There used to be a kind of spirit running through everything. A thread. A hum of presence I called me. Even suffering had a kind of richness to it—like I was growing, transforming, on a path. Everything was mine. Mine to endure, mine to savor.

The structure is always the same:
A lack now.
A solution later.
A seeker here.
An arrival elsewhere.

The dream doesn’t resolve.
It doesn’t become truth.
It collapses.

And when it does, there is no revelation.
No arrival.
No presence to confirm what remains.

When we meet, something remarkably simple happens. Amid the busy noise of life - phones buzzing, thoughts racing, obligations looming - we pause. Without techniques or special preparations, we look directly at what's already here.

What we're discovering feels like a void - a spacious emptiness where all your usual reference points dissolve. But unlike the intimidating nothingness described in spiritual texts, this void is surprisingly ordinary. It reveals itself while you're on a conference call, buying groceries, or waiting for the elevator. It's the natural background of every experience, hiding in plain sight.

You've done it. I've done it. We turn every experience into evidence of spiritual progress or failure. A moment of peace becomes proof we're "getting somewhere." A flash of anger shows we're "not there yet." Even a sunset becomes a test - did we experience it "spiritually enough"?

Think about how many thoughts pass through your mind each day without taking root. Most dissolve on their own because you don't give them special importance. These questioning thoughts can do the same. They only seem significant because we've learned to treat them as meaningful markers on a spiritual path.

We see life as a timeline - a story of progress from past to future. Each achievement follows this pattern: set a goal, work toward it, reach the destination. It's how we approach everything, from learning a language to building a career. Then we bring this same thinking to spiritual seeking.

But chasing these peaks is just another form of addiction. You're not interested in what's actually here - you want the thrill of the extraordinary. The excitement of the shift becomes more important than what it's pointing to. It's like focusing on the fireworks instead of what you're actually celebrating.

I've been thinking about you lately. No, not the focused version of you that shows up for spiritual practice, but the everyday you. The one who wakes up groggy, already feeling the weight of responsibilities. The one who gets stressed about work, worried about health, agitated in traffic. We spend so much time hiding from what's obviously here, often without realizing it.