I. Immersion into One’s Own Infinity
It all begins with silence. Not the kind of silence that frightens with its void, but the one that is pregnant with profound meanings. It happens when the external world—with its neon signs, relentless deadlines, and the weight of others’ expectations—suddenly loses its power supply. The light bulbs burn out, one after another. The stage lights of the theater, where you have played the leading role for others for so long, are switched off. And there, in that darkness, you finally see your own light for the very first time.
This is the state of “depth.” Slow, thick, like honey trickling down the walls of time. You feel a thirst for a journey, not measured in kilometers, but in the layers of your own essence. You step into the forefront. Externally, everything ceases to be illuminated. You are no longer an object of observation—you yourself become the Eye.
It is akin to diving into deep, mirrored water. The first few meters are a struggle—sunbeams still attempting to grasp you by the shoulders. But you descend deeper. The temperature of your thoughts begins to change. The further down you go, the less sunlight reaches you from above. Up there, on the surface, only noise and foam remain. But here, in the deep waters of your soul, dwell wondrous creatures—thoughts that never rise to the light of day. They are transparent, they glow with their own phosphor, and they know things about you that you yourself were afraid to utter aloud.
II. The Art of Being Embodied
You begin to feel the true value of embodiment. It is not merely occupying a body; it is the realization of every single cell as a constituent part of the universe. The journey toward contemplation becomes your only route. There is no final destination here, for the journey itself is the arrival. You feel a lightness—the same lightness felt by a leaf that has detached from its branch and realized that gravity is simply a way to embrace the earth.
This is peace. This is the act of letting go. You finally unclench your fists. Everything you held onto so tightly—grievances, plans, fears—simply dissolves within this immense volume of inner water. You become empty, and in this emptiness, space finally emerges for that which is real. You do not struggle against the current; you become the current itself.
III. The Star Room of Memories
And then, a miracle occurs. The depth begins to rise upward. This is the ultimate paradox of the soul: when you reach the very bottom of yourself, you suddenly find yourself among the stars. Water transforms into ether. You are no longer at the bottom of the ocean; you are in the heart of a starship, gliding soundlessly through a space where there is no “yesterday” and no “tomorrow.”
This is your own private cabin in infinity. A room with silvery walls, where the air smells of ozone and eternity. And here, behind a vast, perfect pane of glass, you see them. The Star Children.
They are you. Those fragments of your soul that did not have the time to grow up or chose to remain eternally young. They are pure, like the first breath of the universe. They reside in the room behind the glass—not because they are captives, but because they are far too fragile for the harshness of reality. You observe them from a distance. Between you lies the glass, like a membrane between the physical and the spiritual realms. You see them dancing in weightlessness, their eyes reflecting nebulae that you do not yet even know exist.
Your observation is filled with serenity. You do not yearn to go there, behind the glass. You know that it is enough to simply be a witness to their existence. Your presence here, in the observer’s chair, gives them the strength they need to shine.
IV. A Flower Amidst the Vacuum
And in this precise moment of contemplation, you make one final gesture. You utter no words, you write no formulas. You simply plant a flower. A pink lotus.
It manifests right in the center of the room, on the threshold between the cold metal of the ship and the pure light of the stars. The lotus petals are pink, like a dawn that never occurs in the vacuum of space, yet one that you carry within you. Its roots require no soil; they feed upon your inner peace. Its fragrance fills the sterile cabin, rendering it alive.
This lotus is the sign that your journey was not an escape. It was a return. You have woven together the depth of the ocean, the silence of space, the inviolability of childhood, and the beauty of life into a single point. Now, everything on the outside has truly ceased to be illuminated, for you yourself have become the Sun of your inner world.
You close your eyes for a brief moment, and when you open them—you are still there. At the distance of contemplation. With a lotus in your hands. With peace in your heart. The journey is complete, but the “being” has only just begun.
