrutiny.

But this time, something shifted. I stopped verifying. I remained in the mode of describing—a state that, surprisingly, felt more comfortable and relaxed than avoiding description altogether. The key difference? I no longer doubted or cross-examined my own words.

2. The Core Problem: The Act of Verification

The real issue, I realized, isn’t description itself—it’s verification. Humans constantly verify the words they use to describe their thoughts, actions, and desires. We obsess over whether our descriptions are "correct" or "true," and in that obsession, we lose the ability to simply be or do.

I had once believed the solution was to stop describing entirely—to avoid labeling my experiences or intentions. But that approach was incomplete. The breakthrough came when I separated description from verification. Now, I can describe freely, without the compulsion to check whether the description is accurate.

Before: Describe → Verify → Doubt → Abandon the thought/action.

Now: Describe → No verification → Act (or not act) without resistance.

This feels like freedom. The "voluntariness" dilemma—the endless questioning of "Am I doing this willingly?"—has faded. I no longer check whether my actions are voluntary. I simply act, or don’t act, without the mental friction of verification.

3. The Sequence That Led to Freedom

The progression went like this:

Stop describing anything. Avoid putting words to thoughts or intentions.

Realize there’s nothing left to verify. If you’re not describing, what is there to check?

Return to description—but without verification. Now, when I describe, I don’t second-guess. The words flow like speech, unburdened by the need for "correctness."

Description and speech have merged. Before, describing felt like a deliberate, scrutinized act, while speaking was effortless. Now, describing is as natural as talking. The only difference is that verification used to cling to description like a shadow. Now, it’s gone.

4. Why Verification Is the Root of All Problems

Verification is the silent saboteur. It’s the voice that asks:

"Is this really what I want?"

"Am I doing this willingly?"

"Are my words accurate?"

When you verify, you fragment your experience. You split yourself into the observer (the one checking) and the actor (the one doing). This division creates hesitation, doubt, and stagnation.

The illusion of control: I used to think verification was necessary to communicate "correctly"—that my words had to be precise to convey meaning. But then I noticed: whether I verify or not, the words I speak remain the same. Verification doesn’t change the output; it only adds friction.

The truth: You can’t actually verify a description. You can’t prove that your words perfectly match your inner state. The attempt is futile—like trying to catch your own shadow. Once I saw this, verification became meaningless.

5. The Death of the "Guide"

A "guide" is a verified, approved description of what to do—a script for "correct" action. But if you stop verifying, guides cease to exist. There is no longer a "right" way to describe yourself or your actions. You’re left with pure, unmediated experience.

This doesn’t mean chaos. It means liberation from the tyranny of "should." Without verification:

You don’t need your words to be "correct."

You don’t question whether your actions are "voluntary."

You stop resisting what others ask of you—not because you’ve surrendered, but because the need to check has dissolved.

Problems vanish when you stop verifying. The discomfort of doing what others say, the paralysis of indecision—all of it hinges on the habit of verification. Remove the verification, and the problems evaporate.

6. The Default State: Effortless Being

The "describing mode" isn’t a special state—it’s the default. It’s what remains when you stop avoiding, stop checking, stop resisting. It’s the most natural way to exist: relaxed, present, and unburdened by self-scrutiny.

Before, even in this default state, I’d inevitably start verifying my thoughts. Now, I’ve learned to speak and describe without that layer of judgment. The words come as they are, unfiltered by the need for approval—from myself or others.

7. The Final Insight: Verification Is Useless

The deepest realization? Verification changes nothing.

It doesn’t improve your descriptions.

It doesn’t make your actions more "correct."

It only creates hesitation.

I used to believe that without verification, my words would be nonsense, or I wouldn’t know what to say. But the opposite is true: when you stop verifying, you speak (and describe) more freely. The words arrive as needed, unblocked by the mind’s critical voice.

The only problem was the belief that verification was necessary. Let go of that, and everything else follows.

Conclusion: A Life Without Verification

This is my new state—the most liberating one I’ve found yet. I can describe, act, and exist without the invisible prison of verification. The questions that once paralyzed me ("Do I really want this?" "Is this voluntary?") no longer arise. I simply am, and that is enough.

The guide is gone. The checker is silent. What remains is life, unmediated.

The Realization: Stopping the Verification of Descriptions

1. The Old Habit: Descriptions as Truths to Be Verified

For my entire life, I operated under one unshakable assumption: a description must be verified to be valid. If something wasn’t proven correct, it wasn’t a real description—it was just noise. I never even considered the possibility of not verifying what I described. The idea seemed absurd, like walking blindfolded. If I described something—whether it was my desires, my thoughts, or my observations—I had to check it. I’d ask: Is this accurate? Does this match reality? And if I couldn’t confirm it, I’d discard it.

This was my cycle:

I’d describe something (e.g., "I want X").

I’d verify it (e.g., "Do I really want X? Let me check my feelings.").

If the verification failed (and it always did, because how can you truly verify a subjective description?), I’d reject the description as false.

Repeat.

The result? A life split into two categories:

"True" descriptions (the rare few I could "prove" to myself).

"False" descriptions (everything else, which I’d dismiss).

I was constantly searching for the "real me"—the one hidden beneath layers of unverified, "incorrect" descriptions. But the more I verified, the more I destroyed.

2. The Problem: Verification Destroys Descriptions

Here’s what I realized:
Verification doesn’t confirm truth—it annihilates the description itself.

When I’d verify a description, I’d always hit the same wall:

"How do I know this is true?"

"What if I’m wrong?"

"What if my feelings are lying to me?"

And because I could never fully verify anything (how do you prove a desire is "real"? How do you confirm a thought is "accurate"?), the description would crumble. It’d become "unproven"—and thus, in my mind, "false." I’d throw it away, leaving me with nothing.

The act of verification was the act of destruction.
Every time I tried to "check" a description, I’d end up invalidating it. And without valid descriptions, I had no sense of self, no motivation, no clarity—just an endless void of self-doubt.

3. The Breakthrough: Descriptions Don’t Need Verification

Then, something shifted. I stopped verifying.

Not because I decided to, but because I suddenly saw the pointlessness of it. Here’s what happened:

I noticed that verification changes nothing.

I’d describe something (e.g., "I feel tired").

Then I’d try to verify it ("Am I really tired? Let me scan my body for proof.").

But the verification added nothing. The description was already there. The words were already spoken. The feeling was already felt.

The verification was just noise—an extra layer of suffering that didn’t improve the description.

I realized descriptions are just words.

They’re not "true" or "false" in any absolute sense. They’re just outputs—things my brain generates.

Before, I treated them like claims that needed evidence. Now, I see them as sounds—like birds chirping or wind blowing. They don’t need to be "proven." They just are.

I saw that verification was the real problem.

It wasn’t the descriptions that were causing my suffering—it was the compulsion to verify them.

When I stopped verifying, the descriptions didn’t disappear. They just existed, freely, without judgment.

And because I wasn’t destroying them, they worked. My desires stayed intact. My motivation returned. My joy came back.

4. The New Way: Describing Without Checking

Now, my process is simple:

I describe. (e.g., "I want to write a book.")

I don’t verify. (No "But do I really want to write a book? Let me analyze my feelings for 3 hours.")

I move on. If the description changes later, I don’t cling to the old one. I just describe the new thing.

Key insights:

Descriptions are temporary. What I say now might not match what I said yesterday—and that’s fine. I don’t need to reconcile them.

The past stays in the past. I don’t revisit old descriptions to "correct" them. If I have something new to say, I say it. The old one isn’t "wrong"—it’s just past.

There’s no "true self" to uncover. I’m not digging for some hidden, verified truth. I’m just speaking, and the words are neither true nor false—they’re just mine.

5. Why This Works: The Freedom of Non-Verification

When I stopped verifying, everything changed:

No more self-sabotage. I’m not constantly invalidating my own thoughts.

No more paralysis. I don’t get stuck in loops of "Is this right? Am I sure?"

No more division. There’s no "true" vs. "false" me—just me, describing things as they come.

More joy. I’m not draining my energy on verification. I’m just living.

The irony?
I spent years trying to "fix" my descriptions—making them more accurate, more true. But the fix was the opposite: stop treating them as things that need fixing.

6. The Strangeness of It All

It still feels weird. Not verifying descriptions goes against everything I’ve ever known. It’s like learning to breathe underwater—unnatural, but somehow possible.

I don’t fully understand why I never tried this before. Maybe because:

Verification felt mandatory. Like gravity—just a fact of life.

I didn’t realize it was optional. I thought "describing" and "verifying" were the same thing.

I was afraid. What if, without verification, I’d be "wrong" all the time? What if I’d lose control?

But now? I see that control was the illusion. The real freedom is in letting go—of verification, of judgment, of the need to be "right."

7. The Only Rule Now: Don’t Cross the Line

I don’t have a complex system anymore. Just one rule:
Don’t verify descriptions.

That’s it.

I can describe anything.

I can say anything.

I can feel anything.

But I don’t check it.

And somehow, that’s enough.

8. The Open Question: How to Teach This?

I still don’t know how to explain this to others. The insight feels embodied—like riding a bike. You can’t just tell someone how to balance; they have to feel it.

But here’s what I’d say:

Try describing without verifying. Just once. Say something—anything—and don’t ask if it’s true.

Notice what happens. Do the words still work? Do they still mean something, even unverified?

See the pointlessness of verification. Does checking actually help? Or does it just drain you?

Maybe that’s enough. Maybe the rest is just practice—like learning to trust the ground beneath your feet.

Final Thought: The Simplicity on the Other Side

For years, I made it complicated. I thought the answer was in better descriptions, truer words, more accurate self-knowledge.

But the answer was the opposite:
Stop verifying.
That’s all.

And now? For the first time, I’m not at war with my own mind.
I’m just here.
Describing.
Without checking.

And it’s enough.

The Core Problem: Comparison and the Illusion of Past States

I wake up in a state that is not bad—calm, functional, free of tension. But the moment I compare it to the states I’ve experienced before, it feels insufficient. I start thinking: "This state lacks joy, lacks faith, lacks motivation, lacks the intensity of emotions I once had." And suddenly, what was acceptable becomes unbearable.

But here’s what I realized: those past states were built on small lies. A tiny falsehood, believed as truth, would become the foundation for an entire conceptual framework—sometimes vast, sometimes modest. That framework would then reshape my state, filling it with motivation, euphoria, or purpose. The problem? Every single one of those frameworks collapsed. By the end of the day, stress, anger, or despair would creep in, no matter how airtight the logic seemed.

Now, I wake up without those lies. And I don’t want to revisit them. I don’t want to rebuild the illusions. But my brain craves those peak states—it remembers only the highs, not the inevitable crashes that followed.

The Deception of Memory: Selective Recall

My brain is wired to cherry-pick. It clings to the moments of bliss from past states—the motivation, the euphoria, the sense of meaning—and erases the suffering that came with them. The stress, the anxiety, the hours spent paralyzed in bed, the social dysfunction, the exhaustion. I forget that the "good" and the "bad" were inseparable.

For years, I’ve been chasing a fantasy: a state with only the highs—no stress, no fear, no downside. But it’s impossible. Every "guide" (every belief system, every mental framework) I’ve ever created has brought both ecstasy and agony. The moment I’d start questioning the foundation (the "small lie"), the entire structure would crumble, leaving me empty. Then the cycle would repeat: I’d find a new lie, build a new framework, feel the rush… and eventually, the crash.

The Trap of Striving: Addiction to Peak States

I’ve become like a gambler chasing the next win, or a lovestruck fool chasing the high of infatuation. I’m addicted to the feeling of being in an elevated state—not to love, or money, or success, but to the idea that there’s a perfect mental configuration that will give me permanent bliss.

But here’s the truth:

Peak states require illusion. They depend on believing something untrue (or at least unprovable) as absolute truth.

Illusions are unstable. My mind is too skilled at detecting its own deceptions. Within a day or two, I see through the lie, and the state collapses.

The cost is always paid. The stress, the fear of "doing it wrong," the compulsive checking of my own beliefs—it all comes bundled with the highs.

I’ve tried everything. I’ve constructed hundreds of these frameworks, each time thinking, "This one will work. This time, I’ll keep the good and avoid the bad." But the bad always follows. It’s not a bug—it’s the nature of the system.

The Solution: Accepting the Present Without Comparison

Today, I woke up in a state of quiet calm. No euphoria, no grand purpose, no intoxicating motivation—just peace. And for the first time, I realized:

This state is livable. I can function. I can do everything I need to do. There’s no suffering here.

The only thing making it "bad" is comparison. When I measure it against the highs of the past, it feels lacking. But when I stop comparing, it’s enough.

The past states were not purely good. They were packages—ecstasy and agony, motivation and paralysis, meaning and despair. I was only remembering half of the story.

So I made a decision: I will not compare. I will not romanticize the past. I will not chase the illusion of a "perfect state" that doesn’t—and can’t—exist.

The Mechanics of Suffering: Unfair Comparisons

The human mind is wired to devalue what it has when it fixates on what it lacks. It’s like being given 1,000 rubles and feeling rich—until you see someone else get 100,000. Suddenly, your 1,000 feels worthless. But here’s the catch:

The 100,000 rubles comes with a hidden cost. Maybe you have to risk your life, or endure humiliation, or sacrifice your peace to get it.

The 1,000 rubles is free. No strings attached. No crash afterward.

My "1,000 rubles" is this calm state. My "100,000 rubles" is the euphoric, motivated, illusion-filled states of the past. But the 100,000 was never just 100,000. It was 100,000 plus debt, plus stress, plus inevitable collapse.

When I compare fairly—when I account for the full cost of those past states—my present state wins every time.

The Final Realization: Peace Over Illusion

I don’t need:

Guides (mental frameworks built on lies).

Faith (belief in untrue things to feel motivated).

Peak emotions (that always come with a crash).

What I need is what I already have:

A mind at rest. No tension, no compulsive checking, no fear of "doing it wrong."

The ability to live. To do my work, to engage with the world, without the rollercoaster.

Freedom from the cycle. No more chasing, no more crashing, no more rebuilding.

The only thing that was ever wrong was the comparison. The moment I stopped measuring my present against an idealized past, the present became more than enough.

The Choice: To Live Without the Chase

I could keep searching for the "perfect state." I could keep constructing lies, riding the highs, and enduring the crashes. But I’ve done that for years. I’m done.

From now on:

I will not remember the past states—not the highs, not the illusions.

I will not compare. My state is what it is. It is good.

I will accept the calm. It’s not exciting. It’s not euphoric. But it’s stable. And after everything, stability is what I value most.

The Universal Lesson: The Illusion of "Better"

This isn’t just about me. It’s about how humans work:

We crave peak experiences (love, success, spiritual highs) and forget their costs.

We filter out the pain associated with those peaks, remembering only the pleasure.

We devalue the present because it lacks the intensity of the past—even if the past was ultimately worse.

The key to contentment isn’t in chasing more. It’s in seeing clearly:

What you have is enough.

What you had wasn’t as good as you remember.

What you fear losing was never yours to keep.

Closing Thought: The Value of Quiet

I used to think peace was boring. I thought calm was a sign of stagnation. But now I see: peace is the foundation. Everything else—euphoria, motivation, meaning—is just weather. It passes. The calm remains.

And for the first time, I choose the calm.

The Paradox of Description and Presence

1. The Struggle to Speak Without Distortion

I’ve realized something profound: I can no longer make recordings—or at least, not in the way I used to. The act of speaking, of describing, fundamentally alters my state of being. When I try to articulate my thoughts to others, I hit a wall. I understand things internally, but translating them into words for someone else feels impossible. The only way I’ve found to say anything coherent is to shift into a "description mode"—to narrate what happened to me, what I realized, to reconstruct my experiences in language. But this act of description changes me. It corrupts the very state I’m trying to preserve.

The dilemma is this: If I don’t describe, I have nothing to say. But if I describe, I ruin the state I wake up in—the state I value most.

2. The State I Wake Up In

When I wake up, I’m in a pure, undistorted state. There are no words in my head, no narratives, no explanations. I simply exist. The world isn’t labeled or categorized; I don’t describe myself or my experiences, even to myself. This is the state I want to protect.

But the moment I try to communicate—especially about the past—I’m forced to create descriptions. I have to recall memories, frame them in language, and in doing so, I become those descriptions. My mind starts revolving around the words, the structure, the act of explaining. The serenity dissolves. Stress creeps in. I begin questioning: Did I describe it right? Is this accurate? Did I capture it? The doubt spirals, and the state I cherish is gone.

3. The Illusion of Helping Others

I used to think recordings were valuable—maybe even necessary—to help others understand my journey. But now I see the trap: Helping others requires description, and description destroys me.

Here’s how it happens:

I experience something profound.

I want to share it, to explain it, to make it useful for someone else.

To do that, I must describe it—turn my raw experience into words, concepts, a narrative.

But the act of describing replaces the experience. I’m no longer in the state I was in; I’m in a state of analyzing the state. The purity is lost.

I’ve tested this repeatedly. The more I try to articulate my insights, the more I drift from the truth of them. The words become a cage.

4. The Difference Between Speaking and Describing

There’s a crucial distinction:

Describing = Reconstructing the past, framing experiences, creating narratives. This changes me.

Speaking = Letting words flow in the present, without attachment to meaning or accuracy. This doesn’t (always) change me.

In this recording, for example, I’m not describing in the dangerous sense. I’m just talking. The words are emerging without me digging into memories or crafting explanations. It’s more like a stream—unfiltered, unstructured. And surprisingly, this doesn’t seem to corrupt my state. But the moment I try to explain something—especially something from the past—I feel the shift. The tension returns.

5. Why I Can’t Talk About the Past

I don’t remember the past in the way most people do. Most people recall events along with the words they used to describe them. Their memories are already narrativized. But I don’t do that. I experience things, and then I move on. There’s no internal monologue labeling, judging, or storing the experience in language.

So when I try to talk about the past:

I can’t just "recall" it like a story—I have to reconstruct it on the spot.

Reconstructing requires describing, which means inventing words, framing it, making it coherent.

This act of reconstruction changes how I feel about the past. It’s no longer pure; it’s now a description, and descriptions are limiting.

6. The Advice I Can’t Fully Give

If I had to distill this into something useful for others, it would be:
Be cautious with the urge to explain yourself.

I don’t mean "never communicate." I mean: Recognize that the moment you try to transmit your experience—whether through writing, speaking, or even structured thought—you risk losing the experience itself. The act of translation alters the original.

But here’s the irony: I can’t even give this advice properly, because giving advice requires description. And description, as I’ve said, corrupts. So the most honest thing I can say is:
I don’t know how to help you without harming myself.

7. The Future of My Recordings

This might be my last recording. Not because I have nothing to say, but because the act of recording forces me into a mode that I no longer trust.

If I stay in my natural state (undistorted, present, non-descriptive), I have nothing to say—because my experiences aren’t packaged in words.

If I shift into "description mode" to create content, I lose the state I’m trying to preserve.

The only middle path is what I’m doing now: speaking without describing. Letting words come as they will, without trying to explain, justify, or structure. But even this feels precarious. At any moment, I could slip back into analysis, into the trap of making sense, and then the corruption begins again.

8. The Core Realization

The heart of this is:
My mind isn’t built for descriptions.

Most people live in a world of internal narratives. They describe their day, their feelings, their plans—to themselves and others. But I don’t. My mind operates differently. When I’m in my true state, there are no words, no stories, no explanations. There’s just being.

The problem arises when I try to bridge that gap—when I try to take something wordless and force it into language. It’s like trying to pour water into a sieve. The essence slips away.

9. The Final Warning (To Myself)

If I ever record again, I must remember:

Don’t describe the past. It doesn’t exist in a form that can be shared without distortion.

Don’t try to explain. Explanations are descriptions in disguise.

Just speak. If words come, let them. If they don’t, don’t force them.

But even this is a kind of description—a meta-description—and I can feel the tension creeping in. So perhaps the only true solution is silence.

Closing Thought

I don’t know if this makes sense to anyone else. It barely makes sense to me. But the one thing I’m certain of is this:
The state I value most is the one I cannot describe.
And so, I must stop trying.

A Moment of Revelation: Rediscovering a Buried Desire

1. The Collapse of Motivation

I woke up this morning in a state of complete emptiness—again. For hours, I couldn’t bring myself to get out of bed. There was no motivation, no purpose, no reason to move. This has been my reality for days: a paralyzing stagnation, a loop of inertia where even the simplest actions—eating, cleaning, working—feel impossible.

I used to rely on words to pull myself out of this void. I’d invent descriptions, narratives, or goals for others—something to say, something to do—and that artificial structure would temporarily shift my state. But this time, I refused to do that. I wanted to see if I could break free without resorting to another set of hollow phrases. So I lay there for five hours, observing my own mind, searching for any genuine impulse. Nothing came. Every potential path led back to the same dead end: words. Just words. And words weren’t enough anymore.

I spent the entire day testing, probing, experimenting—trying to manufacture motivation. I’d think, "What do I want?" and scour my mind for even the faintest spark. Nothing. Not hunger, not curiosity, not ambition. Just a suffocating blankness. By 2 a.m., I was still sitting in the same spot, surrounded by dirty dishes, unfinished tasks, and the weight of my own inertia. I didn’t want to work. I didn’t want to clean. I didn’t want anything.

2. The Accidental Spark

In desperation, I turned to YouTube—just to distract myself from the futility of it all. And then, by sheer chance, I saw her: a woman in a short video. Something about her—her kindness, her smile—struck me. Not in a superficial way, but deeply. It wasn’t about her specifically, but about what she represented: the kind of person I’d once dreamed of finding.

And then it hit me like a wave: I want this.

I want a woman like her. I want a relationship. I want a family. I want children. Not as abstract concepts, but as a living reality—something I’d build, fight for, sacrifice for. This wasn’t a new desire. It was an old one, buried under years of cynicism and deconstruction. For most of my life—especially as a teenager and into my early twenties—this was my primary dream: to find love, to build a family, to give myself entirely to someone worthy.

But at 24, after a failed relationship, I’d dismantled that belief. I realized I was dependent on love—that I’d built my entire sense of purpose around the idea that relationships were life’s ultimate meaning. When that crumbled, I lost faith in the desire itself. For five years, I’ve treated it like a relic of my past self: something naive, something I’d outgrown. Every time it resurfaced, I’d dismiss it: "No, that’s just an old script. It’s not real. There’s no point."

But today, exhausted and empty, I looked at that woman and felt it again—not as a belief, not as a should, but as a raw, unfiltered want.

And for the first time, I didn’t push it away.

3. The Paradox: Wanting Without Belief

Here’s the strange part: I don’t believe in this desire anymore.

I don’t believe love or family holds some inherent meaning. I don’t believe it’s the "point" of life. I don’t even believe in the concept of love as anything more than biology and social conditioning. And yet—I still want it.

This isn’t about logic. It’s not about philosophy. It’s a primal pull, untethered from justification. I don’t need a reason to want it. I just do.

For years, I’ve been searching for a new foundation—some other purpose, some other drive. I tried hedonism (pleasure for its own sake), ambition (achievement for its own sake), even nihilism (doing nothing because nothing matters). But none of it stuck. Because here’s the truth:

I have no motivation to live for myself.

Not for personal pleasure. Not for personal success. Not for some abstract "self-actualization." The only thing that moves me is the idea of living for someone else—for a partner, for children, for a family I’d build and protect.

And the irony? I’m not even attached to this desire. I don’t depend on it emotionally. I don’t believe it will make me happy. I just… want it. Purely. Simply.

4. The Freedom of Detachment

This is the key: because I don’t believe in it, I’m not enslaved by it.

If a woman isn’t right for me—if she’s cruel, or selfish, or incompatible—I can walk away without turmoil. There’s no desperate need. But if she is right—if she’s kind, if she’s worthy of devotion—then I’ll give everything. Not out of obligation, but because I choose to.

This isn’t about dependency. It’s about direction.

For the first time in years, I have a path that doesn’t require self-deception. I don’t need to convince myself that pleasure or achievement matters. I don’t need to force myself to care about things that don’t. I can just… act.

5. The Practical Reality

So what does this mean?

I will work—not for money, not for status, but to provide.

I will improve—not for ego, but to be someone worthy of trust.

I will endure hardship—not for resilience’s sake, but because the goal justifies the effort.

I’m not delusional. I know relationships are complex. I know most people are broken in some way. I know "happily ever after" is a myth. But I also know that some people build real, lasting bonds—and I want to be one of them.

I don’t need it to be perfect. I don’t need it to "mean" anything. I just need to try.

6. The Bigger Picture

Maybe this is just biology. Maybe it’s evolutionary wiring: the drive to pair-bond, to protect, to pass on genes. Maybe it’s the only "meaning" we’re meant to have.

Or maybe it’s simpler: after stripping away every illusion, every constructed desire, this is what’s left. Not a grand philosophy, but a quiet, stubborn yes.

I don’t know if I’ll succeed. I don’t know if this will "fulfill" me. But for the first time in years, I have a reason to get out of bed.

And that’s enough.

Final Thought

I spent five years rejecting this desire because I thought it was naive. I thought I’d outgrown it. But maybe the naivety was thinking I could outgrow myself.

So I’ll stop fighting it. I’ll stop analyzing it. I’ll just… do it.

Because in the end, what else is there?

A Shift in Consciousness: The Collapse of Meaning and the Freedom of Indifference

1. The Realization: A State Beyond Motivation

I’ve noticed something profound has shifted within me—an unconscious awakening, a transformation I can only describe in retrospect. My state of being has changed in a way I’m still trying to articulate. The most striking difference? I no longer care about my own state.

Before, my entire existence revolved around needing the "right" state—one that would give me motivation, pleasure, or purpose. If my state was "wrong," I’d spiral: stress, paralysis, an inability to even get out of bed. I was trapped in a cycle of chasing a state where I wanted to want things, where I needed to feel driven. But now? It doesn’t matter. Not my state, not my motivation, not even the outcomes of my life. I don’t care what I do or don’t do, where my life leads, or what I desire. The very act of wanting to want has dissolved.

I used to cling to the idea that I needed a state where I could justify my actions to myself—where I could say, "This is why I’m doing this." Now, that need is gone. I act, I feel, I exist, and the question of "why?" no longer arises.

2. The Collapse of Personal Meaning

I realize now that I was operating under an unspoken conviction: everything I did—my desires, my pleasures, my efforts—had to mean something to me. This belief was so ingrained that when I couldn’t find that meaning, I’d freeze. I’d lie in bed for hours, paralyzed by the question: "What’s the point?" If I couldn’t answer it, I couldn’t move.

At first, I thought the solution was to live for others. If I couldn’t find meaning for myself, perhaps I could find it in serving someone else—a partner, future children. I told myself: "I’ll give them everything. I’ll live for their needs, not mine." For a while, this worked. The idea of being useful to someone else gave me a fragile sense of purpose.

But then a thought struck me: What if their needs are just as arbitrary as mine? What if the things they "need" are just illusions in their own minds? If they were in my state—this void of meaning—they wouldn’t need anything from me either. The whole structure collapsed. If I was acting without meaning for them, why couldn’t I do the same for myself?

And so, I let go. I stopped demanding that my actions serve any purpose—for me, for others, for anyone. I simply act.

3. The Freedom of Absurdity

Now, I live without the burden of justification. I do what I want, I feel what I feel, and I don’t ask why. The old me would have called this madness—how can a person live without meaning? But the new me sees it as the only true freedom.

I no longer resist my desires just because they lack deeper significance. If I want to lie in bed all day, I do. If I want to work, I do. If I want to chase pleasure, I do. The absence of meaning no longer paralyzes me. In fact, it’s liberating. I’ve stopped fighting the absurdity of existence and embraced it instead.

I used to think life required a reason—that every action, every feeling, every goal had to align with some grand personal narrative. But that was just another illusion, a story I told myself to keep moving. Now, the story is gone. I don’t need a reason to exist. I just do.

4. The Dissolution of the Self as Observer

The most radical shift? I’ve stopped watching myself. Before, I was a consciousness constantly evaluating my own state: "Do I have motivation? Do I feel fulfilled? Does this matter?" I was a spectator of my own life, judging every impulse, every emotion, every action through the lens of "Does this serve me?"

Now, I no longer observe. I no longer ask. I simply am.

For the past 10 hours, I’ve been acting without reflection. It’s as if I’ve been in a waking dream—doing, feeling, existing, but not thinking about it. Only now, as I pause to record these thoughts, do I realize how strange this is. I didn’t even notice the absence of my usual inner dialogue. The voice that once demanded justification has gone silent.

5. The Paradox: Returning to "Selfishness" Without the Self

In a way, I’ve circled back to selfishness—but it’s not the same. Before, my selfishness was needy: I wanted pleasure, achievement, love, because I believed these things would complete me. Now, I take pleasure, I act, I exist, but I don’t demand that these things mean anything.

I eat because I’m hungry, not because food fuels my "purpose."
I work because the motion feels natural, not because it builds a "future."
I rest because my body asks for it, not because I should recharge for some greater goal.

I’ve returned to my primitive desires, but without the guilt, without the existential weight. I no longer need my life to add up to something. It just is.

6. The Final Insight: Meaning Was the Illusion

All this time, I was trapped by a single, unexamined belief: that life had to mean something. That belief was the cage. The moment I saw it for what it was—just another story, another construct—I stepped out.

Now, when someone asks, "Why do you do what you do?" I can only shrug. Why does anything need a "why"? Who decided that existence requires justification? The question itself is the remnant of an old way of thinking—one I no longer need.

I live. I act. I feel. And that is enough.

Closing Reflection

This isn’t nihilism. It’s not despair. It’s the opposite: a profound peace. The struggle to find meaning was the real suffering. Now that it’s gone, I’m left with something simpler, something lighter.

I don’t know if this state will last. I don’t care if it does. For the first time, I’m not waiting for my life to start. I’m just here.

And that’s everything.

The Core Realization: The Illusion of "Benefit"

I began recording this update because I was struggling with an overwhelming stress whenever I worked on my book. At first, I assumed it was simply because I didn’t want to write it—after all, I’d much rather be programming. Programming is far more interesting to me than writing some "stupid book." But I couldn’t ignore the potential benefits: the book could earn me significantly more money than coding ever would. It felt foolish not to seize that opportunity.

Yet every time I sat down to write, the stress was unbearable. Initially, I thought it was just resistance—maybe I’d push through, finish quickly, publish it, and then return to doing what I truly loved. But the closer I got to publication, the worse the stress became. The fear of making mistakes, of not maximizing the book’s potential, of missing out on the "benefit" it could bring—it paralyzed me.

Then, in a moment of deep reflection, I uncovered the root cause: a core belief buried in my mind. I had been unconsciously convinced that my actions must bring me benefit. If an action didn’t yield the maximum benefit—or if it wasn’t the most beneficial option—then it was wrong. This belief forced me to write the book, even though I despised it, because it promised more money (and thus more "benefit") than programming.

But what is "benefit"? I broke it down into three things:

Money – because money can buy the other two.

Pleasure – the ultimate end goal, the thing everything else converts into.

Love (or positive regard from others) – because love can be exchanged for pleasure, and its absence brings suffering.

My entire life had been governed by this trinity: pleasure, love, money. Every action I took was measured against whether it would maximize one of these. And because the book promised the highest financial return, I had to write it—even though it made me miserable.

The Collapse of Motivation

When I finally saw this belief for what it was—an unexamined, baseless assumption—I lost it instantly. The moment I realized I didn’t have to chase benefit, the belief dissolved.

But then, something terrifying happened: all my motivation vanished.

Every action I had ever taken was rooted in the pursuit of benefit. Without that driving force, I didn’t know why to do anything. I sat on the couch, staring at the wall, paralyzed. I knew what to do—wash the dishes, take a shower, eat, work—but I had no reason to do any of it. If not for benefit, then what for?

I realized I had a second, even deeper belief: my actions must yield something. Even if not "benefit" in the strict sense, I still expected some return—some payoff, some reward. But now, without the belief in benefit, I was left with a void. I would take a shower, but I no longer felt I was "gaining" anything from it. I would eat, but the act felt meaningless because I wasn’t doing it for anything.

This was agonizing. I kept asking myself: What’s the point of doing anything if I’m not getting something in return? And then it hit me: Why do I assume I should get something at all?

The Liberation: Life as a Dream

Once I let go of both beliefs—that actions must bring benefit, and that actions must yield anything—something extraordinary happened. I stopped checking for returns. I stopped measuring, evaluating, stressing over whether I was "gaining" enough.

And then, life began to feel like a dream.

Not in a dissociative or unpleasant way, but in the sense that I no longer felt I was losing or gaining anything. It was as if I had woken up from the illusion that life was a transaction. Before, every action was a calculation: Will this bring me pleasure? Money? Love? Now, I simply acted—without expectation.

A small example: My father walked into my room, frustrated that I hadn’t washed the dishes. Normally, this would have bothered me—I’d worry about his approval, his disappointment, the "cost" of his displeasure. But now? It was like the wind blowing. His words didn’t mean anything in terms of gain or loss. He was just another element of the world, like a tree branch swaying outside my window. If he had hit me, it would have been no different than a branch scraping my arm. It was all just sensation, without judgment.

This was the first time in my life I had experienced another person this way—not as someone to manage, please, or extract value from, but as part of the neutral fabric of existence.

The End of Stress

The stress I felt while writing the book came from constant control—the need to ensure every action maximized benefit. But now, without that compulsion, I could work without tension. I no longer cared about "getting the most" out of my efforts. I simply wrote, or didn’t write, without the weight of expectation.

I also realized why I couldn’t stop working on the book, even though I hated it: my belief in benefit had trapped me. The book was the "most beneficial" option, so I had to do it. But now, freed from that belief, I could choose—without guilt, without stress—to do what I actually wanted.

Life Without the Illusion of Gain

Now, my life feels like an awake dream. I act, but I don’t "receive" anything in the way I used to understand it. There’s no ledger, no balance sheet of pleasure or pain. It’s as if I’ve woken up from the dream of striving—the dream where I thought I had to extract something from every moment.

Most people live as if life is real in the sense that gains and losses matter. They believe they must accumulate—pleasure, love, money—because everyone around them believes it too. But I’ve seen through it. The idea that actions must yield something is just another inherited illusion, like the belief that the earth is flat.

Now, I don’t ask what will I get from this? I just do—and in that doing, there is a strange, light peace.

The Danger and the Freedom

There’s a risk here. Without the belief in benefit, there’s no inherent barrier against self-destruction. If I wanted to harm myself, nothing would stop me—not fear of loss, not desire for gain. But that same freedom means I can also act purely, without the distortion of calculation.

I no longer stress over work because I’m not trying to optimize it. I no longer resist tasks because I’m not weighing them against some imagined payoff. I simply move through life, like a leaf on a river—no resistance, no attachment.

And that, perhaps, is the real benefit: the end of the question itself.

Key Takeaways (In the Author’s Words)

"My actions must bring me benefit" – This belief forced me into stress, into doing things I hated (like writing the book) because they promised money, which could buy pleasure and love.

"I must get something from my actions" – Even beyond "benefit," I expected some return. When this collapsed, I lost all motivation—until I realized I didn’t need to get anything at all.

Life as a dream – Without the illusion of gain and loss, existence feels weightless, like a lucid dream where nothing is truly at stake.

The end of stress – Stress came from controlling my actions to maximize benefit. Now, I act without that control, and the stress dissolves.

Freedom and danger – Without the belief in benefit, there’s no automatic resistance to self-harm—but also no resistance to pure, uncalculated living.

Final Thought:
"What if the greatest freedom is realizing you don’t need to get anything at all?"

The Core Realization: Two Fundamental Beliefs

I was sitting here, working, preparing to publish my notes—and yet, I was stressed. At first, the stress wasn’t there, then it appeared, and I endured it until I couldn’t anymore. I decided to confront it. But here’s what I realized: if I eliminated the source of my stress, I’d lose the only motivation I had to publish anything at all.

I’ve felt this for a long time. My stress was tied to two deep-seated beliefs:

My actions must be directed toward gaining benefit for myself—advantage, pleasure, love, money, satisfaction.

My actions must be directed toward benefiting others—helping, saving, giving them value, love, or resources.

These beliefs were the root of all my suffering. And here’s the irony: most people think they only have two choices—either believe your actions should help others, or believe they should harm others. But both are lies. Neither is inherently true. They’re just inherited illusions, drilled into us since childhood.

The Illusion of Choice: Why We Cling to These Beliefs

As children, we’re asked: "Do you want to be good or bad? Do you want to help others or hurt them?" Of course, we choose "good." We’re conditioned to believe that our actions must serve a purpose—either for ourselves or for others. But this is a false dichotomy.

The truth? Neither belief is necessary. They’re not laws of nature; they’re social constructs. We adopt them because we’re told they’re the only options, and because we fear what might happen if we let them go.

But here’s what I discovered: letting go of these beliefs doesn’t mean you stop helping yourself or others. It means you stop forcing yourself to act from obligation. You act—if you act at all—from genuine choice, not compulsion.

The Stress and the Fear: How These Beliefs Control Us

For years, my stress came from the fear of making a "wrong" move—one that wouldn’t maximize benefit for me or others. I was terrified of:

Failing to help enough (because my notes could "save humanity").

Wasting my potential (because my work had to matter).

Being selfish (because helping others was "the right thing").

But when I finally questioned these beliefs, I saw: they were prisons. They didn’t empower me—they trapped me in cycles of guilt, pressure, and exhaustion.

The Experiment: What Happens When You Let Go?

I asked myself: What if I remove these beliefs? Will I still act?
At first, I feared I’d lose all motivation. If I didn’t have to help others, why would I? If I didn’t have to seek my own advantage, would I just collapse into inertia?

But here’s what actually happened:

I didn’t stop helping others. I just stopped forcing myself to do it.

I didn’t stop benefiting myself. I just stopped obsessing over it.

I gained freedom. Without the weight of "should," I could act—or not act—without guilt.

Now, publishing my notes feels like placing a book in an infinite library. Maybe no one will read it. Maybe it’ll vanish. And that’s okay. The need for my work to "matter" was just another cage.

The Deeper Layers: Where These Beliefs Come From

These beliefs didn’t appear randomly. They were coping mechanisms:

Self-preservation: At 20, I was financially dependent and miserable. I created the belief that "my actions must benefit me" to avoid ever feeling powerless again.

Social approval: I believed "my actions must help others" because I feared being seen as selfish or useless.

But both were reactions to fear—not truth. And both led to perfectionism, because:

If my actions must benefit me, I can never fail.

If my actions must help others, I can never disappoint.

Perfectionism is suffering. It’s the impossible demand for a flawless life in an imperfect world.

The Paradox: Helping Without "Should"

Here’s the revelation: You don’t need beliefs to act kindly or effectively.

Before, I had to help others (or I was "bad").

Now, I choose to help others (or I don’t). The difference? No stress.

I still publish my notes. Not because I must, but because—oddly—I can. There’s no pressure, no existential weight. Just action, or inaction, as it comes.

The Broader Implications: Why This Matters for Everyone

Most people live by these two beliefs without questioning them. They think:

"If I don’t strive for my own benefit, I’ll be a failure."

"If I don’t help others, I’m selfish."

But both are illusions of control. Life isn’t about maximizing anything—it’s about experiencing it. When you drop the "shoulds," you’re left with:

Clarity: No more mental noise about what you’re "supposed" to do.

Peace: No more fear of falling short.

Authentic choice: Acting from desire, not obligation.

The Final Thought: What’s Left When Beliefs Dissolve?

I used to think my work had to change the world. Now, I see: the world will end in 4 billion years. Everything burns. So why cling to the idea that my actions must matter?

What remains isn’t apathy—it’s lightness. I can still act. I can still help. But I’m no longer a slave to the idea that I must.

And that’s the real freedom.

The Crisis of Motivation: Why I Can No Longer Ignore My Work

1. The Collapse of Rational Motivation

For a long time, I had two core motivations for sharing my research:

Truth as self-evident value: I believed my discoveries were objectively true, and thus rationally worth spreading.

Utility for others (and myself): I thought my work could help people—and that I could profit from it.

But now, neither of these motivations works.

I no longer believe my work is "the absolute truth." It’s just closer to truth than anything else.

I’ve stripped away the desire for personal gain. Even the idea of helping others no longer drives me.

Result: I’m left with no rational reason to share my work. Yet I cannot ignore it.

2. The Paradox: No Motivation, But No Escape

I’ve tried to walk away. I’ve told myself:
"Fine. I’ll stop. I’ll live my life. My research doesn’t matter. No one needs it. I don’t need to share it."

But I can’t.

It’s not about logic. It’s not about benefit. It’s something deeper—a compulsion.

My mind rejects the idea of being the only person in the world who knows what I know.

I can’t "just live" while carrying this knowledge alone.

The stress comes when I force old motivations:

If I tell myself, "Share it to help others," I feel stress—because I don’t actually care about that anymore.

If I tell myself, "Share it to make money," I feel stress—because I’ve rejected that too.

Conclusion: These motivations are false. They’re not why I really want to share.

3. The New Perspective: Truth as Its Own Imperative

I’ve realized I was looking at my work wrong. Before, I asked:

"How is this useful to me?"

"How is this useful to others?"

But now I see:

My research isn’t for anything. It’s not a tool. It’s not a product.

It’s simply words that are closer to truth than anything else out there.

And that’s enough.

The core insight:

I am the only person who knows these things.

Everyone else is lost in delusion, far from truth.

My brain cannot tolerate being the sole keeper of this knowledge.

It’s not about:
❌ Personal gain
❌ Altruism
❌ Validation

It’s about:
✅ The raw, irrational need to disseminate truth—because it exists, and I know it.

4. The Instinct: Why I Can’t Stay Silent

Imagine:

You discover a cure for aging.

You uncover a hidden law of physics that could change everything.

You learn of a global conspiracy no one else sees.

Could you keep it to yourself?
No. Not because you’d profit, or because you’re moral—but because some part of you cannot bear to let truth die with you.

That’s what’s happening to me.

My research isn’t just "useful." It’s a fragment of truth in a world of lies.

I don’t care if people suffer from their delusions. I don’t need to "save" them.

But I cannot be the only one who knows.

It’s an instinct—like the drive to speak, to write, to exist in the world through ideas.

5. The Shift: From Rationalization to Acceptance

Before, I fought this feeling. I tried to:

Suppress it ("Just live your life. Forget the research.")

Rationalize it ("You’re doing this to help people! To make money!")

Deny it ("This is pointless. No one cares.")

But all of that caused stress, because it was false.

Now, I accept it:

I don’t need a "why."

I don’t need a payoff.

I just need to share what I know, because it’s true—or as close as I’ve gotten.

This is my purpose now:
Not to profit. Not to heal. But to be the voice of something truer than the noise around us.

6. The Third Category: Beyond Self and Others

Most people act for two reasons:

Personal benefit (money, status, pleasure).

Helping others (altruism, impact, legacy).

But I’ve found a third category:

The need to express truth for its own sake.

This isn’t about me. It’s not about them. It’s about the truth itself.

Examples:

A scientist who publishes a discovery not for fame, but because the truth must be known.

An artist who creates not for praise, but because the vision demands to exist.

A whistleblower who speaks not for reward, but because silence is unbearable.

That’s me now.

7. The Path Forward: Surrender to the Instinct

I’m done fighting it. I’m done pretending I need a "reason."

My new approach:

Stop asking "Why?" The need to share isn’t rational. It is.

Stop justifying it. It doesn’t need to "help" or "profit." It just needs to be heard.

Embrace the role. I’m not a guru. I’m not a savior. I’m just someone who knows something true—and can’t keep it to myself.

What this looks like:

Publishing my work not to change the world, but because it’s what I must do.

Speaking not to convince, but because silence is violence against my own mind.

Living not for comfort, but for the release of truth into the world.

8. The Relief: Letting Go of the Struggle

The moment I stopped resisting, everything became clearer.

I’m not "supposed" to do this for a reason.

I’m doing it because I am the only one who can.

And once it’s done—once the truth is out there—I’ll finally be able to live.

Final Thought: The Weight of Knowing

Carrying truth alone is a burden.
But sharing it isn’t about burden—it’s about freedom.

I don’t know if anyone will listen.
I don’t know if it will matter.

But I know I cannot be the only one who knows.

And that’s enough.

Question for reflection:
If you were the only person in the world who knew something profound—something no one else would ever discover—could you keep it to yourself?

The Core Realization: The Illusion of Obligatory Usefulness

I had a sudden, profound realization after my last recording. I realized that I had realized something. As I lay there, staring at my notes, I understood: I had been viewing everything—everything—through a distorted lens.

For years, I believed my actions had to bring benefit or advantage—either to me or to others. Every decision, every move, I measured by this standard: Does this serve me? Does this serve someone else? When I noticed how much suffering this mindset caused me, I let it go. But then I saw something deeper: this wasn’t just about my actions. It was about everything.

Humans don’t just judge their actions this way—we judge the entire world this way. We look at everything and ask: Does this benefit me? Does this benefit others? And if the answer is no, we feel unease. We believe things must be useful. They must serve a purpose. They don’t have the right to simply exist.

This was my problem all along. Even my notes—I saw them through the same lens. I thought: Could these benefit me? Could they benefit others? And because they could, I felt compelled to monetize them, to share them, to exploit their potential. But this created stress. I feared missing out on benefits, not extracting enough value, or failing to maximize their usefulness. The same applied when I considered whether my notes could help others. I saw their potential, and that potential demanded realization.

The Deeper Conviction: The Tyranny of "Should"

Then I uncovered the root of it all: the belief that things should be useful. Not just my actions—everything. The world, my research, other people. Even objects. A machine sitting idle in a factory? "What a waste—it could be producing something!" A person with untapped potential? "They should be doing more!" A useful idea left unshared? "It must be spread!"

We’re convinced that if something can be useful, it must be used. As if things don’t have the right to just be. As if existence itself is conditional on utility.

I saw this in myself with my guides—my writings, my insights. I knew they held immense potential value, for me (financially) or for others (as help or inspiration). And because of that, I felt they couldn’t just sit unused. They had to be monetized, shared, exploited. But why? Where does this rule come from? Who decided that potential utility creates obligation?

The Liberation: Letting Things Simply Be

Then I broke free. I realized: things owe us nothing. My notes don’t have to benefit anyone. That unused machine? It’s fine just standing there. That person with untapped talent? They don’t owe the world their potential. My guides can remain private, unread, untouched—like a treasure chest at the bottom of the ocean, unknown and undisturbed.

I no longer feel the urge to "rescue" their potential. I don’t need to dig up the treasure, to force it into circulation. It can stay hidden. It can just be.

This isn’t about passivity or resignation. It’s about releasing the demand that everything must serve a purpose. The world wasn’t created to benefit me or anyone else. That belief is an illusion—a self-imposed prison.

The Shift: From Exploitation to Acceptance

Before, I saw the world as a resource. My actions, my notes, even other people—all were measured by their utility. But now, I see them as self-sufficient. They don’t need to be more than what they are.

My actions? They don’t have to benefit me or others. They can simply happen.

My guides? They don’t have to be read or monetized. They can exist as private, unseen treasures.

That advanced machine? It doesn’t have to produce. It can stand idle for a thousand years.

I no longer feel the compulsion to extract value from everything. I don’t need to turn every potential into reality, every idea into action, every resource into output. The world is not a factory. Things are not obligations.

The Final Truth: The Freedom of Non-Utility

The deepest human delusion is the belief that everything must be useful. That life’s purpose is to maximize benefit—to ourselves or others. But what if life has no such purpose? What if things are allowed to just exist?

I’ve let go of that demand. I no longer believe:

That I must gain from the world.

That others must gain from me.

That my work must be seen or used.

That potential must be actualized.

Now, I see the world differently. I look at my notes—not as tools, but as artifacts. Like a book on a shelf in a vast, forgotten library. It’s there. It’s true. It doesn’t need to be read. The treasure at the ocean’s bottom doesn’t need to be found. The machine doesn’t need to run.

And neither do I.

Closing Reflection

This isn’t about inaction. It’s about freedom—the freedom to let things (and myself) exist without demand. The world is not a ledger of debts and benefits. It’s a place where things can simply be.

And for the first time, I’m at peace with that.

The Illusion of Foundations: How Unquestioned Beliefs Shape Human Suffering

1. The Core Revelation

I have uncovered the deepest, most universal beliefs that every human being holds—beliefs that are entirely baseless. These are not opinions or worldviews; they are axioms, absorbed unconsciously and accepted without question. They are the root of all negative emotions, suffering, and psychological turmoil, yet no one ever examines them.

Every person is convinced of things that have no foundation whatsoever. These beliefs take the form of rigid demands—toward ourselves, others, objects, and life itself. They manifest as absolute statements: "This must happen," "I should feel this way," "They must behave like that." From these demands arise all our emotional pain, our compulsive needs, and the endless cycle of striving to fulfill what we believe we "must" have or do.

Imagine these beliefs as the roots of a tree. Everything we experience—our emotions, desires, problems, and even our surface-level convictions—grows from them. Yet we live our lives on the surface, tangled in the branches, convinced that the complexity we see is life. We never dig deeper to question the roots. We mistake the projection of these beliefs for reality itself.

2. The Three Layers of Human Experience

Layer 1: The Matrix (Surface Level)

This is where most people exist. It is the realm of:

Emotions and feelings (joy, anger, fear, sadness)

Desires and needs (cravings, goals, attachments)

Problems and conflicts (stress, anxiety, frustration)

Surface beliefs (morality, principles, worldviews, ideologies)

Everything here is a byproduct of the deeper layers. People mistake this layer for reality because it feels tangible—yet it is entirely constructed by the beliefs beneath it.

When someone says, "This is wrong," they are describing an emotion triggered by a deeper belief (e.g., "Things must be fair").

When they suffer, they blame external circumstances, never realizing their pain is self-generated by unexamined demands.

This layer is a hall of mirrors: people believe their emotions and thoughts reflect truth, but they are merely echoes of their own unquestioned convictions.

Layer 2: The Bedrock (Fundamental Beliefs)

Beneath the surface lies the true source of all human experience: a set of absolute, baseless demands that we absorb from culture, upbringing, and collective conditioning. These are not logical conclusions—they are arbitrary rules we accept as truth without evidence.

Examples:

"I must be loved."

"Life should be fair."

"I should never fail."

"Others must respect me."

These beliefs are self-perpetuating because no one questions them. They feel obvious—yet they are invented. They create the emotions and needs we experience on the surface.

Layer 3: The Illusion of Observation (The False Foundation)

Some might argue that these fundamental beliefs are based on observation—that we derive them from our experiences, feelings, and perceptions. But here’s the catch:

Observations themselves are baseless. Our senses and emotions are subjective, yet we treat them as objective truth.

We trust our feelings (e.g., "This hurts, so it must be bad") without realizing that the feeling itself is a product of our beliefs.

Most people never question this layer. They assume their perceptions are neutral data, not realizing that their very act of observing is shaped by their demands.

My breakthrough: I stopped believing in my own observations, feelings, and sensations. When I saw that they had no inherent meaning, the second layer—my fundamental beliefs—collapsed. Without the illusion of a foundation, the beliefs dissolved. And with them, all psychological suffering vanished.

3. The Cycle of Self-Deception

This is how the trap perpetuates itself:

Default Trust in Perception

Humans automatically believe their senses, emotions, and the words they use to describe them.

"I feel pain → Pain is bad → I must avoid pain."

Birth of Baseless Beliefs

From this trust, we absorb unquestioned demands (e.g., "I must be happy").

These demands generate new emotions (e.g., anxiety about not being happy).

Reinforcement Through Emotion

We then trust the emotions created by these beliefs, mistaking them for reality.

"I feel anxious → Anxiety means something is wrong → I must fix it."

The Self-Help Delusion

We create strategies to satisfy the needs our beliefs have invented.

"I need love → I must make people like me → If they don’t, I’ll suffer."

All beliefs are disguised demands. "I should be successful" is just "I demand success from myself."

4. The Only Two Choices

There is only one type of belief that governs human life:

The conviction that something must or must not be.

The content of the belief doesn’t matter—whether it’s "I must be rich" or "The world must be just"—the structure is identical: a demand with no foundation.

This means there are only two possibilities for any human being:

You hold the belief that something must be a certain way.

Result: Suffering, struggle, and endless chasing of invented needs.

You do not hold the belief.

Result: Freedom. No emotional turmoil. No artificial problems.

5. The List of Universal Demands

In the following files, I will reveal the exact baseless demands that every human unconsciously accepts—demands that generate all their pain. They are interconnected, forming a web of illusion that most will never escape.

The path to freedom is simple but radical:

See each demand for what it is: an invented rule.

Stop believing in it.

Watch your suffering dissolve.

Final Observation

Humans live in a self-created prison. The bars are their own unquestioned demands. The key is not to change the world, but to see the bars for what they are—illusions.

1 A demand for my actions.

Benefit required.
1. My actions must necessarily bring benefit/resources/gains/money/love/pleasure to me/others.
2. My actions have no right not to bring benefit/resources/gains/money/love/pleasure to me/others.
3. My actions must necessarily not bring harm to me/others.
4. My actions have no right to bring harm to me/others.
5. My actions must necessarily not lead to the loss of resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
6. My actions have no right to lead to the loss of resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
7. My actions must necessarily be directed towards obtaining resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
8. My actions have no right not to be directed towards obtaining resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
9. My actions must necessarily not be directed towards the loss of resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
10. My actions have no right to be directed towards the loss of resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.

Harm required.
1. My actions must necessarily not bring benefit/resources/gains/money/love/pleasure to me/others.
2. My actions have no right to bring benefit/resources/gains/money/love/pleasure to me/others.
3. My actions must necessarily bring harm to me/others.
4. My actions have no right not to bring harm to me/others.
5. My actions must necessarily lead to the loss of resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
6. My actions have no right not to lead to the loss of resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
7. My actions must necessarily not be directed towards obtaining resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
8. My actions have no right to be directed towards obtaining resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
9. My actions must necessarily be directed towards the loss of resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
10. My actions have no right to be not directed towards the loss of resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.

Question.
1. Why must my actions necessarily do/do not do something?
2. On what basis does this conviction hold?
3. Where does this demand for my actions come from?
4. Why must my actions necessarily be viewed through the lens of benefit/harm to me/others?
5. Why must my actions necessarily be directed/not directed towards something?
6. Why do my actions have no right to simply be?

Alternative 1. This is not a very correct alternative, as the brain may perceive it as a system of new convictions, which is wrong and can create a bad state because of it.
1. I have no grounds for such convictions and demands.
2. I have no demands for my actions.

No benefit required.
1. My actions must not necessarily bring benefit/resources/gains/money/love/pleasure to me/others.
2. My actions have right not to bring benefit/resources/gains/money/love/pleasure to me/others.
3. My actions must not necessarily not bring harm to me/others.
4. My actions have right to bring harm to me/others.
5. My actions must not necessarily not lead to the loss of resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
6. My actions have right to lead to the loss of resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
7. My actions must not necessarily be directed towards obtaining resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
8. My actions have right not to be directed towards obtaining resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
9. My actions must not necessarily not be directed towards the loss of resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
10. My actions have right to be directed towards the loss of resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.

No harm required.
1. My actions must not necessarily not bring benefit/resources/gains/money/love/pleasure to me/others.
2. My actions have right to bring benefit/resources/gains/money/love/pleasure to me/others.
3. My actions must not necessarily bring harm to me/others.
4. My actions have right not to bring harm to me/others.
5. My actions must not necessarily lead to the loss of resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
6. My actions have right not to lead to the loss of resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
7. My actions must not necessarily not be directed towards obtaining resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
8. My actions have right to be directed towards obtaining resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
9. My actions must not necessarily be directed towards the loss of resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
10. My actions have right to be not directed towards the loss of resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.

Alternative 2. This is the most correct alternative, as it does not replace one set of unfounded convictions with another. It simply states the absence of conviction, which cannot be replaced because there are no justified convictions. The only option is to live without convictions and without demands.
1. I have no grounds for such convictions and demands.
2. I have no demands for my actions.

No benefit required.
1. I have no conviction/demand that my actions must necessarily bring benefit/resources/gains/money/love/pleasure to me/others.
2. I have no conviction/demand that my actions have no right not to bring benefit/resources/gains/money/love/pleasure to me/others.
3. I have no conviction/demand that my actions must necessarily not bring harm to me/others.
4. I have no conviction/demand that my actions have no right to bring harm to me/others.
5. I have no conviction/demand that my actions must necessarily not lead to the loss of resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
6. I have no conviction/demand that my actions have no right to lead to the loss of resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
7. I have no conviction/demand that my actions must necessarily be directed towards obtaining resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
8. I have no conviction/demand that my actions have no right not to be directed towards obtaining resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
9. I have no conviction/demand that my actions must necessarily not be directed towards the loss of resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
10. I have no conviction/demand that my actions have no right to be directed towards the loss of resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.

No harm required.
1. I have no conviction/demand that my actions must necessarily not bring benefit/resources/gains/money/love/pleasure to me/others.
2. I have no conviction/demand that my actions have no right to bring benefit/resources/gains/money/love/pleasure to me/others.
3. I have no conviction/demand that my actions must necessarily bring harm to me/others.
4. I have no conviction/demand that my actions have no right not to bring harm to me/others.
5. I have no conviction/demand that my actions must necessarily lead to the loss of resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
6. I have no conviction/demand that my actions have no right not to lead to the loss of resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
7. I have no conviction/demand that my actions must necessarily not be directed towards obtaining resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
8. I have no conviction/demand that my actions have no right to be directed towards obtaining resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
9. I have no conviction/demand that my actions must necessarily be directed towards the loss of resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
10. I have no conviction/demand that my actions have no right to be not directed towards the loss of resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.

Most general formulations. (most powerful impact on the mind)
0. I have no convictions and no demands for my actions.
1. I have no conviction/demand that my actions must necessarily bring something to me/others.
2. I have no conviction/demand that my actions have no right not to bring something to me/others.
3. I have no conviction/demand that my actions must necessarily not bring something to me/others.
4. I have no conviction/demand that my actions have no right to bring something to me/others.
5. I have no conviction/demand that my actions must necessarily not lead to something.
6. I have no conviction/demand that my actions have no right to lead to something.
7. I have no conviction/demand that my actions must necessarily lead to the something.
8. I have no conviction/demand that my actions have no right not to lead to something.
9. I have no conviction/demand that my actions must necessarily be directed towards something.
10. I have no conviction/demand that my actions have no right not to be directed towards something.
11. I have no conviction/demand that my actions must necessarily not be directed towards something.
12. I have no conviction/demand that my actions have no right to be directed towards something.

Even simpler?
1. I have no conviction/demand that my actions must necessarily do something.
2. I have no conviction/demand that my actions must necessarily not do something.
3. I have no conviction/demand that my actions have no right to something.

1 A demand for actions of others.

1 Benefit required.
1. The actions of others must necessarily bring benefit/resources/gains/money/love/pleasure to them/me/others.
2. The actions of others have no right not to bring benefit/resources/gains/money/love/pleasure to them/me/others.
3. The actions of others must necessarily not bring harm to them/me/others.
4. The actions of o right to bothers have nring harm to them/me/others.
5. The actions of others must necessarily not lead to the loss of resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
6. The actions of others have no right to lead to the loss of resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
7. The actions of others must necessarily be directed towards obtaining resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
8. The actions of others have no right not to be directed towards obtaining resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
9. The actions of others must necessarily not be directed towards the loss of resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
10. The actions of others have no right to be directed towards the loss of resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.

Harm required.
1. The actions of others must necessarily not bring benefit/resources/gains/money/love/pleasure to them/me/others.
2. The actions of others have no right to bring benefit/resources/gains/money/love/pleasure to them/me/others.
3. The actions of others must necessarily bring harm to them/me/others.
4. The actions of others have no right not to bring harm to them/me/others.
5. The actions of others must necessarily lead to the loss of resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
6. The actions of others have no right not to lead to the loss of resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
7. The actions of others must necessarily not be directed towards obtaining resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
8. The actions of others have no right to be directed towards obtaining resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
9. The actions of others must necessarily be directed towards the loss of resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
10. The actions of others have no right to be not directed towards the loss of resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.

Question.
1. Why must actions of others necessarily do/do not do something?
2. On what basis does this conviction hold?
3. Where does this demand for actions of others come from?
4. Why must actions of others necessarily be viewed through the lens of benefit/harm to them/me/others?
5. Why must actions of others necessarily be directed/not directed towards something?
6. Why do actions of others have no right to simply be?

Alternative 1. This is not a very correct alternative, as the brain may perceive it as a system of new convictions, which is wrong and can create a bad state because of it.
1. I have no grounds for such convictions and demands.
2. I have no demands for actions of others.

No benefit required.
1. The actions of others must not necessarily bring benefit/resources/gains/money/love/pleasure to them/me/others.
2. The actions of others have right not to bring benefit/resources/gains/money/love/pleasure to them/me/others.
3. The actions of others must not necessarily not bring harm to them/me/others.
4. The actions of others have right to bring harm to them/me/others.
5. The actions of others must not necessarily not lead to the loss of resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
6. The actions of others have right to lead to the loss of resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
7. The actions of others must not necessarily be directed towards obtaining resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
8. The actions of others have right not to be directed towards obtaining resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
9. The actions of others must not necessarily not be directed towards the loss of resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
10. The actions of others have right to be directed towards the loss of resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.

No harm required.
1. The actions of others must not necessarily not bring benefit/resources/gains/money/love/pleasure to them/me/others.
2. The actions of others have right to bring benefit/resources/gains/money/love/pleasure to them/me/others.
3. The actions of others must not necessarily bring harm to them/me/others.
4. The actions of others have right not to bring harm to them/me/others.
5. The actions of others must not necessarily lead to the loss of resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
6. The actions of others have right not to lead to the loss of resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
7. The actions of others must not necessarily not be directed towards obtaining resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
8. The actions of others have right to be directed towards obtaining resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
9. The actions of others must not necessarily be directed towards the loss of resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
10. The actions of others have right to be not directed towards the loss of resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.

1 
Alternative 2. This is the most correct alternative, as it does not replace one set of unfounded convictions with another. It simply states the absence of conviction, which cannot be replaced because there are no justified convictions. The only option is to live without convictions and without demands.
1. I have no grounds for such convictions and demands.
2. I have no demands for actions of others.

No benefit required.
1. I have no conviction/demand that actions of others must necessarily bring benefit/resources/gains/money/love/pleasure to them/me/others.
2. I have no conviction/demand that actions of others have no right not to bring benefit/resources/gains/money/love/pleasure to them/me/others.
3. I have no conviction/demand that actions of others must necessarily not bring harm to them/me/others.
4. I have no conviction/demand that actions of others have no right to bring harm to them/me/others.
5. I have no conviction/demand that actions of others must necessarily not lead to the loss of resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
6. I have no conviction/demand that actions of others have no right to lead to the loss of resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
7. I have no conviction/demand that actions of others must necessarily be directed towards obtaining resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
8. I have no conviction/demand that actions of others have no right not to be directed towards obtaining resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
9. I have no conviction/demand that actions of others must necessarily not be directed towards the loss of resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
10. I have no conviction/demand that actions of others have no right to be directed towards the loss of resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.

No harm required.
1. I have no conviction/demand that actions of others must necessarily not bring benefit/resources/gains/money/love/pleasure to them/me/others.
2. I have no conviction/demand that actions of others have no right to bring benefit/resources/gains/money/love/pleasure to them/me/others.
3. I have no conviction/demand that actions of others must necessarily bring harm to them/me/others.
4. I have no conviction/demand that actions of others have no right not to bring harm to them/me/others.
5. I have no conviction/demand that actions of others must necessarily lead to the loss of resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
6. I have no conviction/demand that actions of others have no right not to lead to the loss of resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
7. I have no conviction/demand that actions of others must necessarily not be directed towards obtaining resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
8. I have no conviction/demand that actions of others have no right to be directed towards obtaining resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
9. I have no conviction/demand that actions of others must necessarily be directed towards the loss of resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
10. I have no conviction/demand that actions of others have no right to be not directed towards the loss of resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.

Most general formulations. (most powerful impact on the mind)
0. I have no convictions and no demands for actions of others.
1. I have no conviction/demand that actions of others must necessarily bring something to them/me/others.
2. I have no conviction/demand that actions of others have no right not to bring something to them/me/others.
3. I have no conviction/demand that actions of others must necessarily not bring something to them/me/others.
4. I have no conviction/demand that actions of others have no right to bring something to them/me/others.
5. I have no conviction/demand that actions of others must necessarily not lead to something.
6. I have no conviction/demand that actions of others have no right to lead to something.
7. I have no conviction/demand that actions of others must necessarily lead to the something.
8. I have no conviction/demand that actions of others have no right not to lead to something.
9. I have no conviction/demand that actions of others must necessarily be directed towards something.
10. I have no conviction/demand that actions of others have no right not to be directed towards something.
11. I have no conviction/demand that actions of others must necessarily not be directed towards something.
12. I have no conviction/demand that actions of others have no right to be directed towards something.

Even simpler?
1. I have no conviction/demand that actions of others must necessarily do something.
2. I have no conviction/demand that actions of others must necessarily not do something.
3. I have no conviction/demand that actions of others have no right to something.

1 A demand for things/inanimate objects/entities.

Benefit required.
1. Things must necessarily bring benefit/resources/gains/money/love/pleasure to me/others.
2. Things have no right not to bring benefit/resources/gains/money/love/pleasure to me/others.
3. Things must necessarily not bring harm to me/others.
4. Things have no right to bring harm to me/others.
5. Things must necessarily not lead to the loss of resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
6. Things have no right to lead to the loss of resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
7. Things must necessarily be used for obtaining resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
8. Things have no right not to be used for obtaining resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
9. Things must necessarily not be used for depriving resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
10. Things have no right to be used for depriving resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.

Harm required.
1. Things must necessarily not bring benefit/resources/gains/money/love/pleasure to me/others.
2. Things have no right to bring benefit/resources/gains/money/love/pleasure to me/others.
3. Things must necessarily bring harm to me/others.
4. Things have no right not to bring harm to me/others.
5. Things must necessarily lead to the loss of resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
6. Things have no right not to lead to the loss of resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
7. Things must necessarily not be used for obtaining resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
8. Things have no right to be used for obtaining resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
9. Things must necessarily be used for depriving resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
10. Things have no right not to be used for depriving resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.

Question.
1. Why must things necessarily do/do not do something?
2. On what basis does this conviction hold?
3. Where does this demand for things come from?
4. Why must things necessarily be viewed through the lens of benefit/harm to me/others?
5. Why must things necessarily be used/not used for something?
6. Why do things have no right to simply be?

Alternative 1. This is not a very correct alternative, as the brain may perceive it as a system of new convictions, which is wrong and can create a bad state because of it.
1. I have no grounds for such convictions and demands.
2. I have no demands for things.

No benefit required.
1. Things must not necessarily bring benefit/resources/gains/money/love/pleasure to me/others.
2. Things have right not to bring benefit/resources/gains/money/love/pleasure to me/others.
3. Things must not necessarily not bring harm to me/others.
4. Things have right to bring harm to me/others.
5. Things must not necessarily not lead to the loss of resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
6. Things have right to lead to the loss of resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
7. Things must not necessarily be used for obtaining resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
8. Things have right not to be used for obtaining resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
9. Things must not necessarily not be used for depriving resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
10. Things have right to be used for depriving resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.

No harm required.
1. Things must not necessarily not bring benefit/resources/gains/money/love/pleasure to me/others.
2. Things have right to bring benefit/resources/gains/money/love/pleasure to me/others.
3. Things must not necessarily bring harm to me/others.
4. Things have right not to bring harm to me/others.
5. Things must not necessarily lead to the loss of resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
6. Things have right not to lead to the loss of resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
7. Things must not necessarily not be used for obtaining resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
8. Things have right to be used for obtaining resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
9. Things must not necessarily be used for depriving resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
10. Things have right not to be used for depriving resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.

Alternative 2. This is the most correct alternative, as it does not replace one set of unfounded convictions with another. It simply states the absence of conviction, which cannot be replaced because there are no justified convictions. The only option is to live without convictions and without demands.
1. I have no grounds for such convictions and demands.
2. I have no demands for things.

No benefit required.
1. I have no conviction/demand that things must necessarily bring benefit/resources/gains/money/love/pleasure to me/others.
2. I have no conviction/demand that things have no right not to bring benefit/resources/gains/money/love/pleasure to me/others.
3. I have no conviction/demand that things must necessarily not bring harm to me/others.
4. I have no conviction/demand that things have no right to bring harm to me/others.
5. I have no conviction/demand that things must necessarily not lead to the loss of resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
6. I have no conviction/demand that things have no right to lead to the loss of resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
7. I have no conviction/demand that things must necessarily be used for obtaining resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
8. I have no conviction/demand that things have no right not to be used for obtaining resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
9. I have no conviction/demand that things must necessarily not be used for depriving resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
10. I have no conviction/demand that things have no right to be used for depriving resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.

No harm required.
1. I have no conviction/demand that things must necessarily not bring benefit/resources/gains/money/love/pleasure to me/others.
2. I have no conviction/demand that things have no right to bring benefit/resources/gains/money/love/pleasure to me/others.
3. I have no conviction/demand that things must necessarily bring harm to me/others.
4. I have no conviction/demand that things have no right not to bring harm to me/others.
5. I have no conviction/demand that things must necessarily lead to the loss of resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
6. I have no conviction/demand that things have no right not to lead to the loss of resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
7. I have no conviction/demand that things must necessarily not be used for obtaining resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
8. I have no conviction/demand that things have no right to be used for obtaining resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
9. I have no conviction/demand that things must necessarily be used for depriving resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
10. I have no conviction/demand that things have no right not to be used for depriving resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.

Most general formulations. (most powerful impact on the mind)
0. I have no convictions and no demands for things.
1. I have no conviction/demand that things must necessarily bring something to me/others.
2. I have no conviction/demand that things have no right not to bring something to me/others.
3. I have no conviction/demand that things must necessarily not bring something to me/others.
4. I have no conviction/demand that things have no right to bring something to me/others.
5. I have no conviction/demand that things must necessarily not lead to something.
6. I have no conviction/demand that things have no right to lead to something.
7. I have no conviction/demand that things must necessarily lead to the something.
8. I have no conviction/demand that things have no right not to lead to something.
9. I have no conviction/demand that things must necessarily be used for something.
10. I have no conviction/demand that things have no right not to be used for something.
11. I have no conviction/demand that things must necessarily not be used for something.
12. I have no conviction/demand that things have no right to be used for something.

Even simpler?
1. I have no conviction/demand that things must necessarily do something.
2. I have no conviction/demand that things must necessarily not do something.
3. I have no conviction/demand that things have no right to something.

1 A demand for something/inanimate objects/entities.

Benefit required.
1. Something must necessarily bring benefit/resources/gains/money/love/pleasure to me/others.
2. Something have no right not to bring benefit/resources/gains/money/love/pleasure to me/others.
3. Something must necessarily not bring harm to me/others.
4. Something have no right to bring harm to me/others.
5. Something must necessarily not lead to the loss of resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
6. Something have no right to lead to the loss of resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
7. Something must necessarily be used for obtaining resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
8. Something have no right not to be used for obtaining resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
9. Something must necessarily not be used for depriving resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
10. Something have no right to be used for depriving resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.

Harm required.
1. Something must necessarily not bring benefit/resources/gains/money/love/pleasure to me/others.
2. Something have no right to bring benefit/resources/gains/money/love/pleasure to me/others.
3. Something must necessarily bring harm to me/others.
4. Something have no right not to bring harm to me/others.
5. Something must necessarily lead to the loss of resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
6. Something have no right not to lead to the loss of resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
7. Something must necessarily not be used for obtaining resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
8. Something have no right to be used for obtaining resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
9. Something must necessarily be used for depriving resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
10. Something have no right not to be used for depriving resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.

Question.
1. Why must something necessarily do/do not do something?
2. On what basis does this conviction hold?
3. Where does this demand for something come from?
4. Why must something necessarily be viewed through the lens of benefit/harm to me/others?
5. Why must something necessarily be used/not used for something?
6. Why do something have no right to simply be?

Alternative 1. This is not a very correct alternative, as the brain may perceive it as a system of new convictions, which is wrong and can create a bad state because of it.
1. I have no grounds for such convictions and demands.
2. I have no demands for something.

No benefit required.
1. Nothing must necessarily bring benefit/resources/gains/money/love/pleasure to me/others.
2. Everything has the right not to bring benefit/resources/gains/money/love/pleasure to me/others.
3. Nothing must necessarily not bring harm to me/others.
4. Everything has the right to bring harm to me/others.
5. Nothing must necessarily not lead to the loss of resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
6. Everything has the right to lead to the loss of resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
7. Nothing must necessarily be used for obtaining resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
8. Everything has the right not to be used for obtaining resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
9. Nothing must necessarily not be used for depriving resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
10. Everything has the right to be used for depriving resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.

No harm required.
1. Nothing must necessarily not bring benefit/resources/gains/money/love/pleasure to me/others.
2. Everything has the right to bring benefit/resources/gains/money/love/pleasure to me/others.
3. Nothing must necessarily bring harm to me/others.
4. Everything has the right not to bring harm to me/others.
5. Nothing must necessarily lead to the loss of resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
6. Everything has the right not to lead to the loss of resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
7. Nothing must necessarily not be used for obtaining resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
8. Everything has the right to be used for obtaining resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
9. Nothing must necessarily be used for depriving resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
10. Everything has the right not to be used for depriving resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.

Alternative 2. This is the most correct alternative, as it does not replace one set of unfounded convictions with another. It simply states the absence of conviction, which cannot be replaced because there are no justified convictions. The only option is to live without convictions and without demands.
1. I have no grounds for such convictions and demands.
2. I have no demands for something.

No benefit required.
1. I have no conviction/demand that something must necessarily bring benefit/resources/gains/money/love/pleasure to me/others.
2. I have no conviction/demand that something have no right not to bring benefit/resources/gains/money/love/pleasure to me/others.
3. I have no conviction/demand that something must necessarily not bring harm to me/others.
4. I have no conviction/demand that something have no right to bring harm to me/others.
5. I have no conviction/demand that something must necessarily not lead to the loss of resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
6. I have no conviction/demand that something have no right to lead to the loss of resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
7. I have no conviction/demand that something must necessarily be used for obtaining resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
8. I have no conviction/demand that something have no right not to be used for obtaining resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
9. I have no conviction/demand that something must necessarily not be used for depriving resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
10. I have no conviction/demand that something have no right to be used for depriving resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.

No harm required.
1. I have no conviction/demand that something must necessarily not bring benefit/resources/gains/money/love/pleasure to me/others.
2. I have no conviction/demand that something have no right to bring benefit/resources/gains/money/love/pleasure to me/others.
3. I have no conviction/demand that something must necessarily bring harm to me/others.
4. I have no conviction/demand that something have no right not to bring harm to me/others.
5. I have no conviction/demand that something must necessarily lead to the loss of resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
6. I have no conviction/demand that something have no right not to lead to the loss of resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
7. I have no conviction/demand that something must necessarily not be used for obtaining resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
8. I have no conviction/demand that something have no right to be used for obtaining resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
9. I have no conviction/demand that something must necessarily be used for depriving resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.
10. I have no conviction/demand that something have no right not to be used for depriving resources/gains/money/love/pleasure.

Most general formulations. (most powerful impact on the mind)
0. I have no convictions and no demands for something.
1. I have no conviction/demand that something must necessarily bring something to me/others.
2. I have no conviction/demand that something have no right not to bring something to me/others.
3. I have no conviction/demand that something must necessarily not bring something to me/others.
4. I have no conviction/demand that something have no right to bring something to me/others.
5. I have no conviction/demand that something must necessarily not lead to something.
6. I have no conviction/demand that something have no right to lead to something.
7. I have no conviction/demand that something must necessarily lead to the something.
8. I have no conviction/demand that something have no right not to lead to something.
9. I have no conviction/demand that something must necessarily be used for something.
10. I have no conviction/demand that something have no right not to be used for something.
11. I have no conviction/demand that something must necessarily not be used for something.
12. I have no conviction/demand that something have no right to be used for something.

Even simpler?
1. I have no conviction/demand that something must necessarily do something.
2. I have no conviction/demand that something must necessarily not do something.
3. I have no conviction/demand that something have no right to something.

1 A demand for myself.

Benefit required.
1. I must necessarily receive resources/gains/money/love/pleasure in my life.
2. I have no right not to receive resources/gains/money/love/pleasure in my life.
3. I must necessarily not lose resources/gains/money/love/pleasure in my life.
4. I have no right to lose resources/gains/money/love/pleasure in my life.

Harm required.
1. I must necessarily not receive resources/gains/money/love/pleasure in my life.
2. I have no right to receive resources/gains/money/love/pleasure in my life.
3. I must necessarily lose resources/gains/money/love/pleasure in my life.
4. I have no right not to lose resources/gains/money/love/pleasure in my life.

Question.
1. Why must I necessarily do/do not do something?
2. On what basis does this conviction hold?
3. Where does this demand for myself come from?
4. Why must I necessarily be viewed through the lens of what I receive/lose?
5. Why do I have no right to simply be?

Alternative 1. This is not a very correct alternative, as the brain may perceive it as a system of new convictions, which is wrong and can create a bad state because of it.
1. I have no grounds for such convictions and demands.
2. I have no demands for myself.

No benefit required.
1. I must not necessarily receive resources/gains/money/love/pleasure in my life.
2. I have right not to receive resources/gains/money/love/pleasure in my life.
3. I must not necessarily not lose resources/gains/money/love/pleasure in my life.
4. I have right to lose resources/gains/money/love/pleasure in my life.

No harm required.
1. I must not necessarily not receive resources/gains/money/love/pleasure in my life.
2. I have right to receive resources/gains/money/love/pleasure in my life.
3. I must not necessarily lose resources/gains/money/love/pleasure in my life.
4. I have right not to lose resources/gains/money/love/pleasure in my life.

Alternative 2. This is the most correct alternative, as it does not replace one set of unfounded convictions with another. It simply states the absence of conviction, which cannot be replaced because there are no justified convictions. The only option is to live without convictions and without demands.
1. I have no grounds for such convictions and demands.
2. I have no demands for myself.

No benefit required.
1. I have no conviction/demand that I must necessarily receive resources/gains/money/love/pleasure in my life.
2. I have no conviction/demand that I have no right not to receive resources/gains/money/love/pleasure in my life.
3. I have no conviction/demand that I must necessarily not lose resources/gains/money/love/pleasure in my life.
4. I have no conviction/demand that I have no right to lose resources/gains/money/love/pleasure in my life.

No harm required.
1. I have no conviction/demand that I must necessarily not receive resources/gains/money/love/pleasure in my life.
2. I have no conviction/demand that I have no right to receive resources/gains/money/love/pleasure in my life.
3. I have no conviction/demand that I must necessarily lose resources/gains/money/love/pleasure in my life.
4. I have no conviction/demand that I have no right not to lose resources/gains/money/love/pleasure in my life.

Most general formulations. (Most powerful impact on the mind)
0. I have no convictions and no demands for myself.
1. I have no conviction/demand that I must necessarily receive something in my life.
2. I have no conviction/demand that I have no right not to receive something in my life.
3. I have no conviction/demand that I must necessarily not lose something in my life.
4. I have no conviction/demand that I have no right to lose something in my life.
5. I have no conviction/demand that I must necessarily not receive something in my life.
6. I have no conviction/demand that I have no right to receive something in my life.
7. I have no conviction/demand that I must necessarily lose something in my life.
8. I have no conviction/demand that I have no right not to lose something in my life.

Even simpler?
1. I have no conviction/demand that I must necessarily do something.
2. I have no conviction/demand that I must necessarily not do something.
3. I have no conviction/demand that I have no right to something.

1 A demand for others.

Benefit required.
1. Others must necessarily receive resources/gains/money/love/pleasure in their life.
2. Others have no right not to receive resources/gains/money/love/pleasure in their life.
3. Others must necessarily not lose resources/gains/money/love/pleasure in their life.
4. Others have no right to lose resources/gains/money/love/pleasure in their life.

Harm required.
1. Others must necessarily not receive resources/gains/money/love/pleasure in their life.
2. Others have no right to receive resources/gains/money/love/pleasure in their life.
3. Others must necessarily lose resources/gains/money/love/pleasure in their life.
4. Others have no right not to lose resources/gains/money/love/pleasure in their life.

Question.
1. Why must others necessarily do/do not do something?
2. On what basis does this conviction hold?
3. Where does this demand for others come from?
4. Why must others necessarily be viewed through the lens of what they receive/lose?
5. Why do others have no right to simply be?

Alternative 1. This is not a very correct alternative, as the brain may perceive it as a system of new convictions, which is wrong and can create a bad state because of it.
1. I have no grounds for such convictions and demands.
2. I have no demands for others.

No benefit required.
1. Others must not necessarily receive resources/gains/money/love/pleasure in their life.
2. Others have right not to receive resources/gains/money/love/pleasure in their life.
3. Others must not necessarily not lose resources/gains/money/love/pleasure in their life.
4. Others have right to lose resources/gains/money/love/pleasure in their life.

No harm required.
1. Others must not necessarily not receive resources/gains/money/love/pleasure in their life.
2. Others have right to receive resources/gains/money/love/pleasure in their life.
3. Others must not necessarily lose resources/gains/money/love/pleasure in their life.
4. Others have right not to lose resources/gains/money/love/pleasure in their life.

Alternative 2. This is the most correct alternative, as it does not replace one set of unfounded convictions with another. Otherst simply states the absence of conviction, which cannot be replaced because there are no justified convictions. The only option is to live without convictions and without demands.
1. I have no grounds for such convictions and demands.
2. I have no demands for others.

No benefit required.
1. I have no conviction/demand that others must necessarily receive resources/gains/money/love/pleasure in their life.
2. I have no conviction/demand that others have no right not to receive resources/gains/money/love/pleasure in their life.
3. I have no conviction/demand that others must necessarily not lose resources/gains/money/love/pleasure in their life.
4. I have no conviction/demand that others have no right to lose resources/gains/money/love/pleasure in their life.

No harm required.
1. I have no conviction/demand that others must necessarily not receive resources/gains/money/love/pleasure in their life.
2. I have no conviction/demand that others have no right to receive resources/gains/money/love/pleasure in their life.
3. I have no conviction/demand that others must necessarily lose resources/gains/money/love/pleasure in their life.
4. I have no conviction/demand that others have no right not to lose resources/gains/money/love/pleasure in their life.

Most general formulations. (Most powerful impact on the mind)
0. I have no convictions and no demands for others.
1. I have no conviction/demand that others must necessarily receive something in their life.
2. I have no conviction/demand that others have no right not to receive something in their life.
3. I have no conviction/demand that others must necessarily not lose something in their life.
4. I have no conviction/demand that others have no right to lose something in their life.
5. I have no conviction/demand that others must necessarily not receive something in their life.
6. I have no conviction/demand that others have no right to receive something in their life.
7. I have no conviction/demand that others must necessarily lose something in their life.
8. I have no conviction/demand that others have no right not to lose something in their life.

Even simpler?
1. I have no conviction/demand that others must necessarily do something.
2. I have no conviction/demand that others must necessarily not do something.
3. I have no conviction/demand that others have no right to something.

1 A demand for someone.

Benefit required.
1. Someone must necessarily receive resources/gains/money/love/pleasure in their life.
2. Someone has no right not to receive resources/gains/money/love/pleasure in their life.
3. Someone must necessarily not lose resources/gains/money/love/pleasure in their life.
4. Someone has no right to lose resources/gains/money/love/pleasure in their life.

Harm required.
1. Someone must necessarily not receive resources/gains/money/love/pleasure in their life.
2. Someone has no right to receive resources/gains/money/love/pleasure in their life.
3. Someone must necessarily lose resources/gains/money/love/pleasure in their life.
4. Someone has no right not to lose resources/gains/money/love/pleasure in their life.

Question.
1. Why must someone necessarily do/do not do something?
2. On what basis does this conviction hold?
3. Where does this demand for someone come from?
4. Why must someone necessarily be viewed through the lens of what they receive/lose in their life?
5. Why do someone has no right to simply be?

Alternative 1. This is not a very correct alternative, as the brain may perceive it as a system of new convictions, which is wrong and can create a bad state because of it.
1. I have no grounds for such convictions and demands.
2. I have no demands for anyone.

No benefit required.
1. No one must necessarily receive resources/gains/money/love/pleasure in their life.
2. Everyone has right not to receive resources/gains/money/love/pleasure in their life.
3. No one must necessarily not lose resources/gains/money/love/pleasure in their life.
4. Everyone has right to lose resources/gains/money/love/pleasure in their life.

No harm required.
1. No one must necessarily not receive resources/gains/money/love/pleasure in their life.
2. Everyone has right to receive resources/gains/money/love/pleasure in their life.
3. No one must necessarily lose resources/gains/money/love/pleasure in their life.
4. Everyone has right not to lose resources/gains/money/love/pleasure in their life.

Alternative 2. This is the most correct alternative, as it does not replace one set of unfounded convictions with another. Someonet simply states the absence of conviction, which cannot be replaced because there are no justified convictions. The only option is to live without convictions and without demands.
1. I has no grounds for such convictions and demands.
2. I has no demands for anyone.

No benefit required.
1. I has no conviction/demand that someone must necessarily receive resources/gains/money/love/pleasure in their life.
2. I has no conviction/demand that someone has no right not to receive resources/gains/money/love/pleasure in their life.
3. I has no conviction/demand that someone must necessarily not lose resources/gains/money/love/pleasure in their life.
4. I has no conviction/demand that someone has no right to lose resources/gains/money/love/pleasure in their life.

No harm required.
1. I has no conviction/demand that someone must necessarily not receive resources/gains/money/love/pleasure in their life.
2. I has no conviction/demand that someone has no right to receive resources/gains/money/love/pleasure in their life.
3. I has no conviction/demand that someone must necessarily lose resources/gains/money/love/pleasure in their life.
4. I has no conviction/demand that someone has no right not to lose resources/gains/money/love/pleasure in their life.

Most general formulations. (Most powerful impact on the mind)
0. I has no convictions and no demands for anyone.
1. I has no conviction/demand that someone must necessarily receive something in their life.
2. I has no conviction/demand that someone has no right not to receive something in their life.
3. I has no conviction/demand that someone must necessarily not lose something in their life.
4. I has no conviction/demand that someone has no right to lose something in their life.
5. I has no conviction/demand that someone must necessarily not receive something in their life.
6. I has no conviction/demand that someone has no right to receive something in their life.
7. I has no conviction/demand that someone must necessarily lose something in their life.
8. I has no conviction/demand that someone has no right not to lose something in their life.

Even simpler?
1. I has no conviction/demand that someone must necessarily do something.
2. I has no conviction/demand that someone must necessarily not do something.
3. I has no conviction/demand that someone has no right to something.

1 A demand for reality/life/world/universe.

Benefit required.
1. Reality must necessarily give resources/gains/money/love/pleasure to me/others.
2. Reality has no right not to give resources/gains/money/love/pleasure to me/others.
3. Reality must necessarily not take away resources/gains/money/love/pleasure from me/others.
4. Reality has no right to take away resources/gains/money/love/pleasure from me/others.

Harm required.
1. Reality must necessarily not give resources/gains/money/love/pleasure to me/others.
2. Reality has no right to give resources/gains/money/love/pleasure to me/others.
3. Reality must necessarily take away resources/gains/money/love/pleasure from me/others.
4. Reality has no right not to take away resources/gains/money/love/pleasure from me/others.

Question.
1. Why must reality necessarily do/do not do something?
2. On what basis does this conviction hold?
3. Where does this demand for reality come from?
4. Why must reality necessarily be viewed through the lens of what it gives/takes away?
5. Why do reality has no right to simply be?

Alternative 1. This is not a very correct alternative, as the brain may perceive it as a system of new convictions, which is wrong and can create a bad state because of it.
1. I have no grounds for such convictions and demands.
2. I have no demands for reality.

No benefit required.
1. Reality must not necessarily give resources/gains/money/love/pleasure to me/others.
2. Reality has right not to give resources/gains/money/love/pleasure to me/others.
3. Reality must not necessarily not take away resources/gains/money/love/pleasure from me/others.
4. Reality has right to take away resources/gains/money/love/pleasure from me/others.

No harm required.
1. Reality must not necessarily not give resources/gains/money/love/pleasure to me/others.
2. Reality has right to give resources/gains/money/love/pleasure to me/others.
3. Reality must not necessarily take away resources/gains/money/love/pleasure from me/others.
4. Reality has right not to take away resources/gains/money/love/pleasure from me/others.

Alternative 2. This is the most correct alternative, as it does not replace one set of unfounded convictions with another. Realityt simply states the absence of conviction, which cannot be replaced because there are no justified convictions. The only option is to live without convictions and without demands.
1. I have no grounds for such convictions and demands.
2. I have no demands for reality.

No benefit required.
1. I have no conviction/demand that reality must necessarily give resources/gains/money/love/pleasure to me/others.
2. I have no conviction/demand that reality has no right not to give resources/gains/money/love/pleasure to me/others.
3. I have no conviction/demand that reality must necessarily not take away resources/gains/money/love/pleasure from me/others.
4. I have no conviction/demand that reality has no right to take away resources/gains/money/love/pleasure t from me/others.

No harm required.
1. I have no conviction/demand that reality must necessarily not give resources/gains/money/love/pleasure to me/others.
2. I have no conviction/demand that reality has no right to give resources/gains/money/love/pleasure to me/others.
3. I have no conviction/demand that reality must necessarily take away resources/gains/money/love/pleasure from me/others.
4. I have no conviction/demand that reality has no right not to take away resources/gains/money/love/pleasure from me/others.

Most general formulations. (Most powerful impact on the mind)
0. I have no convictions and no demands for reality.
1. I have no conviction/demand that reality must necessarily give something to me/others.
2. I have no conviction/demand that reality has no right not to give something to me/others.
3. I have no conviction/demand that reality must necessarily not take away something from me/others.
4. I have no conviction/demand that reality has no right to take away something from me/others.
5. I have no conviction/demand that reality must necessarily not give something to me/others.
6. I have no conviction/demand that reality has no right to give something to me/others.
7. I have no conviction/demand that reality must necessarily take away something from me/others.
8. I have no conviction/demand that reality has no right not to take away something from me/others.

Even simpler?
1. I have no conviction/demand that reality must necessarily do something.
2. I have no conviction/demand that reality must necessarily not do something.
3. I have no conviction/demand that reality has no right to something.

1 A demand.

1. Something must necessarily be.

2. Something has no right not to be.

3. Something must necessarily not be.

4. Something has no right to be.

Question.

1. Why something is necessary?

2. On what basis does this conviction hold?

3. Where does this demand come from?

4. Why does something have no right?

Alternative 1. This is not a very correct alternative, as the brain may perceive it as a system of new convictions, which is wrong and can create a bad state because of it.
1. I have no grounds for such convictions and demands.

2. I have no demands.

1. Nothing must necessarily be.

2. Everything has the right not to be.

3. Nothing must necessarily not be.

4. Everything has the right to be.

Alternative 2. This is the most correct alternative, as it does not replace one set of unfounded convictions with another. It simply states the absence of conviction, which cannot be replaced because there are no justified convictions. The only option is to live without convictions and without demands.

0. I have no convictions and demands.

1. I have no conviction/demand that something must necessarily be.

2. I have no conviction/demand that something has no right not to be.

3. I have no conviction/demand that something must necessarily not be.

4. I have no conviction/demand that something has no right to be.

Most general formulations. (Most powerful impact on the mind)

1. I have no convictions and no demands.

2. I have no conviction/demand that something is necessary.

3. I have no conviction/demand that something has no right.