Discoveries of a Traveller in Search of the Meaning of Life (10 chapters)

Foreword

It is a timeless truth that love and joy are life's most beautiful values. The most precious nourishment in life is not what we put into our bodies, but what we awaken within ourselves. And here, I would like to share with you a small lesson from my own life.

Around 2007, shortly after the publication of my first book, Man on the Way to Becoming an Angel (Om înspre înger)—a book of axioms, as a friend once described it to me—I first encountered the idea of “living on light.” I came across it while reading Living on Light, by Jasmuheen, as well as other texts from yogic literature that described this phenomenon.

I cannot say exactly what Jasmuheen had in mind, but I understood “living on light” exactly as the words suggest: trying to feel the light of the Sun within yourself and, through this, replacing ordinary physical nourishment.

For many years—probably fifteen or even more—I tried to bring this sunlight into myself, to become conscious of it and to make use of it. Towards the end of this period, when I saw that I was not achieving the results I had hoped for, I tried to imagine the light originating within my own Self, somewhere in my heart: powerful, white, red, gentle, vibrant, and taking many other forms. Yet I could not feel that this light gave me the strength and independence from conventional sources of nourishment that I would need to sustain my body and keep it alive.

During this time, there were entire periods lasting several months when I ate just one meal a day—and even that meal was poor in nutrients. Yet my body, although much younger and stronger than it is now, was becoming increasingly weak and anaemic. At the time, I was vegetarian, and the nutrients in dairy products provided some compensation. However, after five years of being vegan, eating just one meal a day has become impossible.

And so, little by little, I came to understand a fundamental truth. We human beings are not semiconductors; we are not made of silicon and aluminium, capable of nourishing ourselves with the energy and light arriving directly from outer space. We are biological beings who need a different kind of energetic nourishment, one that, in my view, consists primarily of love and joy.

This discovery gradually led me to see that the evolution of consciousness, compassion for animals, veganism, inner freedom, and the nature of existence are not separate subjects, but deeply interconnected aspects of the same search for the meaning of life. Throughout this book, I try to bring them together through my own experiences, reflections, and questions, showing how each has influenced my understanding of the others. Rather than offering isolated answers, I invite you to follow the journey through which these connections gradually revealed themselves to me.

From the moment I truly understood this, my life began to change. I acquired the energy to “be able to do,” in the sense familiar to those who pursue spirituality.

Until then, I had been unable to detach myself from the people and toxic environments in which my life was unfolding. But after understanding that “living on light" means nourishing ourselves with love, joy, understanding, forgiveness, and all our positive qualities, I was able to do something.

No one is so strong that they can truly develop in a deeply toxic environment. There are too many negative emotions there for you to obtain this truly divine nourishment.

Forgive as much as you can, refrain from harsh words, and leave that toxic environment, saying something simple and non-aggressive, as I did, and perhaps many others have done: “Our principles in life are too different, so it is better for all of us to live according to our own principles.”

It is true that, at a certain point, nothing can affect you any longer if you have reached the true inner light. But this cannot happen if you have not sufficiently nourished yourself with love and joy, drawn from the very life you are living.

I sometimes wonder whether this nourishment of love, joy, and other positive emotions can transform not only an individual's consciousness, but perhaps even the course of an entire genetic lineage, opening the way to a different paradigm of universal life. We might call it the world of angels or, in the terminology familiar to me, the Energetic Kingdom.

Quantum physics, along with other emerging sciences, offers us astonishing new perspectives on time, and even points to mind-bending experiments that invite us to question whether the true identity of a living being—its real self—is confined to the body or subject to time.

These are seemingly implausible working hypotheses. Yet our curiosity, together with our superconscious drive to explore what lies beyond the boundaries of our present understanding, may one day lead us towards discoveries that radically transform our simplistic views inherited from traditional religious beliefs, as well as our understanding of human relationships.

Such hypotheses are far from childish when we consider how profoundly the theory of special relativity changed our perspective, transforming scientific understanding and giving rise to practical applications that have improved our lives. Such breakthroughs do not arise merely by chance. They may also reflect the shared, extraordinarily intelligent spirit of humanity—the collective human capacity that brings a theory into being not simply because one exceptional mind is capable of conceiving it, but because enough minds within humanity have, by then, emerged to understand it.

Veganism is of particular importance in this endeavour, because it is difficult to believe that your inner Self will accept your desire to nourish yourself with love and joy while you are killing or exploiting other beings who frolic and rejoice in life just as we human beings do.

But if you are not yet able to become vegan and give up the exploitation of animals, at least give up meat. There is no heavier burden upon your conscience than the suffering of animals whose lives are taken from them.

This is the message dearest to my heart that I wish to share with you through this book.

©©©

PART I 

The Landscape of the Search

Chapter one

The Question That Would Not Leave Me

There are questions a person can put aside for years without ever truly escaping them.

They may disappear beneath the demands of ordinary life, become quieter when other interests occupy the mind, or seem to have been answered when we encounter an explanation that brings temporary peace. Yet sometimes, when the noise subsides, the question returns. It waits patiently, as though it knows something about us that we have not yet understood about ourselves.

For me, the question has always been some version of this:

"What is the meaning of a human life, and what am I supposed to do with mine?"

I do not remember every occasion on which it came to me, nor can I identify a single moment when the search began. Looking back, I see it less as an event than as a thread running through many years of reading, thinking, writing, questioning and changing. Sometimes the thread was visible; sometimes I lost sight of it. But whenever I returned to it, I discovered that I had never really let it go.

I have written books, explored philosophical ideas, examined spiritual teachings and tried to formulate principles that might help a human being live more consciously. Some of my conclusions have remained with me for a long time. Others have changed their meaning as my understanding developed. There have been periods when I felt I had discovered something important, followed by other periods in which I recognised how much remained unknown.

I mention this because I do not wish to present the journey as a succession of victories. That would be a convenient story, but not an honest one.

The search for meaning does not necessarily move in a straight line. A person may advance, retreat, reconsider, discard an old conviction and later discover that it contained a truth he had misunderstood. What appears to be a new discovery may sometimes be an old question seen from a different height.

And what appears to be a setback may be the beginning of a more accurate understanding.

I have gradually become less interested in appearing to know and more interested in discovering what I actually know.

This distinction may sound modest, but it changes the entire character of the search.

# The need to understand

Human beings are remarkably capable of adapting to their circumstances. We learn the habits of our families, the expectations of our societies and the rules of the worlds in which we live. We acquire professions, responsibilities, preferences and ambitions. We discover how to obtain food, protect ourselves, establish relationships and pursue the things we want.

Much of this learning is necessary. Without it, ordinary life would become almost impossible.

Yet there is a question we can easily overlook while becoming increasingly competent at living:

"Have I understood what living is for?"

We may become skilled at achieving our objectives without ever examining where those objectives came from. We may spend decades pursuing what we were taught to desire, only to discover that success has not answered the question that originally gave the pursuit its importance.

We may seek recognition, comfort, security, wealth, affection or influence. None of these things is necessarily wrong. Some can contribute substantially to a good life. Financial security, for example, can give a person greater freedom to choose how to use his time and energy. The ability to provide for oneself can reduce dependence on circumstances and on the goodwill of others.

I have never found a convincing reason to regard practical freedom as an enemy of spiritual inquiry. A person must live in the world before he can decide how to live beyond its ordinary demands.

But the means of living and the meaning of living are not necessarily the same thing.

We can satisfy one desire and immediately discover another. We can reach a destination and begin searching for a new one. We can accumulate possessions, experiences and achievements without ever arriving at a point where we can honestly say that we understand ourselves.

Perhaps this is not a defect in human nature. Perhaps it is an invitation.

The desire to understand may be one of the most important forces distinguishing a life that merely continues from a life that consciously develops. As long as there is something we genuinely wish to discover, the world remains open to us. A familiar subject can reveal a new dimension; an old book can speak differently; an experience we once dismissed can acquire a meaning we were previously unable to see.

I have come to regard this continuing curiosity as more than an intellectual preference. It is one of the principal sources of direction in my life.

A person who wants to understand must remain willing to learn. And a person who wants to learn must accept that his present understanding is incomplete.

This is not always comfortable. We become attached to our conclusions, particularly when we have spent years developing them. We may begin to identify with our ideas and experience a challenge to them as a challenge to ourselves. The more effort we have invested in a belief, the more difficult it can become to admit that the belief needs revision.

Yet if understanding matters more than the satisfaction of being right, reconsideration becomes a necessary part of progress.

I would rather discover that I was mistaken than spend the rest of my life defending a mistake merely because it once belonged to me.

This attitude has become increasingly important to me as the years have passed. I do not want my earlier writings to become a prison in which my present self must remain confined. I want to be able to look at what I believed yesterday and ask whether I understand it differently today.

The search must remain alive, even when the conclusions change.

# The answers that were not enough

When people ask about the meaning of life, they often expect an answer that can be stated in a few sentences. Perhaps they hope to find a principle that will organise their experiences, relieve their uncertainty and tell them what they ought to do.

There is nothing unreasonable about this hope. Uncertainty can be exhausting, and a coherent explanation can provide genuine relief.

But an explanation is not necessarily an understanding.

A person can learn a philosophical system, memorise religious teachings, repeat the language of spiritual development and become highly articulate about consciousness without undergoing a corresponding transformation in the way he lives.

I have become increasingly interested in this distance between what a person can say and what a person actually is.

It is possible to speak beautifully about compassion while remaining indifferent to suffering. It is possible to praise freedom while being governed by impulses one has never seriously examined. It is possible to discuss wisdom while refusing to reconsider a cherished opinion.

The problem is not that knowledge is useless. Quite the opposite: knowledge is indispensable. The problem is that knowledge can remain external to us, something we possess intellectually without allowing it to change our behaviour.

We can know a great deal about the path without taking many steps along it.

This observation has made me cautious about any teaching that promises transformation through acceptance alone. I am interested in ideas, but I want to know what they demand of the person who takes them seriously. What must change? What must be observed? What must be relinquished? What must be practised until it becomes more than a temporary intention?

These questions have accompanied me through my reading and writing. They have also led me to examine the relationship between the body, the mind and the kind of person I am becoming.

I have not always understood this relationship in the same way. My views have developed over time, and I expect that some will continue to develop. But one conviction has become progressively stronger: the search for meaning cannot remain confined to abstract thought. It must eventually enter the ordinary decisions through which a person conducts his life.

Otherwise, philosophy risks becoming a sophisticated form of entertainment.

We may enjoy the movement of ideas while leaving the structure of our existence untouched.

I have no desire to condemn intellectual exploration. I have spent too much of my own life pursuing it to regard it as unimportant. But I want the exploration to lead somewhere—not necessarily to a final answer, but to a different quality of attention, a greater capacity for understanding, and a more responsible relationship with the life around me.

The question is not simply whether an idea is attractive.

It is whether living in accordance with it makes us more conscious, more honest and less governed by forces we do not understand.

# Twenty years of searching

My writings over the years form a kind of record of this search. They preserve ideas that mattered to me at different stages of my life, attempts to describe experiences that were difficult to express, and efforts to bring scattered observations into a coherent picture.

When I look at such a body of work, I do not see a perfectly constructed doctrine that was waiting from the beginning to be revealed. I see a person trying to understand something that remained larger than his current vocabulary.

Writing became one of the instruments of that effort.

To write an idea down is to give it a form that can be examined. While it remains in the mind, it can seem complete because its uncertainties are concealed by the speed with which thought moves. On the page, the idea becomes more definite. Its gaps become visible. Its assumptions can be questioned. Sometimes the act of writing reveals that the thought was not yet mature enough to support the conclusion I wanted to draw from it.

And sometimes writing does the opposite: it reveals a connection that I had sensed but had not yet been able to articulate.

This is one reason I have continued to write.

Not every page has been equally successful, and not every formulation has survived. That is to be expected. The purpose of a record of inquiry is not to demonstrate that its author was always right. It is to preserve the movement of the search.

There is also a danger in writing, one that I have come to appreciate more clearly: the written word can make a temporary understanding appear permanent.

Once an idea has been published, it acquires a life of its own. Readers may encounter it years later, detached from the circumstances in which it was conceived. They may reasonably assume that the author still holds the same position, even when his thinking has moved beyond it.

A book can therefore become both a vessel of discovery and a container that limits future discovery.

This does not mean that writing is a mistake. It means that the writer must understand what he is doing when he fixes his thoughts in a form that others can preserve.

I am reluctant to pretend that a conclusion reached at one stage of life must remain unchanged simply because I once expressed it confidently. I would rather acknowledge the development of my understanding than defend an earlier formulation for the sake of consistency.

There is, of course, a difference between changing one's mind because one has discovered something and changing it merely because a new opinion is fashionable. The former can be an expression of intellectual honesty; the latter can be another form of dependence.

The important question is not whether we change.

It is "what moves us to change, and whether we are conscious of that movement".

Looking back over many years, I recognise recurring themes: the possibility of transforming oneself, the relationship between what we consume and what we become, the difference between mechanical existence and conscious living, and the conviction that the individual must take responsibility for his own development.

These themes did not necessarily appear in their present form at the beginning. They emerged, overlapped and acquired new meanings. Their gradual convergence is more significant to me than any single formulation.

Perhaps this is how a philosophy is born—not as a finished structure delivered to the mind, but as an increasingly coherent relationship between observations that once seemed unrelated.

I do not claim that the structure I have developed is complete. I only know that I have continued trying to build it.

That persistence is one of the few things I can offer with confidence.

# The discovery of the searcher

There comes a point in an extended search when the question itself begins to change.

At first, we may ask what the universe means, why human beings exist, whether consciousness survives death, or what lies beyond the limits of ordinary experience. We direct our attention outward, toward explanations that might reveal the structure of reality.

Eventually, if we remain attentive, another question begins to emerge:

"Who is the person asking all these questions?"

What do I actually observe when I say that I am thinking? How much of what I call my own opinion have I examined independently? How often do I act according to a conscious decision, and how often do I simply follow a familiar reaction? Can I distinguish between what I genuinely understand and what I merely wish to be true?

These questions do not replace the larger mysteries. They change our relationship with them.

A person may spend years discussing the nature of consciousness without paying sustained attention to the movements of his own consciousness. He may speculate about freedom while remaining unaware of the habits that govern his daily choices. He may search for an ultimate truth while overlooking the small distortions through which he interprets his immediate experience.

I began to see that the search for meaning also requires a study of the person conducting it.

This does not mean that the individual mind can solve every mystery by looking inward. Nor does it mean that subjective experience is automatically a reliable guide to reality. We can misunderstand ourselves as easily as we misunderstand the external world.

But our own lives provide material that cannot be replaced by abstract speculation alone.

We can observe our reactions, examine our motives, notice the circumstances in which we become defensive, and compare what we claim to value with what our actions reveal. We can ask whether our search for truth is genuine or whether we sometimes use ideas to protect an image of ourselves.

These observations are not always flattering. Yet they are useful precisely because they bring the inquiry closer to home.

It is easier to imagine that humanity must evolve than to recognise the ways in which I resist my own evolution.

It is easier to speak about compassion as a universal principle than to examine whether my everyday choices express it.

It is easier to admire freedom than to surrender a habit that offers immediate pleasure.

The searcher is not standing outside the problem, looking at it from a safe distance. He is part of the problem he is trying to understand.

And this realisation has consequences. It means that I cannot simply collect ideas and assume that their accumulation will transform me. I must also observe what happens when those ideas encounter my desires, fears, attachments and habits.

Knowledge becomes meaningful when I begin to discover what it asks of me.

# A life that continues to learn

One of the strongest intuitions to emerge from my reflections is that the desire to acquire new knowledge and abilities is closely connected with the meaning of continued existence.

When I imagine a person who no longer wishes to discover anything, whose curiosity has disappeared and whose days contain no genuine movement toward understanding, I see a kind of inner impoverishment. The person may continue to perform familiar activities, fulfil obligations and enjoy established pleasures. Yet something essential seems to have withdrawn from his relationship with life.

I do not mean that every moment must be productive, that rest is a weakness, or that a person must continually accumulate information. Knowledge can become another possession, collected without understanding and displayed without wisdom. There is a difference between being busy and being alive to experience.

What interests me is the willingness to remain open to discovery.

A person can learn from a book, a conversation, a mistake, a landscape, an unexpected encounter or a period of silence. Sometimes the most valuable discovery is not a new fact but the recognition that an old assumption was mistaken.

The desire to understand gives experience a future. It allows the individual to approach the next day not merely as another repetition of the previous one, but as an opportunity to see something more clearly.

I have sometimes extended this thought beyond the psychological meaning of learning. I have wondered whether the continuation of life itself might be understood in relation to the possibility of further experience and development. Could the impulse to discover be connected with something more fundamental than the interests of an individual human being?

These are philosophical questions, not established biological laws. A person's loss of curiosity does not mean that his physical life must end, and intellectual activity cannot guarantee longevity. The relationship between mental engagement, health and lifespan is more complex than any single explanation can capture.

But the deeper question remains meaningful:

"What reason does a conscious being have to continue its journey if it has abandoned the possibility of becoming more than it is?"

I cannot claim to know the ultimate answer. I can say that, for me, the desire to understand has become one of the strongest reasons to continue.

It keeps the future open.

And it has gradually led me to consider that the question of continued existence cannot be confined to humanity alone.

# The other lives

The more seriously I considered the significance of an individual's own development, the harder it became to ignore the corresponding question about other living beings.

Every human being experiences life from within. We know our own desire to continue, to discover, to enjoy the world and to avoid suffering. We make plans because we assume that there will be a future in which those plans can be fulfilled.

Other animals also display, in ways appropriate to their species, behaviour associated with seeking food, avoiding danger, forming attachments, exploring their surroundings and continuing to live.

We do not have direct access to the subjective experience of another creature. We should therefore be careful when claiming to know exactly what it understands or imagines. But the absence of direct access does not justify treating its life as though it had no value to itself.

An animal does not have to possess a human vocabulary for its suffering to matter.

It does not have to formulate a philosophy of existence before its desire to remain alive becomes worthy of consideration.

This observation has become central to my own ethical outlook. I have come to believe that the search for personal development must eventually confront the way we treat beings whose interests conflict with our pleasures.

It is easy to admire compassion when it costs us nothing. It is more demanding when compassion requires us to reconsider something familiar, convenient or enjoyable.

For me, the question of food belongs here.

I do not see the consumption of animal products merely as a matter of taste or personal preference. I see it as a question about the relationship between our desires and the continued existence of other beings. Where a person can nourish himself without killing animals, I believe that the pleasure of taste is not a sufficient reason to end their lives or participate unnecessarily in their exploitation.

This conviction has influenced my understanding of spiritual development. It has made me question whether a person can genuinely advance toward a more conscious and compassionate way of being while remaining indifferent to suffering that his own choices help to produce.

I will return to this question later, because it deserves more than a passing argument. It touches the relationship between consciousness and action, between the ideas we admire and the lives we support through our daily decisions.

For now, I want to emphasise something more fundamental.

My search for meaning has increasingly led me away from the assumption that human concerns are the only concerns that matter. I have begun to consider the possibility that every living being belongs to a much larger process of existence and development, one whose full nature we do not yet understand.

This possibility has changed the questions I ask.

Instead of asking only what I can obtain from life, I must also ask what my life contributes to the lives around me.

Instead of asking only how I can become more conscious, I must consider whether my pursuit of consciousness is accompanied by a growing respect for the existence of others.

And instead of treating the world as a collection of resources arranged around human desires, I must remain open to the possibility that the world contains journeys whose significance extends beyond my ability to recognise them.

I do not present this as a conclusion that everyone must accept. I present it as an important development in my own thinking.

The search has made the boundaries of my concern increasingly difficult to defend.

# No map can walk in our place

Over the years, I have encountered ideas that seemed capable of illuminating the human condition. Some came from philosophy, some from spiritual traditions, some from observations of ordinary behaviour, and others from my own attempts to connect what I had learned.

I have also become aware of how easily a person can become attached to the language of a path.

A name can be useful. A teaching can provide orientation. A community can offer support. A disciplined practice can help us recognise patterns that would otherwise remain invisible.

But none of these things can substitute for the individual's own work.

A map may be accurate, yet a person who studies it endlessly without travelling remains where he began. A description of courage does not make us courageous. A theory of compassion does not ensure that we act compassionately. And an explanation of consciousness does not, by itself, make us conscious.

This is why I do not wish to offer the reader a ready-made solution to the meaning of life.

I have ideas that matter deeply to me. I have principles that have emerged from years of reflection. I have developed a particular vision of human evolution and of the relationship between individual life and a greater spiritual reality. In later chapters, I will describe these ideas as honestly and clearly as I can.

But I do not want the reader to confuse my conclusions with a destination that must be reached by everyone.

My purpose is not to establish myself as a master, to create a circle of followers or to persuade others that I have discovered a final truth. I have spent too many years searching to believe that the mere possession of convictions makes a person qualified to direct another's life.

What I can offer is an account of persistence.

I can describe the questions that have occupied me, the ideas that have influenced me, the connections I have attempted to make and the principles that have gradually emerged. I can explain why certain conclusions seem compelling to me and acknowledge where I am exploring possibilities rather than claiming knowledge.

The reader must remain free to examine everything.

Some ideas may resonate immediately. Others may seem unconvincing. A few may provoke disagreement, and that disagreement may be useful if it encourages closer examination. There is no need to force agreement merely to preserve the appearance of a coherent philosophy.

Indeed, a reader who questions my conclusions seriously may be engaging with them more fruitfully than one who accepts them without reflection.

I would rather help someone formulate a better question than persuade him to repeat my answer.

The same principle applies to me. I must retain the freedom to reconsider my own conclusions. If future experience reveals a weakness in an argument, I should be able to acknowledge it. If a new discovery changes my understanding, I should not feel obliged to preserve an earlier position merely because it has become part of my written history.

A genuine search must permit the searcher to change.

Otherwise, what began as an attempt to discover truth can become a struggle to protect an identity.

# The beginning, again

At this stage, I do not know exactly where my search will lead.

I have a sense of direction, but not a complete map. I have convictions, but I do not regard every conviction as equally certain. I have developed a language for describing what I believe may be possible, yet I remain aware that language can reach its limits long before the reality it attempts to describe.

There are things I consider deeply important that I cannot prove to another person's satisfaction. There are other things that can be investigated through observation, reason and scientific evidence. I do not want to confuse these different forms of understanding.

Nor do I want to dismiss a question merely because I cannot yet answer it.

The unknown can be an invitation to investigate, provided that we do not mistake the strength of our desire for the truth of our conclusion.

I have learned to value the question that remains open more than the answer that merely brings relief.

This does not mean that I wish to live in permanent uncertainty. I want to understand as much as I can. I want to discover which of my ideas can withstand examination, which practices genuinely help me become more conscious, and which convictions deserve to be revised or abandoned.

But I no longer believe that the search must end in a final declaration.

Perhaps the meaning of life is not a sentence that can be written once and preserved forever. Perhaps it is something that becomes clearer as we learn to live, observe, question and act with greater understanding.

Perhaps the journey matters not because we are guaranteed to reach a particular destination, but because the effort to understand changes the person making it.

I began with a question about the meaning of human existence.

Over time, it became a question about consciousness, then about responsibility, then about the lives of other beings, and eventually about the nature of existence itself. Each question opened another door. None has yet revealed the whole building.

I do not know whether the search will bring me to the certainty I once imagined possible. I do not know whether the most important discoveries lie ahead or whether some of them have already occurred without my fully understanding their significance.

What I know is that I do not want to stop asking.

And if these pages have any value for another person, I hope it will not be because they provide a doctrine to adopt or a personality to admire. I hope it will be because they demonstrate that a person can remain committed to a question for many years, allow his understanding to evolve, and continue moving without pretending to have arrived.

You do not need to follow my path.

You do not need to agree with my conclusions.

You need not even be interested in the destination I imagine.

But perhaps you have a question of your own that refuses to leave you.

If so, take it seriously.

Give it time. Examine the answers you have inherited. Observe your own life. Learn from others without surrendering your responsibility to think. Be willing to discover that you were mistaken, and equally willing to recognise a truth when it appears in a form you did not expect.

Above all, do not allow the desire for certainty to extinguish the desire to understand.

The traveller does not know everything about the road ahead.

He knows only that the question remains alive.

And so he continues.

©©©

Chapter Two

The Search Beyond Inherited Answers

We are born into a world that already has answers for us.

Before we can ask what life means, we are given explanations. We learn what is good and what is evil, what we should believe, what we should fear, and what we may hope for. We inherit stories about the beginning of the world and its final destination. We are told who we are, where we came from, and what might happen to us after death.

These answers can provide comfort. They can give people a sense of belonging, a moral framework, and the feeling that their lives are part of something larger than themselves. I understand their appeal. A human being who faces the uncertainty of existence may naturally seek a firm foundation on which to build his life.

Yet I gradually came to recognise a distinction that would become increasingly important to me: **there is a difference between receiving an answer and discovering its truth for oneself.**

An answer can be inherited without being understood. It can be repeated without being examined. It can even become part of our identity, so that questioning it feels like questioning our own existence.

I did not want to reject ideas merely because they had been handed down to me. Nor did I want to accept them simply because they were ancient, widely respected, or comforting. I wanted to understand what justified them.

This desire did not immediately provide me with better answers. It opened the door to more questions.

# The comfort of certainty

Certainty has an extraordinary attraction. It promises to relieve us of the burden of searching.

If someone tells us that the purpose of life is already known, that every event follows a divine plan, and that the final destination has been prepared for those who obey the right rules, we may feel that the most difficult problem has been solved.

But has it?

Perhaps we have found an answer. Perhaps we have found a tradition that deserves our respect. Or perhaps we have simply found a place where we no longer feel obliged to ask questions.

These possibilities are not identical.

I came to suspect that one of the greatest obstacles to understanding is not ignorance itself, but the belief that we have already understood enough. Ignorance can encourage investigation when we recognise it. The illusion of knowledge, on the other hand, may prevent investigation altogether.

This applies to religious beliefs, philosophical systems, scientific theories, and our most intimate convictions. Any idea can become an obstacle when we use it to protect ourselves from further inquiry.

I do not regard this as an argument against belief. A person may hold a belief sincerely and still remain open to examination. The difficulty begins when sincerity is mistaken for proof, or when loyalty to an idea becomes more important than the search for truth.

I had to ask myself whether I was willing to follow a question even when it led somewhere unexpected, perhaps even somewhere uncomfortable.

It is easy to praise truth when we imagine that it will confirm what we already believe. The real test comes when it threatens to change our understanding of ourselves.

# Religion, philosophy, and the need to understand

Religion was among the great human responses to the mystery of existence. Long before modern science developed its methods, human beings were already asking how the world began, why suffering exists, what happens after death, and whether there is a purpose beyond survival.

These questions have never been trivial. They arise from something fundamental in us: the awareness that we exist, combined with the inability to explain completely what existence is.

Religious traditions have preserved moral teachings, profound reflections, symbolic narratives, and practices through which people have sought to transform themselves. They have also offered communities a shared language for dealing with birth, suffering, love, and death.

I would be unjust if I dismissed all of this merely because I could not accept every religious explanation.

Nevertheless, I found myself unable to rest entirely within answers that required me to accept certain conclusions on the authority of a sacred text, a religious institution, or a tradition. Respect was not enough. I needed understanding.

If a higher realm exists, what might its nature be? If there is a purpose to life, how could we recognise it? If human beings possess a spiritual dimension, what does that mean in practice? And if we are expected to become better, what does becoming better actually involve?

These questions could not be settled for me simply by repeating the words of someone who had lived centuries earlier.

I wanted to investigate the questions, not merely inherit the conclusions.

Philosophy offered another way forward. It encouraged me to examine assumptions, distinguish arguments from assertions, and consider possibilities that might otherwise have remained invisible. But philosophy, too, could become an endless exchange of ideas. A convincing argument did not necessarily mean that I had changed as a human being.

I could understand a principle intellectually and continue to behave exactly as before.

This gap between understanding something with the mind and embodying it in life would become one of the central problems of my search.

# The promise and limits of science

Science gradually became especially important to my way of thinking because it offered something I valued deeply: a method of investigation that did not depend solely on personal conviction.

A scientific claim is not established simply because someone powerful believes it, because it appears in an ancient book, or because it gives us hope. It must be examined in relation to evidence. Observations can challenge explanations, experiments can test predictions, and new discoveries can force us to revise conclusions that once seemed secure.

For me, this represented a significant step in humanity's attempt to understand the world.

I came to see religion and spirituality, in their historical search for explanations, as early human responses to questions that science would later investigate through more systematic methods. This is my interpretation of their relationship, not a claim that every religious idea is merely an undeveloped scientific theory. Their purposes and methods often differ, and many questions of meaning and value cannot be resolved by measurement alone.

Still, I felt increasingly drawn to the discipline of asking not only what I believed, but also why I believed it.

Science taught me, at least in principle, to distinguish between what is known, what is plausible, what remains uncertain, and what is merely imagined.

That distinction became essential as my questions moved beyond ordinary experience.

The more I learned about the universe, the more extraordinary existence seemed. Matter, energy, time, space, life, consciousness: each opened further questions. Explanations that once appeared sufficient often revealed another layer of mystery.

For a while, it might seem that science would eventually remove the mystery altogether. But the more I reflected, the less convincing that expectation became. Every genuine answer can reveal new questions. Knowledge does not necessarily eliminate wonder; it can deepen it.

I therefore found no reason to regard uncertainty as an enemy. Sometimes uncertainty is simply the honest recognition that we have reached the present limit of our understanding.

I would rather acknowledge that limit than conceal it behind an attractive explanation.

This attitude would later become particularly important when I began exploring ideas about the Spirit of Life, the nature of consciousness, and the possibility of existence beyond the biological body. I would develop convictions about these matters, but I also needed to recognise the difference between what science establishes and what I personally imagine might be possible.

Without that distinction, the search for meaning can become a search for confirmation. We begin with a desired conclusion and interpret everything as evidence for it.

I did not want to spend my life doing that.

# The question of authority

There was another difficulty I had to confront: the temptation to replace one authority with another.

A person may leave a religious tradition and become devoted to a philosopher. He may abandon the teachings of a spiritual master only to follow a different teacher with even greater enthusiasm. He may reject conventional beliefs but become unquestioningly attached to a new system that promises to explain everything.

The appearance changes. The underlying dependence may remain.

I recognised this danger in the very activity of searching. I could not assume that, because I was questioning established answers, I had automatically become independent of them. Rebellion is not necessarily freedom. Sometimes it is simply obedience turned in the opposite direction.

To disagree with someone is not the same as thinking independently of that person.

Nor does the absence of a teacher guarantee that we are capable of directing ourselves. We carry our habits, fears, desires, and inherited assumptions within us. Even when no one is telling us what to think, these forces may continue to influence our conclusions without our noticing.

This raised a more personal question.

How much of what I called *my opinion* had I actually examined? How much of what I called *my decision* had arisen from conscious reflection? And how much of my apparent independence was simply the result of following preferences whose origins I did not understand?

I could not answer these questions merely by reading another book.

I needed to turn my attention towards the person who was doing the reading.

The search was no longer only about the universe, God, or the meaning of life. It was also about the instrument through which I was trying to understand them: myself.

# Understanding is not transformation

Over the years, I encountered ideas that seemed capable of illuminating human existence. Some were intellectually stimulating; others challenged the way I looked at my own behaviour.

Yet I repeatedly returned to a simple difficulty: knowing what is right does not guarantee that we will do it.

We may understand the importance of patience and still react impulsively. We may praise honesty and still protect ourselves with convenient explanations. We may speak about love while remaining indifferent to suffering that interferes with our pleasure.

The problem is not always a lack of information. Sometimes we know enough to recognise what we should do, yet something within us continues to act differently.

This contradiction interested me more and more.

If a human being can recognise a better way of living, why is it so difficult to follow it consistently? Why can an insight feel so clear in one moment and disappear in the next? Why do we make promises to ourselves that we later abandon, sometimes without even understanding how it happened?

I began to suspect that genuine understanding required more than collecting ideas. It required an examination of the person who was attempting to put them into practice.

There is a considerable difference between admiring courage and becoming courageous, between discussing compassion and allowing compassion to govern our actions, between understanding the value of freedom and freeing ourselves from the habits that control us.

This difference would eventually lead me towards a more direct investigation of consciousness, mechanical behaviour, and the possibility of human transformation.

But before I could seriously consider changing myself, I had to admit something uncomfortable: I did not always know why I acted as I did.

The human being who searches for truth may be intelligent, sincere, and well-read, yet remain largely unfamiliar with his own inner workings.

I was beginning to understand that the search for life's meaning could not be separated from the search to understand the one who was asking the question.

# A search without guarantees

Looking back, I do not see my journey as a clean progression from error to truth. It was less orderly than that. Ideas appeared, influenced me, raised new questions, and sometimes lost their appeal. Some convictions remained; others changed. Certain conclusions seemed firm until another question exposed something I had overlooked.

I do not consider every change of mind a failure. If an idea no longer survives honest examination, abandoning it may be a sign of progress rather than weakness.

Consistency, as I understand it, does not mean defending the same conclusions forever. It means remaining faithful to the search even when the conclusions must change.

There is a difference between loyalty to a belief and loyalty to the desire to understand.

The first can imprison us. The second can keep us moving.

I have no wish to present myself as someone who escaped every illusion or discovered a final explanation for existence. Such a claim would contradict the very spirit of the journey I am trying to describe.

I remain a traveller, not the owner of the road.

What I can offer is the record of a sustained attempt to understand life, to question what appeared unquestionable, and to allow new insights to challenge old conclusions. My writings over roughly twenty years form part of that record. They reveal not only what I thought at different moments, but also the persistence of a question that refused to disappear.

Perhaps this persistence matters more than any single answer.

A reader may disagree with many of my conclusions. I do not ask that they be accepted merely because I reached them after years of reflection. I would rather that they become occasions for the reader's own investigation.

If I have learned anything from searching, it is that no one can perform another person's inner work. We may share experiences, compare ideas, learn from the discoveries of others, and warn one another about familiar dangers. But the act of seeing for ourselves cannot be delegated.

Eventually, the inherited answer, the admired teacher, the philosophical system, and the scientific explanation must all meet the same question: *What do I actually understand, and on what grounds?*

That question does not make the journey easier. It makes it more honest.

And honesty, I began to realise, was not merely a virtue to admire. It was a condition of continuing the search.

The next step would require me to look more closely at the human being himself: not the ideal person described in books, not the rational individual we like to imagine ourselves to be, but the living human being whose thoughts, emotions, habits, and desires do not always move in the same direction.

For if I wanted to understand the meaning of life, I could not indefinitely avoid the mystery closest to me.

I had to begin with the person who was searching.

©©©

Chapter Three

The Sleeping Human Being

At a certain point in my search, the question of life's meaning began to lead me towards another question, one that was at once more intimate and more difficult to answer.

What does it mean to be human?

We are accustomed to thinking of ourselves as conscious beings. We make plans, evaluate possibilities, remember the past, imagine the future, and believe that our actions result from decisions we have freely made. We distinguish ourselves from other living creatures through our intelligence, our language, and our ability to reflect upon our own existence.

Yet how often do we actually observe ourselves?

How often do we recognise what motivates a reaction before we act upon it? How often do we notice a habit taking control while we are still able to interrupt it? And how often do we discover, after an event has passed, that our behaviour was governed by anger, fear, vanity, appetite, or the desire to protect an image of ourselves?

These questions gradually brought me to one of the most challenging ideas I encountered during my search: the possibility that much of what we call conscious living takes place without genuine awareness.

We may be awake in the ordinary biological sense and yet remain inattentive to the forces directing our lives.

This was not merely an abstract philosophical problem. It concerned the difference between the person I imagined myself to be and the person revealed by my actual behaviour.

# The uncomfortable idea of the sleeping human being

In the teachings associated with G. I. Gurdjieff and P. D. Ouspensky, the ordinary human being is frequently described as asleep.

The expression is not intended to mean that a person is physically unconscious. It refers to a different condition: a life in which thoughts, emotions, desires, and reactions follow familiar patterns with little awareness of how they arise.

Ouspensky's *The Fourth Way* became an important point of reference in my investigation. I was drawn to the idea that human beings might possess a capacity for consciousness greater than the awareness they ordinarily experience, but that this capacity cannot be developed merely by wishing to become more conscious.

The first difficulty is to recognise our present condition.

We tend to assume that we are the authors of our thoughts and the masters of our actions. Yet an unpleasant remark may provoke an automatic response; a familiar pleasure may override a decision made only hours earlier; an old resentment may influence our interpretation of an entirely new situation.

We say, "I decided", "I wanted", "I chose".

But did we really choose consciously? Or did a familiar mechanism operate, followed by an explanation that made the result appear deliberate?

I found this question particularly revealing because it challenged a comfortable assumption: that the ability to explain our behaviour means that we have controlled it.

We can offer reasons for almost anything we do. The existence of a reason, however, does not prove that the action arose from clear awareness. Sometimes the explanation comes after the impulse and serves mainly to justify it.

This does not mean that human beings are incapable of conscious choice. Nor does it mean that every action is mechanical. It means that the degree of awareness behind our actions deserves examination rather than automatic confidence.

The idea of sleep became valuable to me precisely because it turned attention away from the faults of other people and towards my own functioning.

It is easy to recognise mechanical behaviour in someone else. It is much harder to observe it without immediately defending ourselves.

# The divided person

One of the most familiar experiences of human life is the contradiction between what we intend and what we actually do.

We decide to be patient, then lose our temper. We promise ourselves that we will change a habit, then repeat it. We recognise the value of a long-term objective, yet sacrifice it for a moment of gratification. We sincerely believe in one principle while behaving in ways that contradict it.

These contradictions are often treated as ordinary weaknesses, and in one sense they are. But I began to wonder whether they revealed something more fundamental about the organisation of the human being.

Perhaps the person we call *I* is not as unified as we imagine.

Different desires can compete within us. Our reasoning may favour one course of action while our emotions pull in another direction. A wish that feels powerful in the morning may have little influence by evening. We may identify with whichever impulse happens to dominate at a particular moment and then forget how differently we felt before.

If this observation is accurate, the problem is not simply that we lack good intentions. It is that our intentions do not always possess enough strength or continuity to govern our behaviour.

We may sincerely want to become a different person without having developed the inner stability required to sustain that change.

This insight helped me understand why enthusiasm alone is rarely sufficient for lasting transformation. An inspiring idea can produce a moment of clarity, but the habits of a lifetime do not necessarily disappear because we have experienced one powerful emotion.

The real test comes later, when the inspiration fades and ordinary life resumes.

Who are we then?

Do we continue to act according to what we understood, or do we return automatically to familiar patterns?

I came to regard this interval between insight and action as one of the most important places in which to observe myself.

# Self-remembering

The Fourth Way places considerable emphasis on self-remembering.

The expression can sound mysterious, but its practical significance is easier to approach through experience. It involves an attempt to remain aware of oneself while also being aware of what is happening around oneself.

Ordinarily, attention is easily absorbed by an external event. We listen to another person, but become lost in our reactions to what they say. We walk through a familiar place while our minds wander elsewhere. We read a paragraph without noticing that our attention has moved away from the words.

For a moment, we are present. Then we disappear into thought, emotion, anticipation, or memory.

Self-remembering asks whether we can remain present without becoming entirely absorbed by the object of our attention.

Can I listen to another person while remaining aware of myself listening? Can I recognise irritation as it begins, rather than discovering it only after it has governed my response? Can I notice a desire without immediately obeying it?

These questions suggest a practical experiment rather than a doctrine that must be accepted on authority.

One can begin with ordinary situations. While speaking, notice not only the words being exchanged but also the wish to impress, the impatience to reply, or the discomfort of being contradicted. While eating, notice the difference between physical hunger and the desire to continue enjoying a taste after hunger has been satisfied. While working, observe the moment when attention begins to drift and the mind searches for an easier pleasure.

The purpose is not to condemn every impulse or to turn life into a constant exercise of surveillance. Excessive self-monitoring can become another form of tension. The intention is to develop a more honest awareness of what is happening.

At first, such moments may be brief. Attention returns to its habitual course, and we forget the very observation we intended to maintain.

Yet even a brief moment of recognition can reveal something that previously remained hidden.

We discover that a reaction has begun before we have consciously endorsed it. We see that an apparent decision may have been prepared by a desire we had not acknowledged. We begin to distinguish between experiencing an impulse and choosing to act upon it.

That distinction matters.

If I cannot recognise a force influencing my behaviour, I have little opportunity to decide how I will respond to it. Awareness does not guarantee freedom, but without awareness, freedom becomes much harder to exercise.

I did not regard self-remembering as a miraculous technique capable of resolving every human difficulty. I saw it as one possible means of becoming less unfamiliar with myself.

And the more closely I examined the idea, the more it connected with the broader question of what it means to evolve.

# The difference between knowledge and being

Modern life offers extraordinary opportunities to acquire information. We can read the thoughts of philosophers, study scientific discoveries, listen to spiritual teachers, and learn about almost any subject without leaving our homes.

Yet information alone does not necessarily transform the person who possesses it.

Someone may know a great deal about health while maintaining habits that damage it. Another may explain the principles of kindness while treating others harshly. A person may understand the dangers of impulsive decisions and continue to make them whenever an attractive opportunity appears.

The contradiction is not always caused by hypocrisy. Often, people genuinely believe what they say. The difficulty is that intellectual understanding and the ability to live according to that understanding are not the same achievement.

The Fourth Way distinguishes, in various formulations, between what a person knows and what a person has become. This distinction resonated with me because it gave a name to a problem I had encountered repeatedly.

Knowledge can be acquired relatively quickly. The transformation of habits, emotional reactions, and character may require sustained effort.

I could read about patience in an afternoon. Becoming more patient in difficult circumstances was another matter. I could understand an argument for compassion without allowing it to influence every relevant choice. I could admire self-discipline while continuing to negotiate with my own weaknesses.

The distance between these two conditions cannot be crossed by intellectual agreement alone.

This is why I became increasingly interested in the practical consequences of an idea. What does it change? Does it alter the way I respond to frustration? Does it make me more attentive to the consequences of my actions? Does it help me recognise a self-deception that I previously preferred not to see?

If an idea changes nothing in the way I live, perhaps I have understood only a part of it.

I do not mean that every truth must produce an immediate visible result. Some insights take time to mature, and some forms of knowledge are valuable in their own right. But when the subject is human transformation, the relationship between understanding and conduct cannot be ignored.

The question is not only whether I can explain a principle.

It is whether I am gradually becoming capable of living it.

# The role of emotion

My search also led me to reconsider the role of emotions.

It is tempting to regard emotion as an obstacle to rational thought. Strong feelings can distort judgement, encourage impulsive behaviour, and make us resistant to evidence that contradicts what we want to believe.

But emotions are not merely disturbances to be eliminated. They are part of the way we experience the world, recognise what matters, and respond to the lives of others.

A person may understand intellectually that another being is suffering, yet remain unmoved by that knowledge. Another may experience a deep sense of compassion that changes what they are willing to do.

The difference between knowing about suffering and being genuinely affected by it can be enormous.

This led me to consider whether human development requires not only clearer thought but also a transformation of emotional life.

In the Fourth Way, the development of consciousness is connected with the possibility of changing one's relationship to habitual reactions and cultivating a more deliberate inner life. I found this general direction compelling, although I did not assume that every explanation offered by the tradition was necessarily correct.

Over time, I began to explore a further possibility of my own: that positive emotions might have a special role in helping a person move beyond the repetitive patterns of ordinary existence.

By positive emotions, I do not mean superficial happiness, constant optimism, or the denial of pain. I mean qualities such as genuine compassion, gratitude, love, and a sense of connection that is not dependent entirely on personal advantage.

These emotions can change the significance of an experience. Compassion may make another being's suffering matter to us in a way that abstract knowledge alone did not. Gratitude may alter our relationship with what we already possess. Love may weaken the narrow preoccupation with our own immediate desires.

In this sense, an emotion can become a source of understanding rather than merely a reaction to something that happens.

I began to wonder whether such emotions might help a human being interrupt the familiar cycle of impulse, gratification, and repetition. Perhaps they could contribute to a more integrated way of living, in which thought, feeling, and action increasingly supported rather than contradicted one another.

This remained a hypothesis in my search, not a scientific law or an established conclusion of the Fourth Way. I wanted to explore it because it seemed to connect inner development with something more substantial than the accumulation of concepts.

The question was whether we could become not only more knowledgeable, but also more capable of responding to life with clarity and care.

# The ordinary choices that reveal us

Some of the most revealing tests of consciousness occur in situations that seem too ordinary to deserve philosophical attention.

We may discuss the nature of the universe, speculate about life after death, and search for the highest spiritual truths. Yet our everyday behaviour continues to reveal the priorities that actually govern us.

How do we respond when someone inconveniences us? What happens when a desire conflicts with a principle? Do we acknowledge a mistake when doing so threatens our pride? Are we attentive to suffering when we have nothing to gain by responding to it?

These questions bring the search for consciousness down from abstract speculation to daily life.

For me, one particularly important example emerged through my growing concern for animals.

A person can speak eloquently about love, unity, and the sacredness of life while participating in practices that cause suffering to other living beings. It is possible to admire compassion as a spiritual ideal while excluding certain creatures from its practical application.

I found this contradiction increasingly difficult to ignore.

If I claim that life matters, what determines which lives deserve my consideration? If I recognise that another creature can suffer and has an interest in continuing to live, how should that knowledge affect my choices?

These questions would eventually become central to my understanding of veganism and its place in spiritual development. I do not introduce them here to settle the entire argument in advance. They belong to the next stage of my journey, where the question of consciousness would become inseparable from the question of how we treat other beings.

But even before I had reached my later conclusions, I could see the importance of the underlying problem.

Consciousness cannot be evaluated entirely through the ideas a person professes. It must also be considered in relation to what that person notices, what they are willing to acknowledge, and what they do when their own desires are involved.

A person may be asleep in one area of life and attentive in another. We should be cautious about turning the metaphor of sleep into a judgement that divides humanity into superior and inferior individuals. The more useful question is whether we can recognise our own areas of unconsciousness and work to change them.

I had enough to investigate in myself without appointing myself the judge of others.

# Is awakening possible?

If the human being is capable of acting mechanically, does that mean he must remain mechanical?

I did not find that conclusion convincing. The very act of observing our behaviour suggests that another relationship with ourselves may be possible.

A person can learn to recognise recurring patterns, reconsider assumptions, regulate certain impulses, and develop habits that support more deliberate action. Psychology, education, contemplative practices, and ordinary experience all offer different ways of investigating these possibilities. Their methods and claims differ, and none should be assumed to provide a universal solution.

What mattered to me was the principle that change required participation.

I could not simply wait for a better state of consciousness to arrive. Nor could I assume that reading the right book would produce it automatically. Whatever the ultimate nature of consciousness, I had to work with the attention, understanding, and choices available to me.

This work demanded patience because progress was not always obvious. It also demanded honesty because the desire to believe that we are evolving can itself become a source of self-deception.

We may mistake excitement for transformation, knowledge for wisdom, or a temporary improvement for a permanent achievement. We may congratulate ourselves for recognising a weakness while leaving the weakness untouched.

The search therefore requires a willingness to examine not only our failures but also our apparent successes.

Have I genuinely changed, or have I simply developed a more sophisticated explanation of why I remain the same?

That question can be uncomfortable. Yet discomfort is not necessarily evidence that we should abandon an inquiry. Sometimes it signals that we have approached something we would prefer not to see.

I began to understand awakening less as a dramatic event and more as a continuing possibility: the possibility of seeing more clearly, responding less automatically, and becoming increasingly responsible for the way I live.

I could not claim to have reached a final state. I could not measure my consciousness with certainty or establish that my personal interpretation of the Fourth Way was correct in every detail.

What I could do was continue to investigate.

# The first responsibility

There is a temptation to imagine that the most important discoveries about human existence must be extraordinary. We may look for hidden powers, secret knowledge, or experiences that set us apart from ordinary people.

But perhaps one of the most difficult discoveries is also one of the simplest: we do not fully know ourselves.

We may not understand the origins of our strongest desires. We may not recognise the habits that shape our decisions. We may confuse the stories we tell about ourselves with the reality of our conduct. And we may overlook the distance between the person we wish to become and the person we are today.

Recognising these limitations does not have to produce shame. It can provide a starting point.

If I believe I already possess complete self-knowledge, there is little reason to investigate further. If I recognise that my awareness is incomplete, the possibility of learning remains open.

The same principle applies to the search for meaning itself. I cannot expect to understand existence fully while refusing to examine the instrument through which I experience it.

The universe may contain mysteries beyond my present capacity to comprehend. But there is also a mystery within ordinary human behaviour, close enough to observe and yet easy to overlook.

Why do I do what I do? What governs my attention? What makes me repeat a behaviour I have already recognised as harmful? What allows an insight to become a lasting change rather than a passing impression?

These were no longer secondary questions. They had become part of the search itself.

I had begun by asking what life meant. I was now asking what kind of human being might be capable of understanding its meaning.

The answer, if one could be found, would not come from thought alone. It would have to emerge through the relationship between understanding and action, between knowledge and character, between the wish to become conscious and the daily effort to see more clearly.

The sleeping human being was not merely an idea I had encountered in a book. It had become a mirror in which I could examine my own life.

And the next question followed naturally.

If becoming more conscious means seeing more clearly, then what should I be able to see that I had previously ignored?

For me, one of the answers would concern the lives of other beings—and the responsibility that follows when we begin to recognise their suffering as something more than an abstract fact.

©©©

Chapter Four

The Life We Take, the Life We Share

There are moments in a person's life when an idea ceases to be merely an idea.

We may have encountered it many times before. We may even have agreed with it intellectually. Yet something changes when we begin to see its consequences more clearly, when a question that once belonged to the world of thought enters our everyday choices and asks something of us.

For me, the relationship between human beings and other living creatures became one of those questions.

I had spent years exploring the meaning of life, the nature of consciousness, and the possibility that human beings could develop beyond their ordinary condition. I was interested in spiritual evolution, in knowledge, and in the mysterious connection between individual existence and the greater reality from which life emerges.

But eventually I had to confront a question that was much closer to home.

What does my search for a higher understanding mean if it does not change the way I regard other living beings?

It is easy to speak about universal love. It is more difficult to determine whether that love extends beyond the boundaries established by habit, culture, and personal convenience.

I began to see that the treatment of animals was not a separate ethical issue that could be postponed until I had answered the great questions of existence. It was one of the places where those questions became practical.

If I wanted to understand life, I could not ignore the lives that surrounded me.

# The boundary we create

Human societies have always drawn distinctions between the lives they protect and the lives they use.

Some distinctions arise from genuine necessities. Living beings have different needs, and survival itself involves complex relationships between organisms. Nature is not a peaceful arrangement in which every creature can live without affecting another.

But human beings are capable of something that complicates this picture: reflection.

We can examine our habits, recognise consequences, question traditions, and consider alternatives. We can ask whether something we have always done remains justified simply because it is familiar.

This ability places a particular responsibility upon us.

Many people grow up regarding animal products as ordinary components of life. Food appears on the table, separated from the animal that once lived. The cultural meaning of a meal can be so familiar that the life behind it scarcely enters our thoughts.

There is no need to assume that everyone who participates in these practices is cruel or indifferent. People inherit habits long before they are equipped to examine them. Circumstances, access to information, economic conditions, and family traditions all influence what seems normal.

I understood that the absence of deliberate cruelty does not necessarily mean the absence of suffering. Equally, I recognised that moral change is rarely achieved by condemning people whose starting points differ from our own.

What interested me was the possibility of seeing more clearly.

An animal is not merely an object that appears at the end of a chain of production. It is a living being with its own experience of the world. It responds to its surroundings, seeks what it needs, avoids danger, and can experience distress. Many animals form relationships, display preferences, learn from experience, and behave in ways that reveal a life unfolding from their own point of view.

We do not need to believe that animals think exactly as humans do in order to recognise that their lives matter to them.

A cow does not need to understand human philosophy to experience fear. A pig does not need to write poetry to have an interest in avoiding pain. A chicken does not need to possess our language to respond to its environment as a living creature rather than an inanimate object.

The differences between human and animal minds are real and important. But difference alone does not settle the moral question.

The question is not whether animals are identical to us.

It is whether their differences justify treating their lives and suffering as matters of little importance whenever doing so serves our preferences.

# From compassion to responsibility

Compassion can begin as a feeling. It may arise when we see a frightened animal, encounter an image of suffering, or recognise the vulnerability of a creature unable to protect itself.

But feelings fluctuate. We can be moved one day and distracted the next. We can feel sorry for an animal while continuing habits that contribute to the very suffering that disturbed us.

This is where compassion becomes a question of responsibility.

If I recognise that a being can suffer, and if I have a practical alternative to causing or supporting that suffering, what should I do with that knowledge?

There may be circumstances in which our choices are limited. Human beings face different medical, economic, environmental, and social conditions. It would be simplistic to pretend that every person has identical opportunities or that every difficult case has an immediate solution.

Yet acknowledging complexity does not require abandoning the effort to reduce avoidable harm.

For me, veganism gradually became a practical expression of this responsibility. It meant attempting to live without consuming animal-derived foods and, more broadly, to reduce my participation in the exploitation of animals as far as I reasonably could.

I did not see this merely as a dietary preference. It was connected to the way I understood the purpose of my own search.

If I wished to become more conscious, I had to consider whether my daily actions reflected that intention. If I spoke about the unity of life, I needed to ask how that conviction could influence the way I ate and lived.

Veganism offered me a direct answer to a practical question: how could I reduce my contribution to a system in which animals are bred, confined, and killed for human purposes, including purposes that are not necessary for every person to satisfy their nutritional needs?

The decision did not solve every ethical problem. It did not make me perfectly compassionate, nor did it mean that every choice I made was free from harm. Human life is entangled with other lives in ways that are not always easy to avoid.

But it gave my convictions a concrete direction.

I could no longer regard the subject as something to discuss only in theory.

# The meaning of a spiritual search

My position became increasingly clear: **I cannot regard spiritual evolution as genuine if compassion excludes the animals whose lives are sacrificed for our unnecessary pleasure.**

I know that not everyone will accept this conclusion. Some people understand spirituality primarily through prayer, meditation, religious devotion, or the cultivation of particular states of consciousness. Others regard dietary choices as unrelated to spiritual development.

I do not dismiss the sincerity of their experiences. But I have come to question a form of spirituality that places great emphasis on elevated thoughts while giving little attention to the suffering that could be avoided through ordinary choices.

What does it mean to speak about universal love if that love stops at the boundary of our species? What does it mean to seek a higher consciousness while allowing appetite and habit to determine whether another creature's suffering matters?

For me, this contradiction cannot be dismissed as insignificant.

I have come to regard a spiritual discourse that ignores compassion for animals as a form of mental gymnastics: the mind constructs an impressive picture of its own elevation while everyday behaviour remains largely untouched.

The phrase is deliberately strong because the contradiction matters deeply to me. I am not claiming that every person who eats animal products is incapable of spiritual insight, or that a single dietary choice provides a complete measurement of someone's character. Nor can I determine another person's inner development from one aspect of their life.

My point is more specific. If a person claims that compassion and the unity of life are central to their spiritual path, then the treatment of animals becomes a legitimate test of how seriously those principles are taken.

A belief that never challenges our convenience may remain little more than an attractive idea.

I wanted my own beliefs to demand something of me.

This did not mean that I had reached the end of my spiritual journey. It meant that I had found an area in which the journey could no longer remain purely intellectual.

# The otherness of animal minds

One question continued to interest me: how should we understand the minds of other creatures?

Human beings often use intelligence as a measure of importance. We value language, abstract reasoning, technological ability, and the capacity to understand complicated ideas. Because humans possess these abilities to a remarkable degree, we may unconsciously treat other forms of consciousness as less significant.

But intelligence is not a single, simple quality. Different species have evolved different abilities in response to their environments. Some excel at forms of navigation, communication, memory, cooperation, or perception that differ considerably from our own.

An animal's inability to perform a human task does not mean that its experience is empty or insignificant.

I have sometimes compared the knowledge and self-control of certain animals with those of a human child of around three years of age. I offer this as my own attempt to challenge the assumption that animals are devoid of understanding, not as a universal scientific equivalence between animal cognition and the development of a three-year-old child.

Different species possess different cognitive abilities, and comparisons across species are difficult. A child and an animal do not develop along identical paths, and no single comparison can adequately describe the mental life of every creature.

Nevertheless, the broader question remains important.

If an animal can learn, remember, respond to danger, form attachments, and experience distress, why should its inability to reason as an adult human does remove it from our circle of moral concern?

We already recognise that human beings do not need to possess advanced reasoning to deserve protection. Infants and people with profound cognitive limitations do not lose their moral importance because they cannot defend their interests through philosophical arguments.

The point is not that animals and humans are the same. It is that intellectual sophistication is not the only possible basis for recognising the value of a life.

For me, the more closely I considered the lives of animals, the less convincing it became to treat them as mere instruments for human satisfaction.

Their lives belong to them in a sense that our habits can easily obscure.

They are born into the world, experience it according to their own capacities, and respond to the conditions in which they find themselves. They do not exist merely as characters in the human story.

They have a story of their own.

# The unfinished journey of every being

My concern for animals eventually connected with a larger idea that had been developing throughout my search.

Every living being participates in an unfinished process.

A young animal has not yet experienced the life that lies ahead of it. It may learn, explore, develop relationships, and respond to circumstances in ways that cannot be known in advance. Its future is not guaranteed, but it contains possibilities that disappear when its life is prematurely ended.

Human beings understand this intuitively when considering their own children. We see a child not only as the person standing before us, but also as someone who may learn, discover, create, love, and become something that cannot yet be predicted.

I began to feel that the same basic recognition should extend, in ways appropriate to their different forms of life, to other living creatures.

An animal does not need to follow the same path of development as a human being for its continued existence to matter. Its life is already a reality, not merely a potential instrument for someone else's purpose.

This led me to consider life as a process whose possibilities are never entirely visible from the outside.

I cannot know what every creature experiences, what its future might contain, or what the deepest nature of its existence may be. But I can recognise that killing it ends the possibilities contained in its individual life.

This recognition became connected with my broader spiritual intuition: that life is not merely a collection of isolated objects, but a reality in which individual beings participate in something larger.

I would later describe this connection through the idea of a shared Spirit of Life. At this stage, I did not need to settle the metaphysical question to recognise the ethical consequence.

Even without a complete explanation of consciousness, we can understand that suffering matters and that the unnecessary destruction of a life deserves serious consideration.

The ethical argument does not depend on proving that all living beings share a single spiritual essence. That remains a deeper conviction of mine, one I explore elsewhere in this book. Compassion can begin with what we already know about the experience of other creatures.

For me, however, the two perspectives gradually came together. The more I considered the possibility of a common foundation of life, the more difficult it became to regard another living being as wholly separate from the larger reality of which I myself am a part.

# Compassion as a discipline

It is relatively easy to admire compassion when it requires nothing from us.

We may feel generous when generosity costs little. We may praise kindness when it does not interfere with our habits. We may speak of love for all beings while making exceptions whenever a familiar pleasure is at stake.

The challenge is to allow compassion to influence our decisions when doing so requires effort, restraint, or a change in identity.

This is why I came to regard compassion not only as an emotion but also as a discipline.

It asks us to notice the consequences of our choices, to question inherited habits, and to resist the assumption that whatever gives us pleasure must therefore be acceptable.

Such a discipline does not require us to live in constant guilt. Guilt can sometimes alert us to a contradiction, but it can also become paralysing when it replaces action. The aim is not to feel bad about everything we cannot change. It is to take responsibility for what we can reasonably do.

In my own life, veganism became part of this effort. It was a way of aligning an everyday activity with a principle I had come to regard as important.

Food is particularly revealing because eating is unavoidable, while the choices surrounding it are often deeply habitual. We eat many times throughout our lives. Each meal may seem insignificant, but repeated decisions gradually form a pattern.

A principle that influences only exceptional moments may have little effect on the overall direction of a life. A principle incorporated into ordinary routines can become part of the way we live.

I found something valuable in that continuity.

The decision to reduce harm did not need to be dramatic. It needed to be sustained.

And this brought me back to the question of consciousness. If I wished to become less governed by automatic habits, I could begin by examining a habit that appeared so ordinary that I had rarely considered what it involved.

The act of eating could become an occasion for awareness rather than mere gratification.

I do not suggest that diet alone determines consciousness, wisdom, or moral worth. A person can follow a vegan diet for many reasons, and a dietary label does not guarantee kindness. Nor does it follow that every ethical problem disappears when animal products are excluded.

But I believe that deliberately reducing our participation in unnecessary animal suffering can be a meaningful expression of compassion and a practical step towards a more coherent life.

For me, that coherence mattered.

# The limits of persuasion

As my convictions became clearer, I naturally wished to communicate them. I hoped that explaining the connection between compassion, consciousness, and the treatment of animals might encourage others to reconsider their habits.

Over time, however, I learned something about the limits of persuasion.

An argument can be carefully constructed and still fail to change anyone's behaviour. Evidence can be presented, objections can be answered, and an idea can be repeated in different words, yet the listener may remain unconvinced.

This does not necessarily mean that the argument was worthless. Nor does it mean that the listener is incapable of change. People differ in their experiences, circumstances, priorities, and readiness to question what they have always known.

A change that is forced upon someone may remain external. A change that arises from personal understanding has a different character.

I began to see that my responsibility was not to make everyone accept my conclusions. It was to examine my own reasoning, express my position honestly, and live according to the principles I considered defensible.

This did not make dialogue unnecessary. Questions and objections can reveal weaknesses in our arguments. Other people may notice something we have overlooked, and sincere disagreement can become an opportunity for learning.

But I no longer wanted the value of my search to depend on how many people agreed with me.

I could not control the moment when another person might begin to question a familiar habit. I could only make my own choices and offer an account of why I had made them.

There was a freedom in this recognition.

Compassion did not require me to become the judge of everyone else's life. It required me to take my own responsibilities seriously.

# What kind of evolution do we seek?

The word *evolution* can mean different things.

In biology, it describes changes in inherited characteristics across generations. In ordinary speech, we also use it to describe personal development, intellectual growth, or a transformation in our understanding of the world.

My interest in spiritual evolution concerns this latter possibility: the idea that a human being can become more aware, more responsible, and less dominated by narrow impulses.

I do not claim that adopting a particular diet automatically produces such a transformation. Human development is too complex for that conclusion. Nor can I establish that veganism is a scientifically proven prerequisite for every conceivable form of spiritual advancement.

What I can state clearly is my own conviction: **a genuine spiritual path must take compassion for living beings seriously, and it is difficult for me to reconcile that compassion with the unnecessary killing and exploitation of animals.**

For me, this is not a minor detail that can be separated from the larger search. It concerns the relationship between the principles we profess and the lives we actually lead.

If spiritual development means anything more than acquiring unusual experiences or sophisticated beliefs, it must eventually influence how we respond to the vulnerability of others.

Perhaps our understanding of the universe will remain incomplete. Perhaps we will never discover all the answers concerning consciousness or what happens after death. But uncertainty about these great mysteries does not prevent us from acting with greater care in the world we already inhabit.

We do not need to know everything about life before we can reduce avoidable suffering.

And we do not need to wait until we consider ourselves spiritually advanced before we begin to act more compassionately.

For me, this was one of the most important lessons of the journey: the search for a higher understanding cannot be separated entirely from the ordinary responsibilities of being alive.

# The life we share

The more I reflected on these questions, the more the boundaries between ethics and spirituality began to blur.

Compassion for animals was no longer simply a matter of deciding what I should eat. It became part of a broader attempt to understand my place in the world.

I began to see that the desire to evolve cannot be measured only by how much knowledge we accumulate, how elevated our thoughts become, or how extraordinary our experiences may be. It must also be considered through the quality of our relationship with life itself.

This does not provide a simple scale on which to rank human beings. We all have limitations, and our understanding develops unevenly. The point is not to claim moral superiority but to recognise a direction in which we can work.

For me, that direction involves expanding the circle of beings whose lives matter to us, questioning habits that cause unnecessary harm, and allowing compassion to become more than a feeling.

My belief in a shared Spirit of Life would later give this direction a deeper metaphysical meaning. I came to imagine that the individuality of each creature does not necessarily exclude a more fundamental unity beneath all living existence.

I cannot present that intuition as an established scientific fact. It belongs to my philosophical and spiritual understanding of the world. But it expresses something that had become increasingly important to me: the possibility that our lives are connected in ways that ordinary perception does not fully reveal.

Even without resolving that mystery, I found a reason to approach other beings with greater humility.

They are not merely objects in our environment. They are participants in the same extraordinary fact of existence that makes our own lives possible.

Their experiences differ from ours. Their capacities differ. Their worlds may be unfamiliar to us. Yet they live, respond, and pursue their own forms of fulfilment within the conditions available to them.

Recognising this does not answer every question about the meaning of life.

It changes the way I ask the question.

Instead of asking only what life can offer me, I must also ask what my own life contributes to the lives around me. Instead of seeking consciousness as a personal achievement, I must consider whether greater awareness makes me more attentive to the suffering I might otherwise overlook.

And instead of imagining spiritual evolution as a journey away from ordinary existence, I must ask whether its first steps are found in the ordinary choices through which we express our relationship with other beings.

I began my search by wondering what it meant to live meaningfully.

I had now found a principle that could guide at least part of the answer: to take life seriously, not only when it is my own, and to let that recognition shape the way I live.

It was not the final answer. It was a responsibility I could begin to practise.

And it led me towards another question.

If compassion requires us to move beyond the automatic satisfaction of our desires, what other habits, beliefs, and limitations must we examine if we hope to become more than we are today?

The answer would take me further into the discipline of becoming.

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Chapter Seven

The Possibility of Transformation

Human beings have always looked beyond the limits of their present existence. They have wondered whether death is the end, whether there is a place where suffering disappears, and whether the life we know is only one stage in a much longer journey.

Different cultures have offered different answers. Some speak of Paradise, others of Heaven, and still others imagine cycles of rebirth through which a being gradually develops. The names and descriptions differ, but a question seems to return again and again: **Could there be a form of existence beyond the one we know?**

I have never been entirely satisfied with answers that require me to accept something simply because it has been taught for centuries. Nor have I wanted to dismiss a possibility merely because it lies beyond present understanding. Between unquestioning belief and premature rejection, there is room for another attitude: to examine what we know, to recognise what we do not know, and to continue searching.

This is the attitude I have tried to maintain throughout my journey.

1. A Heaven We Must Earn

In many religious traditions, Paradise or Heaven is presented as a state that depends, in some way, on our relationship with God. We are asked to live according to certain principles, to resist temptation, to love others, and to prepare ourselves for a life beyond death. The final decision, however, is generally associated with a divine authority whose judgement exceeds our own.

I understand the appeal of this vision. It offers hope that suffering is not meaningless, that injustice will not have the last word, and that goodness will ultimately be recognised. For someone who has witnessed cruelty and loss, the thought that existence might contain a justice greater than human justice can be deeply comforting.

Yet I have found myself asking a different question.

What if the possibility of reaching a higher state of existence depended not on being granted access by an external authority, but on the transformation of the being itself?

In that case, Heaven would not be a reward bestowed upon us simply because we had followed a set of rules. It would be a possibility for which we had to become suitable. We would not arrive there merely by wanting to do so, any more than we could become wise simply by wishing to possess wisdom.

This distinction matters to me. It places responsibility at the centre of spiritual life. Instead of waiting for salvation, the individual would have to participate actively in their own evolution.

I do not claim to know whether the universe operates according to such a principle. I present it as a possibility that has emerged from my reflections on consciousness, life, and the meaning of development.

If a higher state exists, why should we assume that our present form is already prepared for it? Perhaps the more useful question is what kind of being we would need to become.

2. The Long Road of Evolution

When I consider the history of life on Earth, I am struck by the immense distance separating the simplest known forms of life from the complexity of a human being.

Life did not appear in its present form. Through a long and intricate history, living organisms changed, diversified, and developed increasingly complex ways of interacting with their surroundings. The human being is part of that history, not an exception to it.

We tend to regard ourselves as the culmination of this process because we experience the world through human consciousness. We possess language, construct theories about the universe, and ask questions about our own existence. Yet our perspective may be limited by the very form of consciousness through which we observe everything.

Could human beings represent only one stage in a much longer development?

The question is not absurd simply because we cannot see what might come next. Evolution has already shown that forms of life can change dramatically over immense periods of time. But biological evolution, as studied by science, does not establish that life necessarily progresses towards a predetermined spiritual destination. Nor does it prove that consciousness must eventually become something beyond biological life.

My own hypothesis goes further than these established findings. I sometimes imagine that the development of a being may involve more than the changes we can observe in its physical form. Perhaps there is also a dimension of evolution related to consciousness, understanding, and the way a being participates in existence.

I cannot offer this as a scientific conclusion. It is a philosophical possibility that I have explored while trying to understand the direction of my own life.

The idea nevertheless changes the way I look at the present. If our existence is part of a journey rather than a finished achievement, then our task may be to prepare ourselves for possibilities we cannot yet comprehend.

We would have to learn, to become more conscious of our actions, and to develop a form of understanding that extends beyond our immediate desires.

Evolution, in this sense, would not be a title we could award ourselves. It would be a process whose depth could be measured only by the transformation of the being itself.

3. The Energetic Realm of the Cers

During my search, I developed an idea that I came to associate with the Cers: the possibility of an Energetic Realm in which existence would no longer depend on the biological body as we know it.

The word *Cer* belongs to my own vocabulary and philosophy. It represents a direction of aspiration, not membership in an established religion or an organisation. The Energetic Realm is likewise a concept within my personal spiritual framework. I have no empirical evidence establishing that such a realm exists.

What interests me is the possibility that biological existence may not exhaust all the forms of existence available to the universe.

We know that living organisms depend on extraordinarily complex physical processes. We also know that the body changes continuously throughout life. Matter is exchanged with the environment; cells are renewed or replaced; the organism remains alive through an intricate network of processes. Yet our experience of being a particular person seems to possess a continuity that we recognise even as the body changes.

This observation does not prove that an individual can exist independently of the body. It does, however, lead naturally to questions about the relationship between physical processes, consciousness, and personal identity.

What would remain of us if biological existence were no longer necessary? Would anything recognisable as individual experience survive? Could consciousness take a form that we cannot currently imagine?

I do not know.

In my own philosophy, I have imagined the Energetic Realm as a possible state beyond biological life, one reached not through an arbitrary act of permission but through a long process of development. A being would have to undergo a profound transformation before such a possibility could become meaningful.

This is why I do not regard the Cers primarily as a promise of a better destination. Their significance lies in the path itself: the effort to become more conscious, to reduce unnecessary harm, to cultivate knowledge, and to understand one's place within the greater whole.

The destination remains hypothetical. The work required to become a better and more conscious human being belongs to the present.

4. The Photon and the Mystery of Consciousness

One of the most unusual ideas I have explored concerns the photon.

A photon is a quantum of electromagnetic radiation. Light can be studied with extraordinary precision, and modern physics has developed powerful theories that describe its behaviour. Photons play a fundamental role in our understanding of the physical universe.

My interest, however, concerns a question that physics alone does not presently answer: could the nature of light offer a useful way of thinking about the deepest essence of existence?

In my personal metaphysical interpretation, I have imagined the photon as a clue to something more fundamental than the biological form through which we ordinarily experience ourselves. I have sometimes expressed this idea by saying that the essence of a being might be a photon, or that the discovery of such an essence could open the way to a form of existence beyond our familiar limitations.

I must make an important distinction here. "Physics does not establish that a human being is essentially a photon, that photons possess consciousness, or that consciousness can survive death by becoming light." These are not accepted scientific conclusions. They belong to the realm of my own speculation.

Why, then, does the idea continue to interest me?

Part of the fascination comes from relativity and the unusual role that light plays in our understanding of time and space.

According to special relativity, a photon travels at the speed of light in a vacuum. The spacetime interval along an ideal lightlike path is zero, and the proper time associated with that path is zero. This is a precise mathematical statement within the theory.

It is tempting to translate it into the image of a journey for which no time passes. In popular explanations, one sometimes encounters the suggestion that, from a photon's point of view, emission and absorption occur instantaneously. But this wording can be misleading: a photon has no valid rest frame, so physics does not permit us to describe a legitimate subjective experience from its own perspective.

Nevertheless, the underlying fact is remarkable. Time and space, which seem so familiar and unavoidable in our daily lives, do not behave in the same way in every physical situation. Our ordinary intuitions are not sufficient to describe the universe in all its complexity.

For me, this is where scientific knowledge becomes a source of philosophical wonder.

I have wondered whether a being that understood its own deepest nature—whatever that nature might turn out to be—could experience existence in a way fundamentally different from ours. Could the limitations that define our present experience cease to apply in another form of existence?

This question is not answered by relativity. It is an imaginative extension of my reflections, inspired by scientific ideas but going beyond what those ideas demonstrate.

I do not want to confuse the two. Doing so would weaken rather than strengthen the search. Science deserves respect precisely because it asks us to distinguish what evidence supports from what we merely hope might be true.

But acknowledging the limits of an idea does not necessarily require us to abandon the question that inspired it.

The mystery remains.

5. When Knowledge Becomes Wonder

For me, science represents one of humanity's most powerful ways of moving beyond inherited explanations. It asks us to observe, test, question, and revise. It does not guarantee that every question will be answered, but it offers methods for distinguishing reliable knowledge from error.

Religion and spirituality have also been part of humanity's long attempt to understand existence. They have offered stories, moral systems, contemplative practices, and interpretations of experiences that people found difficult to explain. Some of their claims conflict with scientific evidence; others concern ethical or existential questions that cannot be settled by an experiment alone.

I do not think it is necessary to dismiss every spiritual question because some spiritual answers have proved mistaken. Nor should we accept an extraordinary claim merely because it is expressed in scientific language.

The more knowledge I acquire, the more important this distinction becomes.

A scientific discovery can open new philosophical questions without proving every interpretation we attach to it. A personal experience can change the way we live without establishing a universal law. A spiritual hypothesis can inspire a meaningful search while remaining uncertain.

For me, these distinctions are not obstacles to wonder. They protect wonder from becoming dogma.

I have often felt that the search for meaning requires both imagination and discipline. Imagination allows us to consider possibilities beyond our present understanding. Discipline prevents us from confusing those possibilities with established facts.

Without imagination, we risk accepting the boundaries of our current knowledge as permanent. Without discipline, we risk believing every idea that offers comfort or excitement.

The traveller needs both.

I would rather admit that I do not know than build an elaborate explanation on foundations I cannot defend. There is dignity in uncertainty when uncertainty is honest. It leaves the mind free to continue its work.

Perhaps the universe contains possibilities that we have not yet learned to recognise. Perhaps some of the questions that occupy us today will eventually be answered by discoveries that transform our understanding of life and consciousness. Perhaps other questions will remain beyond our reach.

For now, the responsible course is to keep searching without pretending that the search is already complete.

6. The Work Begins Here

Ideas about Heaven, Paradise, and a higher realm can easily turn our attention away from the life we are actually living. We may become so absorbed in the possibility of a distant destination that we neglect the transformation available to us now.

I do not want that to happen.

If I imagine a higher state of existence, I must also ask what this possibility demands of my present life. What habits keep me mechanical? What desires repeatedly take control of my actions? How much of what I believe have I genuinely examined? How often do I recognise the suffering of another being and still choose convenience over compassion?

These questions do not require me to know whether the Energetic Realm exists.

They require honesty.

My conviction that compassion must include animals is part of this examination. If I speak about the unity of life while treating the lives of other beings as insignificant whenever their suffering inconveniences me, then my words and actions are moving in opposite directions. I may still be able to discuss spiritual ideas, but I must ask whether those ideas have transformed the way I live.

The same applies to knowledge. It is not enough to collect facts about consciousness, the universe, or human psychology. Knowledge becomes part of our development only when we examine its implications and allow it to change our understanding and conduct.

Nor is it enough to dream of a future in which we are wiser, more loving, or more conscious. We have to work with the person we are today.

This is one reason I hesitate to offer readers a system of ready-made solutions. A rule may point towards a direction, but it cannot perform the journey on another person's behalf. A book can present an argument, describe an experience, or raise a question. It cannot substitute for the reader's own attention and effort.

My purpose has never been to ask anyone to adopt every hypothesis I have developed. I would rather encourage the reader to examine their own assumptions, test their own convictions against experience, and remain willing to revise what no longer withstands scrutiny.

If the possibility of a higher existence means anything to me, it is inseparable from this responsibility.

I cannot know whether there is a Heaven beyond the world we experience. I cannot establish that the Energetic Realm of the Cers exists, or that consciousness can transcend the limitations of biological life. I cannot tell another person what awaits them after death.

What I can do is continue the work of understanding, living more consciously, and reducing the unnecessary suffering in which I participate.

Perhaps this work will lead nowhere beyond the life I already know. Perhaps the questions that inspire me will remain unanswered. Even so, the effort is not wasted if it makes me more attentive, more responsible, and less governed by unconscious habit.

A journey does not become meaningless simply because its final destination is uncertain.

Sometimes its value lies precisely in the person we become while travelling.

And if there is something beyond our present understanding, perhaps the most sensible preparation is not to claim that we already know what it is, but to develop the humility, clarity, and courage required to encounter what we have not yet imagined.

The traveller has reached the edge of what he can presently describe. Beyond it lies possibility, but not certainty. He must continue without confusing hope with knowledge or uncertainty with defeat.

There remains, however, one final question: if no external authority can complete our journey for us, and no destination can be guaranteed, what does it mean to live freely—and how should we continue when we do not know where the road will lead?

That is where the journey must remain open.

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Chapter Eight

The Journey Remains Open

There was a time when I believed that the purpose of a long search was to arrive at an answer. I imagined that, somewhere along the road, I would discover an idea capable of bringing everything together—a principle that would explain the meaning of life and allow me to look back at my years of questioning with the satisfaction of someone who had finally reached his destination.

After many years of searching, I have come to see things differently.

An answer can be valuable without being final. A discovery can transform our understanding without bringing the search to an end. And sometimes the most important change is not that we have found the truth we were looking for, but that we have become different people through the effort of looking for it.

I am still a traveller. I have learned things, abandoned ideas, developed new convictions, and encountered questions for which I have no satisfactory answer. I cannot tell you where this road will lead me. I can only describe some of the discoveries I have made along the way and explain why I continue.

This book is not the conclusion of my journey. It is a record of part of it.

1. The Freedom to Change

One of the greatest dangers in a search for meaning is becoming attached to the answers we have already found.

An idea may initially help us understand something important. We explore it, test it against experience, and begin to organise our lives around it. Gradually, however, the idea can become part of our identity. We no longer examine it with the same freedom. We defend it because questioning it would mean questioning the person we have become.

The search for truth can then turn into the defence of a personal belief.

I have seen how easily this can happen in religion, philosophy, politics, and spiritual movements. People who begin by searching for understanding may eventually devote their energy to protecting a system of thought. Their vocabulary changes, their explanations become more elaborate, but their willingness to question themselves diminishes.

I do not believe that I am immune to this danger.

The ideas I have presented in these pages are important to me. Some have accompanied me for years; others have developed gradually through reading, reflection, and personal experience. I have tried to explain them honestly, but sincerity does not make a belief infallible.

I may be mistaken about things I currently consider essential. I may discover that an argument I find convincing today rests on an assumption I have failed to examine. I may even have to abandon an idea that has shaped a considerable part of my life.

If that happens, I hope I will have the courage to do so.

There is no dishonour in changing one's mind when new understanding makes change necessary. The real danger lies in remaining faithful to an error simply because we have invested too much of ourselves in it.

For me, intellectual freedom means preserving the possibility of revision. It means allowing an idea to be examined even when it is dear to us, and allowing ourselves to be changed by what we discover.

The traveller must not become the prisoner of his own map.

A map is useful because it helps us navigate unfamiliar territory. But if the landscape proves different from what the map describes, it is the map that must be corrected.

The same principle applies to the philosophies we construct, the spiritual paths we follow, and the explanations we offer for our existence.

I would rather remain a student of life than become the guardian of a doctrine.

2. The Difference Between Knowing and Becoming

Throughout my search, I have repeatedly encountered the difference between understanding an idea and allowing that idea to transform the way I live.

We can speak about compassion without becoming more compassionate. We can read about consciousness while continuing to act mechanically. We can accumulate knowledge about the human condition and remain unable to recognise our own contradictions.

This is not an argument against knowledge. Without knowledge, our understanding would remain limited, and we would have fewer opportunities to examine our assumptions. But knowledge and transformation are not identical.

To understand the importance of patience is one thing. To remain patient when our desires are frustrated is another.

To understand that every living being has its own interests is one thing. To take those interests seriously when doing so requires us to change our habits is another.

To recognise the influence of fear is one thing. To observe our fear without allowing it to dictate every decision is another.

The distance between these two levels of understanding is where much of our real work takes place.

I have sometimes wondered how much of what I know has genuinely become part of me. It is easy to remember an explanation and mistake that memory for personal development. It is harder to observe ourselves in ordinary situations and discover whether we behave differently because of what we have learned.

Perhaps this is one of the most useful tests we can apply to our own search: not merely asking what we believe, but examining what our beliefs have changed.

The answer may be uncomfortable. We may discover that our conduct has not kept pace with our understanding. Yet this discovery can be valuable if we do not immediately defend ourselves against it.

There is no need to pretend that we have already become the person we hope to be.

We can acknowledge the distance between our present condition and our aspirations, then continue working without self-deception.

I do not regard myself as someone who has completed this work. I am a person who has spent many years trying to understand it.

That distinction is important to me. I have no wish to present myself as an example of perfection. If my experience has any value for another person, perhaps it lies in showing that the search can continue despite uncertainty, inconsistency, and the need to begin again.

We do not have to be finished products to learn something from our lives.

3. Compassion as a Test of Our Understanding

Of all the questions I have examined, the relationship between consciousness and compassion remains among the most important to me.

I have become increasingly convinced that our understanding of life cannot be separated from the way we treat the beings who share it with us.

It is possible to discuss the unity of existence in sophisticated language while remaining indifferent to suffering. We can speculate about higher states of consciousness, the nature of the universe, and the possibility of life beyond death. But if these ideas leave our ordinary behaviour entirely untouched, we must ask what they have actually accomplished.

For me, the treatment of animals provides a particularly revealing example.

Animals do not need to formulate philosophical theories to have interests of their own. They seek food, respond to their surroundings, avoid danger, and display behaviours associated with fear, attachment, curiosity, and the pursuit of comfort. Many possess remarkable cognitive and social abilities, although those abilities differ across species.

Their experiences are not identical to ours, and we should be careful not to assume that every animal thinks or feels precisely as a human being does. But the absence of human language or abstract reasoning does not make an animal's suffering irrelevant.

This is where my personal conviction about veganism becomes inseparable from my understanding of spiritual development.

I do not believe that compassion can be fully understood as an abstract principle while the avoidable suffering of other beings is treated as unimportant whenever their lives conflict with our preferences. For me, a genuine effort to become more conscious must include a serious examination of the harm we cause through our everyday choices.

I know that people arrive at different conclusions about diet, ethics, and spiritual life. I cannot force another person to share my interpretation. Nor can I establish a person's entire moral or spiritual condition from a single habit.

What I can do is remain faithful to the conclusion that my own search has led me towards: where unnecessary suffering can be avoided, compassion gives us a reason to avoid it.

This conviction has changed the way I understand personal development. Becoming more conscious is not merely a matter of improving our memory, intelligence, knowledge, or ability to control our emotions. It also involves examining the scope of our concern.

Who matters to us? Whose suffering do we notice? Whose interests do we disregard because we have become accustomed to doing so?

These questions extend beyond animals. They apply to our relationships with other people, our treatment of the environment, and the ways in which we exercise power whenever we possess it.

Compassion does not solve every moral dilemma. It does not remove the need for knowledge or careful judgement. But it challenges us to look beyond immediate convenience and recognise that our actions have consequences for beings other than ourselves.

If there is a spiritual dimension to human development, I believe it must have something to do with this widening of awareness.

Otherwise, we risk mistaking the ability to speak about higher things for the actual transformation of our lives.

4. The Importance of an Individual Journey

For many years, I have been interested in ideas that might help other people understand life differently. I have written, published books, and shared reflections in the hope that someone might find something useful in them.

Over time, however, I have become less concerned with persuading others.

I cannot know what another person is prepared to examine, what experiences have shaped their convictions, or what they need at a particular moment in life. Even an argument that seems clear to me may mean very little to someone whose experience has led them in another direction.

The same words can awaken one person and leave another entirely unmoved.

This does not mean that communication is useless. A book, a conversation, or an encounter with a new idea can become an important part of someone's development. But influence is not the same as control. We can offer what we have discovered; we cannot determine what another person will do with it.

I have had to accept that my own convictions will not necessarily persuade those around me. In particular, I have learned that explaining my understanding of the Cers does not mean that others will adopt it. Their decisions belong to them.

The Cers remain part of my personal journey, but I no longer see the value of that journey as dependent on whether other people accept the name, the principles, or the metaphysical possibilities associated with it.

The essential question is not whether someone agrees with my vocabulary. It is whether any idea, whatever its origin, helps a person live with greater awareness, understanding, and compassion.

If it does, the idea has served a purpose. If it does not, repeating it more insistently will not necessarily make it more useful.

I have also come to appreciate the freedom of allowing people to follow their own paths. We do not all begin with the same questions, and we do not necessarily need the same answers. What appears essential to one person may be irrelevant to another.

The search for meaning cannot be reduced to a single prescribed route that everyone must follow in precisely the same way.

This does not mean that every belief is equally reliable or every action equally defensible. Evidence matters. Consequences matter. The suffering we cause matters. We should remain willing to question ideas that conflict with what we can reasonably establish.

But within those responsibilities, each person must undertake their own work.

No one can become conscious on our behalf. No one can perform our acts of compassion, examine our habits, or make our decisions for us.

A teacher may point towards a door. A book may describe what lies beyond it. Only we can decide whether to approach it, and we must take the steps ourselves.

5. What Does It Mean to Be Free?

Freedom has become increasingly important to me.

At first glance, we might define freedom as the ability to do what we want. Yet our desires are not always the result of conscious choice. Some arise from habit, fear, imitation, insecurity, or the need for approval. We may believe that we are acting freely when we are simply following an impulse whose origin we have never examined.

The question is not only whether we can do what we want, but whether we understand why we want it.

A person who cannot resist every immediate desire may possess considerable external freedom while remaining internally governed by habit. Conversely, a person who willingly accepts certain limitations for the sake of a deeply considered principle may experience a sense of freedom that is not measured by the number of available choices.

This is one reason I have come to value discipline. Properly understood, discipline need not be the enemy of freedom. It can help us avoid becoming entirely dependent on whatever desire happens to be strongest at a given moment.

But discipline can also become another form of imprisonment when we follow rules mechanically, without understanding their purpose. A practice that once helped us may become an unquestioned routine. We can become so concerned with obeying a system that we forget the reason we adopted it.

Freedom therefore requires more than rebellion against rules. It requires attention, understanding, and the willingness to examine both our impulses and our principles.

I have also had to reconsider the role of recognition.

It is natural to want our work to be appreciated. Most of us enjoy being understood, and there is nothing inherently wrong with receiving encouragement. But when the value of our work depends entirely on the reactions of others, we surrender part of our inner independence.

We may begin to write what will be praised rather than what we genuinely believe. We may abandon a difficult question because it makes us unpopular. We may measure our lives through comparisons that have little connection with what we actually consider important.

I have gradually become less interested in these measures of success.

This does not mean that I have ceased to care about the quality of my work or the consequences of my actions. On the contrary, I want to remain responsible for what I produce and honest about what I believe. But I no longer regard external recognition as the final authority on whether an undertaking has value.

A book may be read by thousands and still fail to help its readers. Another may reach only a few people and nevertheless become meaningful to them. Popularity cannot tell us everything we need to know.

Nor can obscurity prove that we are right.

The point is not to reject success or praise. It is to stop allowing them to determine our entire sense of worth.

For me, freedom includes the ability to continue an honest search even when no one is watching, applauding, or agreeing.

It includes the right to remain silent when speaking would serve no useful purpose, and the right to change direction when my understanding changes.

Above all, it means accepting responsibility for my own choices rather than expecting another person to provide the final justification for my life.

6. The Self We Are Trying to Understand

Throughout this book, I have spoken about the self, consciousness, compassion, discipline, and the Spirit of Life. These concepts may appear to describe separate subjects, but in my experience they continually return me to the same fundamental question:

Who am I, beyond the habits and descriptions through which I usually recognise myself?

I have a name, a personal history, memories, preferences, convictions, and a body. These are real aspects of my existence. Yet when I examine them, I discover that they do not remain entirely unchanged. My opinions develop, my memories are imperfect, my abilities change, and the person I understand myself to be is influenced by experiences I did not choose.

What, then, provides continuity to my life?

I do not possess a final answer. I have explored the possibility that there is a deeper dimension of selfhood connected with consciousness and the Spirit of Life. I have also considered whether the individuality we experience is part of a reality larger than our personal history.

These remain philosophical and spiritual questions, not conclusions I can establish with certainty.

Still, the act of examining them has practical consequences. It encourages me to distinguish between what I experience and what I assume about that experience. It reminds me that a thought is not necessarily a fact, an emotion is not necessarily a command, and a conviction is not necessarily the final truth.

It also makes me more attentive to the possibility that other beings possess dimensions of experience that I cannot fully understand.

Perhaps the search for the self is not a matter of finding a perfect description that settles everything. Perhaps it involves becoming increasingly aware of the processes through which we think, feel, choose, and relate to the world.

This is one of the lessons I have drawn from my interest in the Fourth Way. The idea of mechanical behaviour challenged me to question how much of my life was guided by automatic reactions rather than conscious attention. I do not claim to have overcome that condition. I have simply found the question too important to abandon.

The work continues in ordinary moments: in the way I respond to frustration, in the habits I maintain, in the attention I give to another being, and in my willingness to acknowledge when I am wrong.

We may search for the nature of consciousness in the most distant regions of the universe, but we must also examine the consciousness through which we conduct the search.

We may imagine a higher form of existence, but we must still live responsibly within the form of existence we know.

We may hope that something of us continues beyond death, but we cannot use that hope as a substitute for living well now.

For me, the mystery of existence becomes meaningful precisely because it brings me back to the life in front of me.

7. A Book Without a Final Doctrine

I have deliberately avoided presenting this book as a system that the reader must accept in its entirety.

I could have tried to construct a comprehensive philosophy, connect every idea to every other idea, and offer a set of conclusions designed to make the whole journey appear complete. But such a presentation would risk creating an impression of certainty that I do not possess.

My search has not unfolded as a perfectly ordered sequence of discoveries. Ideas have emerged at different times, sometimes supporting one another, sometimes raising new difficulties, and sometimes forcing me to reconsider what I previously believed.

The chapters of this book bring together some of those reflections. They do not remove the contradictions and uncertainties that remain in my understanding.

I have written about the limits of inherited answers, the mechanical nature of human behaviour, the importance of discipline, the lives of animals, the possibility of a shared Spirit of Life, and the speculative idea of existence beyond biological form.

These subjects are connected by the questions that have accompanied me, but they do not all possess the same degree of certainty.

Some observations concern experiences that I can describe directly. Some conclusions are ethical commitments that I have chosen to follow. Some ideas are philosophical interpretations. Others are metaphysical possibilities for which I have no decisive evidence.

I believe it is important to preserve these distinctions.

The reader does not need to agree with every conclusion in order to benefit from the questions. Indeed, I would consider it a mistake if reading this book led someone to suspend their own judgement and replace it with mine.

I have not written these pages to create followers. I do not wish to become an authority whose statements must be defended against every objection. I would rather be understood as a person who has searched for many years and is willing to share some of what that search has taught him.

My conclusions may change. Some of my ideas may eventually prove mistaken. Others may remain useful even if the larger interpretations I have attached to them turn out to be wrong.

That is part of the risk of thinking for oneself.

There is no guarantee that independence will always lead us to the correct answer. It can lead us into error as easily as it can help us escape inherited mistakes. What matters is the willingness to examine our reasoning, recognise the limits of our knowledge, and correct ourselves when necessary.

I do not ask the reader to trust me more than the evidence warrants.

Question what I have written. Examine the arguments. Compare them with your own experience and with reliable knowledge. Keep what proves useful, reject what does not withstand scrutiny, and remain open to discoveries that neither of us can presently anticipate.

The purpose of a search should not be to replace one unquestioned authority with another.

8. Why I Continue

After so many years, why do I continue to search?

I could say that I am looking for the meaning of life, but that answer is incomplete. The question itself has become part of the way I live. It influences what I read, what I observe, the habits I examine, and the possibilities I am willing to consider.

I continue because the world remains full of things I do not understand.

I continue because learning can change the way I see what I thought I already knew.

I continue because my convictions deserve to be examined rather than protected from examination.

I continue because the suffering of other beings matters, and because understanding that suffering creates responsibilities I cannot simply dismiss.

I continue because I do not want to confuse familiarity with truth or the passage of time with personal development.

And I continue because the possibility that there is more to existence than I presently understand remains open, even though I cannot promise myself that the answers I hope for will ever arrive.

I have no need to turn this uncertainty into a dramatic conclusion. I do not know whether there is a higher realm, whether consciousness survives bodily death, or whether the Spirit of Life is what I have imagined it to be. I cannot guarantee that my search will culminate in a revelation that explains everything.

Perhaps it will not.

But the absence of a guaranteed destination does not make the road meaningless. The effort to understand can still deepen our appreciation of life. The effort to become more conscious can still change our conduct. The effort to reduce suffering can still make a difference to the beings whose lives we affect.

These are not insignificant achievements merely because they do not answer every metaphysical question.

I have also learned that there is no need to rush towards a final definition of myself. I can continue to develop, to question, and to discover that some of the things I once considered essential are no longer necessary. I can preserve the principles that remain meaningful while allowing my understanding of them to evolve.

Perhaps maturity consists, in part, of learning to live without demanding that every uncertainty disappear.

We can be serious about the search without pretending to possess the destination. We can have convictions without claiming infallibility. We can pursue a meaningful life without knowing whether the universe has assigned us a purpose.

The traveller does not need to know the entire road before taking the next step.

9. The Reader's Journey

If there is one thing I hope you will take from this book, it is not a particular theory about consciousness, a definition of the Spirit of Life, or a promise of existence beyond death.

I hope you will take the example of a search that has continued for many years.

I have not arrived here because I discovered a single answer that ended all doubt. I arrived here through questions, reading, reflection, writing, changes of direction, and the willingness to keep looking even when certainty remained out of reach.

My discoveries are mine. Your experiences will be different, and your questions may lead you towards conclusions I have never considered.

That is as it should be.

You do not need to reproduce my journey. You do not need to adopt the name of the Cers or accept my understanding of the universe. You do not need to share my metaphysical hypotheses to take seriously the questions of consciousness, responsibility, compassion, and freedom.

Perhaps you will find that the most useful idea in these pages is one with which I disagree. Perhaps something I have written will help you recognise an assumption you have carried for years. Perhaps the book will simply remind you of a question you once asked and then forgot.

Or perhaps you will find nothing here that changes your understanding. That possibility is also part of the freedom I wish to preserve.

I cannot decide what this book should mean to you.

I can only offer it as an account of my own effort to understand life and to become more conscious of the way I live it.

If you choose to continue your own search, do so with curiosity and patience. Read widely. Examine evidence. Learn from experience. Be prepared to change your mind. Pay attention to the difference between what you know, what you believe, and what you hope might be true.

And do not forget that the search for meaning takes place within life, not outside it.

It takes place in our relationships, our daily choices, our response to suffering, our willingness to learn, and our ability to recognise the limits of our own understanding.

The most profound question may not always be the one about what awaits us beyond the world we know. It may also be the question of how we choose to live while we are here.

I have spent many years trying to answer it. I expect that I will continue to do so.

Epilogue: The Traveller Continues

I did not begin this journey knowing where it would lead. I cannot end it by pretending that I have arrived at a final destination.

The questions that first awakened my curiosity have changed, but they have not disappeared. They have grown more complex, opened new horizons, and sometimes forced me to abandon explanations that once seemed sufficient.

I have come to value the search itself—not because uncertainty is always comfortable, but because the alternative can be a life in which we stop asking questions and mistake our familiar world for the whole of reality.

I have learned that knowledge matters, but so does the way we use it. Discipline matters, but it must not become blind obedience. Freedom matters, but it requires responsibility. Compassion matters, not as a decoration for our beliefs, but as a principle that must find expression in our actions.

I have imagined possibilities beyond biological existence, explored the idea of a shared Spirit of Life, and wondered whether consciousness might be part of a reality far greater than the one we currently understand. I have also recognised that imagination cannot replace evidence and that a meaningful hypothesis must remain open to examination.

I leave these questions open because I have no honest reason to claim that they are settled.

The book ends here. The search does not.

I will continue to read, to learn, to examine my habits, and to question what I believe. I will continue to look for ways to live with greater awareness and to reduce the unnecessary harm I cause. I will continue to revise my understanding when experience or evidence gives me reason to do so.

Perhaps one day I will discover something that changes the direction of my journey once again. Perhaps I will simply understand a little better something I have been trying to understand for decades.

Either possibility is enough to justify continuing.

I am not offering you a final truth. I am sharing the record of a traveller who refused to abandon his questions.

If these pages have encouraged you to look more carefully at your own life, then they have fulfilled their purpose.

You do not need to thank me. You do not need to agree with me. You do not even need to remember my name.

Take whatever proves useful, leave what does not, and continue your own search.

The road belongs to you.

And the traveller, still learning, moves on.

©©©

Yet the book doesn't end here, because the journey isn't over. And, from a broader perspective, it will never end.😊

PART II 

Beyond Inherited Horizons

Chapter Nine

The Boundary of Evolution. Compassion for All Life

1. The Limit We Cannot Cross Without Compassion

I have come to believe that there is a limit to the evolution of human consciousness, and perhaps even to the evolution of the physical being that carries it. Beyond a certain point, no amount of intellectual development, spiritual study, or refinement of one's ideas can take a human being further without a fundamental transformation: the realisation of compassion for all living beings, including animals.

I do not mean the compassion that we express in beautiful words, nor the emotion we experience when we see a suffering animal and briefly feel sorry for it. I mean a compassion that becomes part of our understanding of life, influences our decisions, and changes the way we live.

A person may read the greatest philosophers, study the most sophisticated spiritual systems, practise meditation, and speak eloquently about consciousness, love, and the unity of existence. They may develop an impressive intellectual understanding of these subjects. Yet, if they continue to participate unnecessarily in the killing and exploitation of animals for the pleasure of eating them, I believe that something fundamental remains undeveloped.

Their evolution may be real in certain respects, but it has reached a boundary.

I do not say this because I consider myself superior to other people. I say it because this is one of the most important conclusions I have reached during my own search for the meaning of life. It has become increasingly difficult for me to separate the question of spiritual development from the question of how we treat other living beings.

What does it mean to understand the unity of life if we disregard the lives of those who cannot speak our language or defend their interests in a human court? What does it mean to speak about love while accepting suffering that we could avoid? And what kind of consciousness are we developing if our intellectual achievements do not lead us to question the habits through which we cause harm?

These questions are not directed only at religious people or those who describe themselves as spiritual. They concern anyone who believes that human beings are capable of becoming more conscious.

For me, compassion towards animals is not an optional decoration added to an already complete spiritual path. It is one of the conditions that path must eventually fulfil.

Without compassion, the human being remains a machine—perhaps a magnificent, intelligent, and impressive machine, capable of creating works of art, developing scientific theories, and exploring the universe, but still a machine governed by instincts it has not fully understood.

The machine may become more sophisticated. It may learn to describe its own operation. It may even develop a philosophy about the purpose of its existence. But description is not transformation.

At some point, something more is required.

2. Animals: Beings We Have Not Yet Learned to Understand

I have often thought about the relationship between animals and very young human children.

In my personal understanding, many animals possess a level of cognitive and emotional development that can, in certain respects, remind us of a human child of around three years of age. I do not mean that every animal has the same abilities as a three-year-old child, or that all species can be placed on one common scale. Animals differ greatly, and their capacities cannot be reduced to a single human comparison.

What matters to me is the more fundamental resemblance: animals have their own experiences, needs, attachments, fears, and ways of interacting with the world. They seek what is good for them, avoid what threatens them, and respond to their surroundings according to their own abilities.

A young child does not need to understand the concept of human rights to deserve protection. We do not require a child to explain the philosophical basis of their wish to live before we take that wish seriously.

Why, then, should an animal's inability to express itself in human language make its life less worthy of consideration?

We may possess greater intellectual abilities than other animals, but this difference gives us greater responsibility as well as greater power. The ability to understand consequences should encourage us to examine what we do, not provide us with an excuse to do whatever we please.

When I look at the lives of animals, I cannot regard them merely as resources intended for human use. They are living beings whose existence has its own direction, even if we do not fully understand their experience.

And this is where my conviction becomes particularly strong.

If we acknowledge that an animal can suffer, experience fear, and resist its own destruction, then its suffering cannot become morally irrelevant simply because we enjoy the taste of its flesh or the products of its body.

I understand that people have inherited different customs and that most of us grew up accepting these practices as normal. I, too, was part of that world. I do not regard people as irredeemable because they eat animal products, nor do I believe that condemnation is the best way to encourage transformation.

But understanding why a practice is common does not settle the question of whether it is necessary or right.

At some point, each of us must decide whether a familiar pleasure is worth the suffering associated with it, especially when alternatives are available.

For me, this is not a minor dietary question. It is a question about the kind of being I wish to become.

3. The Human Being Is an Inheritance

There is another idea that has profoundly influenced my understanding of this subject.

"The human being is an inheritance, not merely an individual person."

By this I mean that we do not begin our lives as entirely new, self-created beings. We arrive carrying an immense biological inheritance, shaped by evolutionary processes that began long before our individual existence.

Our bodies, nervous systems, instincts, and many of our behavioural tendencies have histories extending far beyond our own lifetimes. We inherit a living structure that has been shaped over countless generations.

We are born into a world we did not create, with impulses we did not consciously choose and habits that may have been normalised long before we were capable of questioning them.

This observation has led me to consider the role of food in our personal evolution.

In the philosophy of the Cers, I have developed the hypothesis that the regular consumption of animal products may help preserve or reinforce aspects of our inherited animal nature, while making it more difficult for us to cultivate the clarity, emotional balance, and sensitivity that I associate with spiritual development.

I regard this as a central part of my own philosophy. It is not an established scientific conclusion that eating meat transfers an animal's instincts or emotional characteristics to the person who eats it. I cannot demonstrate such a mechanism as a biological fact.

Nevertheless, my conviction goes beyond the physical composition of food. I am also concerned with the attitude towards life that our choices express and reinforce.

If we repeatedly participate in practices that treat other beings as objects for our consumption, we may become accustomed to a particular way of looking at life. We may learn to separate the pleasure we receive from the suffering that makes it possible.

And if we wish to develop a deeper compassion, we must examine not only what we think but also the habits through which we continue to live.

For me, this is one reason veganism matters. It represents an attempt to interrupt an inherited pattern rather than continue it without reflection.

We cannot change the entire history that has brought us here. But we can become more conscious of what we inherit, decide which aspects we wish to preserve, and take responsibility for what we pass on.

4. How Long Have You Been Eating Meat?

Let me ask you a question.

For how long have you been eating meat?

You might answer that you have eaten it since birth, or perhaps since you were old enough to consume solid food. If you are twenty, thirty, or forty years old, you might therefore say that your experience of eating meat extends across approximately that period.

From the perspective of an individual biography, this answer is perfectly understandable.

But I would invite you to look at the question differently.

Your own body has not existed for millions of years. Yet the biological lineage from which you emerged extends back through the evolutionary history of your ancestors. Long before your birth, long before the birth of your parents, and long before the appearance of humanity in its present form, living organisms were already engaged in relationships involving food, survival, and the consumption of other organisms.

In my philosophical interpretation, this immense inheritance is relevant to the way I understand our present condition.

When I say that I have eaten meat for millions of years, I do not mean that my individual body has literally done so. I mean that I see myself as part of a biological lineage whose history extends over millions of years, a lineage in which the consumption of other living organisms has been part of existence for an immense period.

Now consider my own decision to stop eating meat.

I have not eaten it for twenty-six years.

To an individual human being, twenty-six years is a substantial period. It represents a considerable part of a lifetime. It involves decisions repeated day after day, the abandonment of familiar habits, and the willingness to live differently from the surrounding culture.

I do not regard those years as insignificant. On the contrary, they represent an important commitment in my life.

Yet, when I place them beside the millions of years of evolutionary history that preceded me, I see a different perspective. Twenty-six years is a brief interval compared with that immense inheritance.

This is why I do not expect every consequence of such a change to become immediately visible in the structure of a human being. A profound transformation of habits, emotional responses, and ways of relating to life may require much more than a short period of individual effort. And if we are speaking about changes in biological inheritance across generations, we must be even more careful not to assume results that have not been demonstrated.

I believe that conscious veganism can begin a meaningful transformation in the individual. I also believe that its ethical significance extends beyond the individual, because the choices we make influence the environment in which future generations will grow.

But I would not claim that twenty-six years of veganism automatically produces a particular physical or spiritual state. Every person's development is complex, and I cannot measure consciousness simply by counting the years someone has followed a diet.

What I can say is that the effort matters.

The individual who changes a deeply established habit has already begun to act differently from the inheritance they received. They have introduced a conscious decision into a process that might otherwise have continued mechanically.

And perhaps that is the beginning of the transformation I am seeking.

5. One Year of Consciousness Against Ages of Inheritance

Here I arrive at an idea that is particularly important to me.

I believe that one year of veganism lived consciously may be more meaningful for a person's development than many years of animalistic living conducted without awareness.

I do not mean that one year of veganism scientifically cancels thousands or millions of years of evolutionary history. No established biological mechanism allows us to make that calculation.

I mean something different.

For countless generations, human beings have inherited habits, instincts, and cultural practices without necessarily examining their implications. We have continued doing what our parents did, and they continued doing what their parents had done. Much of life has been organised around survival, appetite, pleasure, and custom.

Then, at some point, an individual begins to question the pattern.

They recognise that the familiar way of living is not necessarily the only possible way. They begin to consider the interests of other beings, examine the consequences of their choices, and accept the inconvenience of changing their habits.

In that moment, something important has happened. The person is no longer simply repeating the past. They are attempting to act consciously in the present.

This is what I mean when I speak about a year of conscious living outweighing many years of unconscious repetition. I am speaking about the significance of the effort, not claiming a measurable scientific equivalence between periods of time.

The duration of a practice matters, but so does the attention with which it is undertaken.

A person may follow a vegan diet for many years without giving much thought to compassion, just as another person may begin the practice with a sincere desire to reduce suffering. Diet alone cannot tell us everything about either person's consciousness.

Nevertheless, I believe that conscious veganism offers an important opportunity for transformation. It requires us to question habits that are often treated as natural and unavoidable. It asks us to align our actions with an ethical understanding rather than allowing inherited preferences to decide everything for us.

I also believe that the consequences of such a commitment may become more visible over generations, as children grow up in families where compassion for animals is a normal part of life rather than a difficult idea introduced later.

I would not claim that children born to vegan parents will automatically become more conscious, nor that their genes will carry a guaranteed spiritual improvement. Their development will depend on many influences, including education, environment, relationships, and their own choices.

But consider the difference between a child who is taught from the beginning to regard animals as living beings with interests of their own and a child who grows up without ever questioning the idea that animals exist primarily for human consumption.

The first child may have a different starting point for moral reflection. They may find it easier to recognise animals as beings deserving consideration because this understanding has been part of their upbringing.

That possibility matters to me.

A conscious change in one generation can create conditions in which the next generation begins its own journey with fewer inherited assumptions to overcome.

And if this process continues, the effort of an individual may become part of a broader cultural transformation.

6. The Cers and the Purification of Being

The ideas I have described are closely connected with the philosophy of the Cers.

The word *Cer* has a double meaning in Romanian. It means *heaven*, and it is also an acronym for *Copil al Regnului Energetic*—Child of the Energetic Realm. In English, I retain the name *Cer*, with *Cers* as its plural, because it refers to a particular concept within my philosophy.

The Cers are not, in my understanding, a conventional organisation with a leader, formal membership, or a hierarchy of authority. They represent a path of consciousness: an aspiration towards a higher form of being through the development of knowledge, compassion, discipline, and a particular relationship with the Spirit of Life.

Their philosophy rests on three principles.

The first is to renounce foods of animal origin, thereby ceasing to participate unnecessarily in the harm and deprivation of life associated with their production.

The second is to focus on the brighter side of existence by developing intelligence, knowledge, and wisdom.

The third is to allow oneself to be guided by the Spirit of Life, understood as the mysterious and fundamental reality from which the universe emerged, and to move towards a higher state of existence through love and reverence.

These principles are connected. Veganism without personal development may remain a dietary choice. Knowledge without compassion may become an instrument of pride or control. Spiritual aspiration without discipline may remain an attractive idea that never changes the way we live.

For the Cers, the aim is to bring these dimensions together.

An important part of this process, in my view, is the gradual refinement of our inner being. I have used the expression *making our inner matter more subtle* to describe the transformation I seek. I do not mean that a vegan diet has been shown to change matter into a scientifically identifiable spiritual substance. I mean that the Cers aspire to a condition in which their habits, thoughts, emotions, and relationship with life become increasingly refined.

I associate this process with meditation, greater clarity, positive emotions, and a more conscious relationship with the world.

I also believe that food plays a significant role in it. For me, the choice of what we consume is not merely a matter of taste, nutrition, or convenience. It is part of the broader question of what kind of life we are choosing to cultivate.

Within the philosophy of the Cers, I have therefore classified certain substances as Grade I food drugs" and Grade II food drugs.

Grade I includes heroin, cocaine, hashish, cannabis, marijuana, opium, and their derivatives.

Grade II includes meat, dairy products, eggs, alcohol, caffeinated beverages, refined sugar, and tobacco.

This is a classification developed within my own philosophy, not an official medical or pharmacological classification. The substances listed have different properties, risks, and effects; they should not be understood as medically equivalent simply because I group them together for the purposes of my spiritual framework.

My reason for doing so is that I wish to examine how our habits of consumption may influence our freedom, attention, emotional balance, and relationship with life. I regard the regular consumption of the substances in my second category as an obstacle to the state of clarity I seek, although I cannot establish that they all produce the same effects or that they universally prevent spiritual insight.

I believe the effects of what we consume deserve careful observation, not only while we are consuming these things, but also after we stop.

Foods and drinks containing small amounts of sugar, alcohol, or caffeine may sometimes be accepted as a test. Not as pleasures to be indulged in, but as lessons to be experienced. A person who no longer deceives themselves will observe that, after consuming these substances for a few days, even in small quantities, they have become dependent on them.

The agitation and pressure of alien impulses, which do not legitimately belong to human beings, will be felt most intensely not while these substances are being consumed, but in the days following the decision to abstain from them. The only alternative, as is well known in the case of those who are dependent, is to continue consuming them. But the organism will, in one way or another, scream at the conscious mind, warning it of its imminent destruction if it, as the command centre, continues to allow these insidious and duplicitous saboteurs inside itself.

If the negative repercussions of these three Grade II food drugs can be observed even in the days following withdrawal, the harmful effects caused by meat in particular, but also by eggs and dairy products, may not become apparent until several months after consumption has ceased. It takes up to two years for the internal organs to compile a complete report that the brain can decipher, allowing conclusions to be drawn with full awareness.

What matters within the Cers' philosophy is the aspiration to examine every habit that may stand between us and a more conscious way of living.

7. The Three Levels of Being of the Cers

To express this aspiration, I developed a classification of three levels of being among the Cers.

These levels are not intended merely as ranks through which people compete for recognition. They represent different stages of an individual's relationship with the principles of the Cers and, symbolically, different positions along a path from aspiration towards a higher state of existence.

The Cers of the Third Rank follow the three principles of the Cers and abstain from all Grade I substances. Among the substances in Grade II, they may still consume small quantities of caffeinated beverages, refined sugar, or alcohol occasionally.

They represent the beginning of a more conscious relationship with life. They have accepted the direction of the path but have not yet abandoned every habit that, in their own understanding, stands in the way of further development.

The Cers of the Second Rank follow the three principles and abstain from all substances in both categories of food drugs.

In my conception, they represent the Cers in the fullest sense of the term: individuals who have committed themselves to the principles without continuing to consume the substances that their philosophy identifies as incompatible with that commitment.

The Cers of the First Rank follow the three principles and abstain from every food of material nature.

This final category represents an ideal of exceptional purity and transformation. In my philosophy, the Cers of the First Rank would have moved beyond the ordinary condition of the Cers towards a state approaching that of beings belonging to the Energetic Realm.

I have no confirmation that human beings who fulfil every condition of this ideal exist today. I have nevertheless considered it possible that such individuals may have existed in the past, and that others may exist in the future without ever using the name Cer to describe themselves.

These categories are best understood as part of my personal spiritual model, not as scientifically established levels of consciousness. I cannot verify that abstaining from particular foods produces clairvoyance, guarantees positive emotions, or gives someone control over the events that enter their life.

Within my philosophy, however, the classification serves a purpose. It gives the aspirant a direction and a way of examining the distance between present habits and the state of being they wish to attain.

The three ranks can also be understood as a symbolic relationship with time: the aspiration to become, the effort to live according to one's principles, and the imagined possibility of having moved beyond the limitations of the present condition.

I do not want the classification to become a source of pride or a reason to judge others. Its purpose is not to establish that one person is inherently more valuable than another. It is to express the degree to which an individual has committed themselves to a particular path of transformation.

The important question is not what rank we claim for ourselves.

It is whether we are genuinely changing.

8. The Responsibility of Those Who Teach

I have a particular concern about people who influence others through spiritual teaching, religion, philosophy, science, or public life.

Their words carry weight. People listen to them, sometimes trust them, and may use their ideas to guide important decisions.

This influence creates responsibility.

In my view, a person who speaks about the highest forms of consciousness while ignoring the suffering of animals should examine the relationship between their teachings and their everyday choices. Intellectual achievement does not automatically confer moral wisdom, and a reputation for spirituality does not guarantee that a person has examined every dimension of their life.

I have sometimes expressed this concern through the image of a dark cloth wrapped around the body, preventing the light of truth from reaching the eyes.

The image represents my conviction that inherited habits and unexamined impulses can obscure our understanding even when we sincerely believe ourselves to be seeking the truth.

I do not mean that every religious leader, scientist, writer, or public figure who consumes animal products is incapable of insight. Nor do I believe that dietary choices alone determine the reliability of a person's ideas. Scientific claims must be assessed through evidence and reasoning, and ethical claims must be examined on their own merits.

My point is more personal and more fundamental.

No amount of authority should exempt us from examining our contradictions.

If we teach compassion, we should ask whether our actions reflect it. If we speak about freedom, we should ask whether we are governed by habits we have never questioned. If we claim to understand the unity of life, we should consider whether our conduct acknowledges the interests of other living beings.

These questions apply to me as much as to anyone else.

I do not want my convictions to become another system through which I can feel superior to people who disagree with me. That would contradict the very purpose of the path I am trying to describe.

My intention is not to accuse others, but to offer a different perspective and invite them to examine it.

The world contains enough hostility already. I would prefer a conversation in which people can disagree without treating one another as enemies.

9. An Invitation to Experience

I have become sceptical of endless debates in which people repeat arguments without changing their habits or examining their experiences.

Words can be impressive. Scientific, medical, philosophical, and religious vocabulary can make an argument sound authoritative. But eloquence alone does not tell us whether a person has transformed their life or whether an idea has become meaningful through practice.

This is one reason the Cers' philosophy contains an invitation rather than merely an argument.

I would invite anyone who is genuinely interested in this path to undertake a serious personal experiment.

For two years, abstain from the substances included in my Grade II category, while also avoiding Grade I substances. Ideally, examine the other principles of the Cers during the same period: cultivate knowledge, pay attention to the brighter side of life, practise meditation if appropriate, and become more attentive to the interests of other living beings.

Then observe your experience.

How has your relationship with food changed? What happens to your habits and desires? Do you notice differences in your emotional life, your attention, or your sense of freedom? Which changes can you identify clearly, and which expectations remain unfulfilled?

I do not claim that everyone will experience the same results. A two-year experiment cannot establish that a spiritual realm exists, that clairvoyance has emerged, or that every difficulty in life can be eliminated through diet. Changes in health and mood can have many causes, and a person's nutritional needs must also be respected. Anyone considering a restrictive diet should ensure that it remains nutritionally adequate.

But an honest personal experiment can teach us something about our own habits and responses.

I would ask the participant to record their observations rather than rely entirely on memory. They should distinguish what they actually experience from what they expected to experience. They should be willing to recognise improvements, disappointments, and results that do not fit the original hypothesis.

If, after two years, the person finds the experience unconvincing, they are free to reconsider their choices. They may compare their observations with those made before the experiment, while recognising that such a comparison cannot establish the cause of every change.

The purpose would not be to prove the Cers' philosophy in advance. It would be to approach it through attentive experience rather than accepting or rejecting it solely on the basis of words.

I have suggested this experiment because I believe that conscious living deserves to be explored seriously. I would rather invite a person to examine their own experience than demand that they accept my conclusions merely because I express them with conviction.

And I would welcome a conversation afterwards—not as a confrontation between two people who must defeat each other's arguments, but as a discussion between individuals who respect one another and are willing to describe what they have discovered.

For me, that would be a more fruitful beginning than another endless debate.

10. What Do the Cers Gain by Renouncing These Pleasures?

At this point, a reasonable reader might ask a simple question.

If the Cers renounce so many familiar pleasures, what remains for them to enjoy?

Why abandon foods that people appreciate, or give up habits that have accompanied them for years? Why accept the inconvenience of a disciplined life if it appears to offer less pleasure rather than more?

I understand these questions. I once lived in the same world of ordinary habits and familiar pleasures, and I do not regard the desire for enjoyment as something that must simply be condemned.

The Cers' answer, within my philosophy, is that the renunciation of certain pleasures is not intended to create an empty life. It is intended to make room for other forms of experience that the individual may come to value more highly.

I have used an intentionally extravagant comparison to describe this idea.

Imagine enjoying the finest foods, living in the most comfortable surroundings, visiting the most beautiful landscapes on Earth, and experiencing the fulfilment of your deepest personal desires. Now imagine an experience of joy a thousand times more intense.

This is the image I have used to express what I imagine the joy of a Cer might be.

I associate that possibility with the spiritual traditions that describe *Samadhi*, a state of profound absorption or contemplative realisation, often understood in yogic traditions as an experience of extraordinary unity and bliss.

I cannot establish that the Cers experience such a state continuously, nor can I measure spiritual joy in numerical terms. The comparison is an expression of my aspiration and of the possibilities I associate with spiritual development.

What I wish to emphasise is that renunciation need not be understood as a rejection of joy itself.

The Cers do not aspire to a life without beauty, pleasure, or affection. They seek a different relationship with enjoyment—one in which immediate appetite no longer determines every choice and in which inner development becomes a source of fulfilment.

They can still appreciate music, clean water, the beauty of nature, plant-based food, and the company of animals. Indeed, I believe that a more attentive relationship with life may allow a person to appreciate such experiences more deeply.

The companionship of animals is particularly meaningful to me. A being that has been treated as a resource can instead be encountered as a living presence with its own character and needs. That change in our relationship can itself become a source of joy.

I do not ask anyone to accept my descriptions of spiritual bliss as established facts. I offer them as part of the vision that has developed through my own search.

The deeper point is that the pursuit of consciousness need not make life poorer. It may instead lead us to reconsider what we value and discover forms of fulfilment that do not depend on satisfying every familiar desire.

11. Compassion Is Not an Accusation

I want to finish by returning to the question with which I began.

I have strong convictions about veganism and spiritual evolution. I believe that a person cannot advance indefinitely in consciousness while remaining indifferent to the suffering of other beings. I believe that compassion must eventually extend beyond our own species, and that our daily choices reveal something important about the understanding we have achieved.

But I do not want these convictions to become an accusation against the people I love.

My children, too, have made their own choices. They have not always followed the teachings I hoped they would accept. I could interpret this as a personal failure, become frustrated, or spend my time trying to convince them that my understanding is the correct one.

But love cannot mean that I must control the decisions of others.

I can share what I have learned. I can explain why certain principles matter to me. I can continue to live according to my convictions and hope that my example will be useful. Yet I must recognise that each person has their own path, their own experiences, and their own freedom to decide what they are willing to change.

This applies to my children, to other people, and to anyone who may read these pages.

My compassion for animals does not require me to abandon compassion for human beings who have not reached the same conclusions. On the contrary, if I claim that compassion is essential to spiritual development, I must practise it even when I encounter disagreement.

I can challenge an idea without condemning the entire person who holds it. I can be firm about the consequences of a practice while recognising that many people inherited it without ever being encouraged to question it.

Most of us did not choose the world into which we were born. We learned its habits before we were able to examine them. We absorbed its assumptions through family, culture, and daily life. It may take years before we begin to recognise that some of those assumptions deserve to be questioned.

I know this because I, too, have had to question the life I inherited.

The purpose of my journey is not to punish myself or others for what we did before we understood it differently. It is to become more conscious of what we do now.

If I believe that humanity can evolve, I must leave room for the possibility that people can change. If I believe that compassion matters, I must extend it to those who have not yet adopted my convictions. And if I believe that freedom is essential, I must respect the freedom of others to undertake their own search.

I will continue to argue that compassion for animals is not a marginal concern but a fundamental test of how we understand life. I will continue to believe that veganism can be an important expression of that compassion and a meaningful part of my own spiritual discipline.

I will also continue to examine my beliefs, because sincerity does not make me infallible.

The road ahead remains long. Twenty-six years without meat have not given me a reason to declare my journey complete. They have given me a reason to continue.

Perhaps the transformation I seek will never be fully visible within a single lifetime. Perhaps its most important effects will be found in the choices we make, the suffering we avoid, and the understanding we pass on to those who come after us.

I do not know how far human consciousness can evolve. I do not know whether there is an Energetic Realm or whether the future holds forms of existence that I can only imagine.

But I know the direction in which I wish to travel.

I want to become a being whose understanding of life is expressed not only in words, but in actions. I want my search for consciousness to make me more attentive to suffering, more willing to question inherited habits, and more capable of living according to the compassion I profess.

For me, that is where genuine evolution must begin.

Not in the greatness of our theories, nor in the beauty of our spiritual language, but in the transformation of the way we live.

And I believe that this transformation cannot continue indefinitely while compassion remains absent from the table at which we eat.

The Energetic Realm—or the place the Cers want to reach—is not a parallel world to Earth or a galaxy in this physical universe, but a place within it. To better understand what I mean, think back to a moment in your life when something moved you to tears. Usually, such moments are rare in real life, but they happen more often when you watch a movie, listen to a song, or read a book.

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Chapter Twelve 

The Photon and the Unity of Being

1. The Mystery Hidden in Light

The more I search for the meaning of life, the more I am drawn toward a fundamental question: what is the element that unites everything that exists?

We see an immense universe filled with galaxies, stars, planets, living beings, and countless forms of matter. Everything appears separate, each object occupying its own place, each being following its own path. Yet I find it difficult to believe that this extraordinary diversity has no deeper connection.

Could the apparent separation between things be only one aspect of a much greater unity?

My thoughts often return to the photon, the particle of light. It fascinates me because it seems to stand at the boundary between what we can understand and what remains mysterious. Light carries energy across the universe. It allows us to see distant stars and to discover events that took place billions of years ago. Through light, the universe reveals something of its own history.

But I wonder whether the significance of the photon goes beyond its familiar role in physics. Could it offer us a way of thinking about the unity of existence itself?

I do not mean merely that light connects distant objects by travelling between them. I am considering a more profound possibility: that behind the multitude of forms there is a fundamental unity, and that the photon may help us approach the mystery of that unity.

Perhaps what we call the universe is not simply a collection of separate things. Perhaps it is one reality expressing itself through an almost infinite variety of forms.

This is where my search begins to move beyond the visible world and into the realm of ideas.

2. The Speed of Light and the Mystery of Time

Einstein's theory of relativity transformed our understanding of space, time, motion, and the universe. What had seemed obvious to the human mind turned out to be far more complex than we had imagined.

Time is not as absolute as it appears in everyday life. The passage of time depends on the physical circumstances of the observer, and the speed of light occupies a fundamental place in our understanding of reality.

These ideas invite me to look at the photon in a different way.

A photon travels through a vacuum at the speed of light. It does not slow down to accommodate our ordinary experience of time. It moves according to laws that challenge the intuitions we have developed through our lives as human beings.

When I contemplate this, I find myself asking: what does time really mean at the deepest level of existence?

We divide our lives into past, present, and future. We remember what has happened, experience what we call the present, and imagine what may happen next. For us, time seems to carry everything forward, allowing no return to what has passed.

But perhaps this is not the whole picture.

I am drawn to the possibility that, at a more fundamental level, our familiar divisions of time may not describe reality as completely as we imagine. What we experience as a succession of moments might be one way in which consciousness encounters a much larger reality.

When I think of the photon, I imagine a perspective that is radically different from our own. In my mind, the immense distances of the universe and the ages required to cross them invite a question: could the reality underlying these journeys be more unified than our experience of time allows us to perceive?

Perhaps what seems to us to be a journey across billions of years belongs to a deeper order in which the separation between here and there, past and future, is not what we suppose.

I cannot simply transfer our human experience to the photon and claim to know what it means to exist in its condition. But I can allow the question to lead me somewhere new.

What if our understanding of time is only one chapter in the story of reality, rather than the final word?

3. Is There a Deeper Unity Beneath Multiplicity?

Everywhere I look, I encounter the same mystery: unity appearing as multiplicity.

A tree grows from the earth, receives energy from the Sun, exchanges matter with its surroundings, and becomes part of a living world. An animal depends on countless other forms of life. Human beings are woven into an immense network of relationships, even when they imagine themselves to be independent.

Nothing exists entirely by itself.

Yet we continue to experience the world through divisions. We distinguish one being from another, one object from another, one life from another. These distinctions are useful, but I wonder whether they sometimes conceal the deeper reality from which everything emerges.

Imagine looking at the sea. We can distinguish millions of waves, each with its own shape and movement. One rises while another falls; one reaches the shore while another remains far away. We give them separate names in our minds, but every wave belongs to the same sea.

Could the universe be understood in a similar way?

Perhaps stars, planets, plants, animals, and human beings are expressions of a reality whose unity is much deeper than their visible differences. We would still have our individual forms and experiences, just as waves have their own shapes, but our apparent separation would not tell the whole story of what we are.

This thought leads me toward the idea of a single, indivisible Spirit of Life.

I do not imagine this Spirit as an old human figure sitting somewhere beyond the stars, supervising the universe from a distance. I imagine something much more fundamental: a mysterious reality at the origin of existence, present not as an external ruler but as the deepest source of everything that becomes.

Could this be the unity we have been searching for without fully recognising it?

Perhaps the greatest mystery is not how separate things are connected, but how the appearance of separation emerges from a unity that was never truly divided.

4. The Photon, the Absolute Self, and the Origin of Life

In my search, the photon has gradually become connected in my mind with another idea: the Absolute Self.

By this I mean the ultimate unity from which the universe originates, the fundamental reality that gives rise to the countless forms through which existence becomes visible.

I wonder whether the photon can serve as a kind of bridge between our understanding of the physical universe and our search for its deeper origin.

The universe contains an extraordinary variety of structures, yet the laws governing these structures possess a remarkable coherence. Light travels through the cosmos. Energy is transformed. Matter takes shape. Stars are born and die, while the elements created through cosmic processes become part of new worlds and eventually of living organisms.

Out of this immense process, beings have appeared who can look back at the universe and ask where it came from.

To me, this is one of the most extraordinary aspects of existence: the universe has produced beings capable of wondering about the mystery of the universe itself.

I find myself asking whether consciousness is merely a late and accidental visitor to an otherwise unconscious reality, or whether it points toward something more fundamental in the relationship between existence and awareness.

Could the Absolute Self be understood as the deepest unity of being, while individual consciousness represents one of the ways in which that unity comes to know itself?

And could the photon, because of its remarkable place in the physical universe, offer us a symbol—or perhaps a clue—through which to explore this possibility?

I sometimes find myself imagining the photon and the Absolute Self as two aspects of a mystery that we have not yet learned how to approach properly. The photon belongs to the language of the physical world; the Absolute Self belongs to my search for the origin and meaning of that world.

Perhaps one day a deeper understanding will bring these questions into a relationship we cannot yet clearly imagine.

For now, I follow the connection that my own contemplation has revealed to me.

5. Quantum Entanglement: When Separation Becomes a Question

One of the most fascinating discoveries in modern physics is quantum entanglement.

Under certain circumstances, two quantum systems can share a state in which the results of measurements performed on them are correlated in ways that cannot be explained by the familiar picture of independent objects carrying all their properties separately.

Experiments have repeatedly confirmed that nature does not always behave according to the expectations we develop from ordinary experience.

For me, this opens an intriguing philosophical question.

What if the separateness we perceive in the universe is not as fundamental as we assume?

I am not suggesting that entanglement gives us a ready-made answer to every mystery of existence. Rather, I see it as a reminder that reality can be far stranger and more interconnected than our everyday intuition suggests.

We are accustomed to thinking that an object is entirely defined by what happens within its own boundaries. We imagine that what is here must be independent of what is there, unless something travels between them and produces a connection.

Quantum entanglement challenges this simple picture.

Could there be aspects of reality in which the relationship between things is more fundamental than the separate identities we assign to them?

This question matters to my search because it invites me to reconsider the way I understand individuality. Perhaps being an individual does not necessarily mean being completely independent. Perhaps the existence of distinct forms can coexist with a deeper unity that is difficult for the human mind to grasp.

I find this possibility compelling.

If the universe contains relationships that cannot be understood simply by treating everything as an isolated object, perhaps we should be more cautious when we assume that the visible boundaries between beings reveal the full truth of their existence.

The world may be more unified than it looks.

And perhaps learning to perceive that unity is not only an intellectual challenge. It may also change the way we live.

6. From Physical Unity to the Unity of Life

There is an important step in my thinking that goes beyond physics.

Even if we discover more profound connections between physical phenomena, how should we understand the relationship between those connections and the lives of individual beings?

For me, the answer begins with the Spirit of Life.

I believe that the same unique and indivisible Spirit of Life is present in every living being. A human being, a bird, a fish, a pig, and a tiny insect may differ enormously in their abilities, their experiences, and their ways of perceiving the world. Yet I do not see these differences as reasons to imagine that the value of life belongs exclusively to one species.

The forms are different, but the mystery of being alive unites them.

I do not believe that we must understand the entire universe before we can recognise the significance of this idea. We can begin with what is directly before us: another living being, with its own existence, its own needs, and its own movement through the world.

A being does not need to understand the origin of the universe in order for its life to matter.

A fish need not formulate a theory of consciousness. A bird need not write a book about freedom. An animal need not share our language or our intellectual abilities to have a life of its own.

This is where my understanding of unity becomes a matter of responsibility.

If life is connected at a fundamental level, then the way I treat another being cannot be dismissed as irrelevant to my own development. Every choice reveals something about how I understand existence and my place within it.

The idea of unity becomes meaningful when it changes the way we behave.

Otherwise, it remains only an attractive thought.

7. The Suffering We Cause

There is a question that follows me throughout my search: how can I speak of the unity of life while participating in the unnecessary suffering of other living beings?

Human beings have developed extraordinary intellectual abilities. We can study distant galaxies, investigate the smallest structures of matter, and build theories about the origin of the universe. We can contemplate eternity and ask what lies beyond death.

Yet we can also sit at a table and consume the body of an animal whose desire to continue living was no less real simply because that animal could not express it in our language.

This contradiction troubles me.

I once lived according to habits that I now question deeply. I ate meat for many years, as countless people do, without fully considering what my choices meant for the beings whose lives were taken. I inherited a way of living from the world around me and accepted much of it as normal.

My own search gradually led me to see things differently.

If the universe is more deeply united than it appears, and if the Spirit of Life is indivisible, then the suffering of another being cannot be completely separate from the meaning of my own existence.

I find myself wondering whether suffering, too, belongs to a larger reality than the individual experience through which we perceive it. Could the pain experienced by one being have a significance that extends beyond the boundaries of that being's body and immediate life?

Could the experiences of individual beings contribute, in some way, to a wider unfolding of understanding?

These are questions I cannot answer completely. But they influence the way I see my responsibility.

I do not need to know every secret of the universe to recognise that I can reduce the suffering I cause.

For me, compassion is not a decoration added to spiritual life. It is one of the most direct expressions of the possibility that we belong to something greater than ourselves.

If I wish to understand the unity of existence, I must begin by refusing to treat another living being as though its life were merely an instrument for my pleasure.

8. The Human Being as an Inheritance

In another part of my search, I have come to regard the human being as an inheritance.

By this I mean that each of us carries the legacy of an immense evolutionary history. Our bodies, instincts, impulses, and many of our behavioural tendencies did not appear from nothing. They emerged through the long history of life on Earth, through countless generations whose struggles and adaptations made our existence possible.

We arrive in the world already carrying this inheritance.

We do not choose our earliest instincts, the habits of our families, or the customs of the societies into which we are born. Much of what we call normal is simply what we have received and learned to repeat.

But must inheritance determine our future?

I believe that one of the great possibilities of human existence is the ability to become conscious of what we have inherited and to begin transforming ourselves.

This transformation is not achieved merely by accumulating knowledge. A person may know a great deal about the universe and remain governed by anger, vanity, fear, and appetite. Intellectual development alone does not guarantee a corresponding development of compassion.

I have been without meat for twenty-six years. When I consider the immense evolutionary history behind my existence, I see those years as a beginning rather than a conclusion. They represent a small part of a much longer journey, one in which inherited habits can gradually be questioned and new ways of living consciously developed.

I wonder what might become possible if conscious, compassionate living were carried forward through many generations.

Could future human beings develop a different relationship with their instincts, their emotions, and the other forms of life with which they share the planet? Could the values cultivated by one generation become the starting point for a deeper transformation in the next?

I do not know how such a transformation might unfold in every detail. But I believe that we should not underestimate the significance of the choices we make today.

We are not merely the endpoint of our inheritance. We may also be the beginning of something new.

9. Why Veganism Matters to My Search

For me, veganism is not simply a dietary preference. It is an expression of a fundamental decision about the kind of being I wish to become.

I cannot separate my search for the meaning of life from the way I treat life.

If I seek greater consciousness, I must ask whether my actions reflect that aspiration. If I speak of unity, I must consider whether my daily choices reinforce separation and indifference. If I wish to become more compassionate, I must examine the habits through which I may still participate in suffering.

This is why I regard veganism as an indispensable condition of true evolution.

I do not mean that changing one's diet automatically makes a person wise, loving, or conscious. A vegan can still be selfish, arrogant, or cruel. The change in diet matters because of the awareness and intention that accompany it, and because it creates an opportunity to bring our actions into greater harmony with our understanding.

For me, refusing to consume animal products is one way of withdrawing my participation from a system that takes the lives of beings for purposes I no longer consider sufficient justification.

It is also a personal discipline. It asks me to examine the difference between what I desire and what I believe is right.

I see this as part of a much larger transformation: learning to govern our impulses rather than allowing them to govern us.

Could generations of people who consciously choose compassion gradually change humanity's relationship with the living world? Could such a change contribute to a different kind of intelligence, one in which knowledge and power are guided more consistently by responsibility?

These are possibilities I consider worth pursuing.

The connection I make between veganism and spiritual evolution comes from my own understanding of life and from the conclusions I have reached through experience. It is central to my philosophy because I cannot imagine genuine inner development flourishing indefinitely alongside indifference to the suffering we could choose to prevent.

The world may disagree with me. Readers may reach different conclusions.

But I cannot abandon a conviction simply because it asks more of me than the habits I inherited.

# 10. The Limits of My Inheritance and the Possibility of Transformation

When I look at the history of humanity, I see a species that has made extraordinary discoveries while remaining deeply divided within itself.

We have learned to manipulate matter, harness enormous sources of energy, and extend our knowledge across the universe. Yet our emotional and moral development often seems unable to keep pace with our technical power.

We can build tools capable of transforming the world, but we do not always possess the wisdom required to use them well.

Why does this imbalance persist?

I suspect that part of the answer lies in the difference between knowing something intellectually and embodying that knowledge in our lives.

We can understand that violence causes suffering and still choose violence. We can recognise the value of peace and continue to cultivate hatred. We can speak about love while allowing our appetites and fears to dictate our behaviour.

The human being contains this contradiction.

I wonder whether our long evolutionary inheritance helps explain why transformation can be so difficult. We may possess the ability to reflect upon our instincts without yet having learned how to govern them consistently.

Perhaps this is one reason why I place such importance on conscious discipline and compassion. They are not merely virtues to admire. They are practices through which we can begin to change the relationship between what we have inherited and what we choose to become.

Twenty-six years without meat may seem like a long time in an individual life. Against the immense history of life, however, it is a brief interval.

I do not expect every trace of inherited behaviour to disappear within a single lifetime. Nor do I believe that personal discipline alone can resolve every contradiction in human nature.

But I believe that change must begin somewhere.

Perhaps each conscious act contributes to a gradual movement away from unconscious repetition. Perhaps what one generation begins, another can carry further.

I cannot tell you how long such a transformation might require. What matters to me is that the possibility exists, and that we should not abandon it simply because the journey is long.

11. The Mystery Remains Open

I have reached a point in my search where I find myself asking questions that may remain unanswered for a long time.

What is the ultimate nature of the photon? What lies beneath the apparent separation of physical objects? What is the relationship between matter, energy, consciousness, and the origin of life? Is the Absolute Self a way of approaching a unity that the human mind has not yet learned to comprehend?

Could our experience of individuality be only one expression of a deeper reality? Could the evolution of consciousness be part of a much larger process through which the universe gradually becomes aware of itself?

I do not expect to settle these questions in a single chapter, or even within my lifetime.

My search has taught me that the desire for certainty can sometimes become an obstacle to discovery. We may become so attached to what we already believe that we no longer allow ourselves to see what lies beyond it.

I would rather continue asking questions than close the door simply because I have reached the edge of my present understanding.

Some of my ideas may prove incomplete. Others may need to be reconsidered or expressed differently as knowledge develops. Perhaps the language available to us today is not yet sufficient to describe everything we are trying to understand.

That does not make the search meaningless.

I am a human being attempting to understand the universe from within the very reality I am trying to comprehend. I carry the inheritance of the past, the limitations of the present, and the possibility of a future I cannot fully imagine.

What matters is that I continue to explore, to question, and to transform the way I live.

And through all these questions, one conviction remains central to me: if I want to approach the mystery of existence, I must not forget the lives that share it with me.

I may not yet understand the photon. I may not know the ultimate nature of time, consciousness, or the Absolute Self. But I can choose compassion today. I can refuse to participate in suffering that I believe is unnecessary. I can try to bring my actions into harmony with the unity I seek to understand.

Perhaps this is how the journey must proceed: with the courage to imagine what we do not yet understand, the humility to keep searching, and the determination to live according to the deepest truths we have discovered within ourselves.

The universe is still a mystery.

And I believe that the greatest mistake would be to assume that we have already reached the end of it.

Why could we see space? Because there is a deep and subtle connection between photons and our consciousness.

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Chapter Thirteen 

The Quiet Place Within Yourself

1. A Place Where Everything Is in Order

There is a special place within every human being where everything is simply in order.

It is not a physical place that we can find on a map, nor is it a room into which we can withdraw whenever the world becomes too noisy. It is an inner state in which something extraordinary happens: the struggle within us becomes silent, fear loses its power, and we experience a harmony with ourselves and the universe that is difficult to describe in ordinary words.

I call it *the quiet place within yourself*.

I believe that every human being may experience this state at least a few times during life. It is a gift available to us all, although most people may encounter it only briefly, without understanding what has happened or how to find their way back.

I know this place from personal experience.

I have visited it in the past, and I have experienced it again more recently, in a way that has changed my understanding of what may be possible for a human being. For many years, I thought of those earlier moments as rare gifts that arrived without warning and disappeared just as mysteriously.

Today, I see them differently.

I believe that the quiet place within ourselves is not merely a beautiful accident. It is a possibility of human existence that we can learn to approach through conscious development, self-control, the expansion of knowledge, and respect for life.

For me, veganism is an essential part of this journey.

Before explaining why, I would like to describe the state itself.

2. When the Wind Stops Blowing Within You

Imagine a moment in which you no longer feel that anything is missing from your life.

You do not need another possession, another person's approval, or another promise about the future. You are not waiting for something to happen before you can finally be at peace. Nothing needs to be added to the present moment to make it complete.

You are simply there.

Your mind is clear. Your emotions are balanced. You feel completely in control of yourself, and the influences that normally arrive from the surrounding world no longer seem capable of disturbing your inner harmony.

It is as though the wind has stopped blowing.

The world may continue moving around you, but something within you has become still. Fear cannot find its usual entrance. The thoughts that ordinarily pull you in different directions lose their authority. You are no longer a prisoner of every impression that reaches you.

Your gaze may become fixed straight ahead, without the usual urge to look around or react to every new stimulus. In my own experience, there have been moments when I could hold that gaze without blinking, while feeling an extraordinary stillness within.

The most remarkable feature, however, is not the physical sensation. It is the inner certainty that nothing is missing.

You do not feel superior to other people. You do not need to demonstrate anything. You simply experience a profound sense of harmony with existence.

For a brief period, the ordinary anxieties of human life seem very far away. You can observe the world without being carried away by every movement within it. You feel free—not because the world has suddenly become perfect, but because its imperfections no longer possess the same power over you.

This is what makes the experience so difficult to compare with ordinary happiness.

Happiness often depends on something happening as we wish. The quiet place is different. It does not seem to require a favourable circumstance. Its peace comes from within.

Once you have experienced it, even briefly, you may begin to understand why no earthly wealth, praise, or recognition can offer a satisfactory substitute.

3. My First Encounters With This State

I experienced this extraordinary state twice in the past, with approximately ten years separating the two occasions.

At that time, I was vegetarian, but I had not yet become vegan in the sense in which I understand it today. I no longer ate meat, yet I had not made the complete break with foods of animal origin that later became central to my path.

Those experiences left a deep impression on me. I recognised something exceptional in them, although I could not reproduce the state whenever I wished.

It appeared, and then it disappeared.

I could remember what it felt like, but memory alone could not bring it back. I did not yet understand the conditions that might allow me to approach it consciously. I had tasted something extraordinary without knowing how to make it part of my life.

My understanding was also more limited then. I had begun to question the habits and assumptions inherited from the world around me, but I had much more to discover about myself and about the relationship between my way of living and my inner state.

I do not dismiss those early experiences simply because I understand them differently today. On the contrary, they were important milestones. They gave me a glimpse of a possibility that I would continue exploring for many years.

I have now been without meat for twenty-six years. Of those years, the last five, as of October 2026, have been spent living as a strict vegan.

When I look back at this journey, I am struck by how much I feel I have understood in those five years. Compared with the vast inheritance carried through my genetic lineage and the immense history of life from which I emerged, five years seem almost insignificant in duration. Yet they have brought me insights that I would once have struggled even to imagine.

I sometimes wonder how much more remains to be discovered.

Perhaps we underestimate the changes that can occur when a person begins to examine not only what they think, but also how they live, what they consume, and what they choose to support through their daily actions.

For me, the journey has become much more than the adoption of a different diet. It has become a search for a different relationship with existence itself.

4. Ouspensky, Gurdjieff, and the Sleeping Human Being

Few books have influenced my thinking as deeply as P. D. Ouspensky's *The Fourth Way*, through which he presented and developed the teachings associated with G. I. Gurdjieff.

Their diagnosis of the human condition remains remarkably powerful.

They described human beings as largely mechanical creatures, governed by habits, reactions, contradictions, and influences they do not understand. We imagine that we act freely, yet much of our behaviour is automatic. We believe that we possess a single, consistent self, while our thoughts, feelings, desires, and intentions frequently contradict one another.

We say that we want one thing and do another. We promise ourselves that we will change, only to repeat the same behaviour. We blame circumstances and other people, rarely recognising how much of our inner life is determined by forces we have not learned to observe.

Their teachings invite us to awaken from this condition.

Among their central practices is *self-remembering*: the attempt to remain aware of oneself while also being aware of what is happening around oneself. Instead of becoming completely absorbed in an external event or an internal reaction, a person attempts to maintain a conscious presence.

The idea is simple to express but difficult to practise consistently.

I have great respect for the people who brought these ideas to the attention of others. They recognised a genuine problem in human existence and offered tools through which we might begin to confront it.

Yet I believe that their approach left an important question insufficiently explored.

They examined the mechanical human being, but, in my opinion, they did not give enough attention to the possible influence of our inherited animal impulses and the substances we repeatedly introduce into our bodies.

I do not say this to diminish their contribution. I see it as an attempt to continue the search they began.

Every traveller discovers something and leaves other things for those who follow.

Perhaps Gurdjieff and Ouspensky illuminated an important part of the path without recognising everything that, in my view, must be considered if we wish to travel further.

5. The Missing Question: What Do We Put Into Ourselves?

My disagreement with their approach concerns something very practical.

If a human being is mechanical, as they argued, what contributes to the continuation of that mechanical condition?

We are influenced by our environment, education, habits, emotional reactions, and inherited tendencies. But we are also physical beings. We must eat, drink, breathe, and sleep. Our bodies and minds do not exist independently of the conditions in which we live.

Should we not therefore examine the relationship between our inner development and the substances we consume every day?

In my view, this question deserves far greater attention than it has received in many discussions of spiritual development.

Gurdjieff and Ouspensky lived within the habits and limitations of their own time. Their lives included practices such as smoking, drinking coffee or alcohol, and consuming animal products. These habits were common in their society, and I do not believe we need to judge their entire work by the standards of a single aspect of their personal lives.

Nevertheless, I find it difficult to ignore the contradiction between seeking greater inner freedom and continuing habits that, according to my philosophy, may reinforce our inherited animal impulses and dependence on immediate gratification.

I have come to regard foods of animal origin, together with alcohol, tobacco, caffeinated beverages, and refined sugar, as obstacles that deserve serious examination on the path toward inner clarity. In the Cers' philosophy, I group these substances among the so-called *Grade II food drugs*. This is my own spiritual classification, not an official medical classification, and I do not claim that all these substances affect the body in the same way.

My central concern is not the label. It is the question behind it.

How much of our inner turbulence comes from the way we have learned to live? How much is sustained by repeated indulgence? And how much freedom might become possible if we began to examine these influences with greater discipline?

I believe that our relationship with food deserves to be part of this investigation.

In particular, I believe that continuing to consume animals and their products while seeking a deeper unity with life creates a contradiction that we should not overlook.

We may practise self-remembering, meditate, study profound books, and speak beautifully about consciousness. But if our everyday choices remain governed by appetites that we have never seriously questioned, how complete can our transformation be?

For me, this is the missing question.

6. The Quiet Place and the Cers

The path of the Cers emerged from my own search for a more conscious way of living.

It is not a formal religion, nor an organisation with a leader, membership cards, or a hierarchy of authority. It is a path of consciousness built around three principles: renouncing foods of animal origin, cultivating the bright side of life through intelligence and knowledge, and allowing oneself to be guided by the Spirit of Life.

These principles are connected in my mind.

The first concerns the way we relate to other living beings. The second concerns the development of our understanding. The third concerns our relationship with the deeper mystery from which life and the universe emerge.

I do not see these as separate activities that can be pursued independently without affecting one another. I see them as aspects of a single journey.

How can I cultivate compassion while repeatedly supporting practices that cause suffering to other beings? How can I seek wisdom without examining the habits that govern me? How can I speak of unity with the universe while ignoring the lives that share it with me?

The quiet place within ourselves represents, for me, a moment in which these contradictions become silent. It is a state of inner coherence, where our thoughts, emotions, intentions, and actions seem to belong to the same direction.

I believe that the way toward this state involves more than a single technique. It requires a gradual transformation of the whole person.

Veganism is central to this transformation because it brings our relationship with life into the process of conscious development. Knowledge helps us understand more. Discipline helps us resist automatic impulses. Compassion helps us recognise that our own development cannot be separated from the way we treat other beings.

And the Spirit of Life gives this journey its deepest meaning.

I cannot ask someone to accept my entire philosophy merely because I have found meaning in it. But I can explain why these principles belong together in my own experience and invite others to explore the relationship for themselves.

# 7. From Rare Moments to a Conscious Approach

For many years, I believed that the quiet place was something I could only encounter by chance.

I remembered the two experiences from my earlier life, but I did not know how to reproduce them. They remained exceptional moments, separated by long intervals, and I had no reliable way of returning to them.

More recently, something has changed.

In the last few days, here in October 2026, I have experienced at least two moments that I recognise as belonging to this same inner state. The important difference is that I now feel I have learned something about how to approach it consciously.

I do not want to turn this into a mechanical recipe. The quiet place is not a button that we press, nor is it a reward that can be demanded after completing a list of tasks. What I have discovered is a growing sense that the state can be approached through the direction in which I am developing myself.

The years of questioning, discipline, observation, and changes in my way of living have not been separate from one another. Together, they have shaped the way I understand myself and the world.

I believe that the development of consciousness, respect for life, the expansion of knowledge, and veganism can help us approach this inner harmony more deliberately.

What once appeared to me as an unpredictable gift now seems like a possibility toward which I can orient myself.

There is a profound difference between occasionally receiving a glimpse of something and beginning to understand the path that leads toward it.

The first gives us a memory. The second gives us a direction.

I am still exploring this possibility, and I do not pretend that my experience provides a complete explanation for everyone. But the change in my own understanding has been significant enough that I can no longer regard these moments as meaningless accidents.

I see them as invitations to continue.

8. A Freedom That Cannot Be Bought

What makes the quiet place so precious is that it changes our sense of what matters.

We spend much of our lives pursuing things that promise to make us feel complete. We seek wealth, recognition, possessions, admiration, security, and the approval of other people. Some of these things can make life more comfortable, and there is nothing inherently wrong with improving our circumstances.

But comfort and inner freedom are not the same.

A person may possess enormous wealth and remain troubled by fear. Another may be admired by thousands of people and still depend on their approval to feel worthy. We can accumulate achievements while remaining unable to find peace within ourselves.

The quiet place reveals a different possibility.

For a brief time, at least in my experience, the need to acquire something more simply disappears. Nothing needs to be proved. Nothing needs to be defended. The mind is no longer occupied with the fear that life is incomplete.

There is only a profound sense of harmony.

When I compare this state with the rewards offered by the material world, I find the difference almost impossible to express. All the wealth and praise on Earth seem insignificant beside the freedom of that inner moment.

This does not mean that we should abandon our responsibilities or refuse to participate in ordinary life. It means that we should reconsider what we are ultimately seeking through our actions.

If the purpose of our efforts is to become free, conscious, and at peace with existence, then we should not confuse the means with the destination.

Money may buy comfort. Praise may provide a moment of satisfaction. Knowledge may open new doors. But none of these, by itself, guarantees the inner harmony I am describing.

The quiet place cannot be purchased from anyone. It cannot be awarded by a teacher or granted by the approval of a crowd.

It must be discovered within oneself.

And the effort required to approach it may be worth far more than any external reward we could obtain.

9. An Invitation to Explore

I would not ask anyone to accept my conclusions merely because I have expressed them with conviction.

I would rather invite the reader to begin an honest exploration.

Observe yourself. Notice how quickly your inner state changes under the influence of circumstances, desires, frustrations, and the behaviour of other people. Pay attention to the difference between knowing what you believe and actually living according to it.

Examine your habits, including your relationship with food and the substances you consume. Ask whether your daily choices support the kind of person you wish to become.

If you are willing to explore veganism, approach it as a serious ethical commitment, supported by sound nutritional knowledge and a conscious concern for your own well-being as well as the lives of other beings. Do not expect a single change to solve every difficulty in your life. Instead, observe what changes when your actions become more consistent with your convictions.

Develop your knowledge. Practise self-observation. Learn to recognise the moments when you are governed by automatic reactions rather than conscious choice.

And when a moment of inner stillness arrives, do not rush to possess it. Observe it. Remember it. Let it teach you something about the possibility of being less divided within yourself.

In my own life, this search has led me to a conviction that I would not have been able to express with the same clarity many years ago: the quiet place within ourselves is not merely a pleasant feeling. It represents a possibility of inner freedom that deserves our most serious attention.

I believe that conscious development, respect for life, the expansion of knowledge, and veganism are essential elements of the path toward it.

Others may interpret their experiences differently. They may follow other paths or disagree with my conclusions. I have no wish to take that freedom away from them.

I can only tell them what I have experienced and what I have come to believe.

For me, the effort and sacrifices made along this journey have been worthwhile. The moments I have experienced in recent days have given a new meaning to years of searching, questioning, and discipline.

And if I can continue approaching this state consciously, then I have discovered something more valuable than any external recognition could offer.

I have discovered a direction toward inner freedom.

Perhaps the quiet place within yourself is closer than you imagine. Perhaps it is waiting beneath the noise of inherited habits, restless desires, and the countless influences that pull you away from your own centre.

I cannot promise that you will discover it by following my path. But I can tell you that, for me, it has become one of the most precious possibilities of human existence.

And I believe that the effort required to approach it is worth making.

For when you finally experience a moment in which nothing seems to be missing, fear no longer governs your thoughts, and you feel in harmony with the universe, you may understand why I say that all the riches and praise on Earth are nothing in comparison.

The world may continue to offer you countless things to possess.

But in the quiet place within yourself, for a moment, you discover something that makes possession unnecessary.

You discover the freedom of simply being.

©©©

Chapter Fourteen

The Self: The Opposite Principle of Life We Seek

1. The Self We Spend Our Lives Searching For

Those who have explored the spiritual dimension of human existence have often reached the conclusion that the Self is the dearest companion with whom a human being wishes to live. Everything we do, in one way or another, is for the sake of this Self, even when we do not understand what it is or why we are searching for it.

Yet the Self can remain an abstract notion if we do not understand its true nature.

I would like to offer an interpretation that may seem unusual, but which has emerged from my own observation and meditation.

In my view, the Self we seek is the life principle opposite to the one expressed through our physical body. It is the complementary principle through which we seek to become a complete being, balanced and harmonious with the universe.

A man, in this understanding, seeks the feminine principle of life, while a woman seeks the masculine principle. I am not speaking merely about the physical attraction between two bodies. I am speaking about something deeper: the search for the complementary energy that seems to be missing from our own embodied existence.

We may spend years pursuing success, accumulating possessions, acquiring knowledge, or receiving the admiration of others. Yet something may remain incomplete within us. We may not even know what is missing. We simply feel that the life we have constructed does not fully answer the need that lies beneath our conscious desires.

I believe that this need is connected with the search for the opposite principle.

We are drawn towards what differs from us because, in that difference, we sense the possibility of becoming whole.

The Self, therefore, is not merely the person we already are. It is also the complementary principle towards which we move, often without being conscious of the deeper direction of our search.

2. Two Principles Seeking Unity

Consider a man who encounters a woman with whom he feels a profound affinity, or a woman who encounters a man who seems to awaken something that had remained dormant within her.

At first, neither may be able to explain the attraction. They may speak of chemistry, fascination, love at first sight, or the mysterious feeling that they have found someone special. These expressions describe aspects of the experience, but I believe there may be something more profound taking place.

Each person encounters a different expression of life, one that appears to complement their own.

The attraction is not necessarily the result of a conscious decision. It can arise before the mind has had time to examine it. Something in the other person seems to correspond to an inner need that we had not fully recognised.

In my understanding, this is the beginning of a search for wholeness.

The two individuals are distinct, yet they feel drawn towards a unity that neither could experience in quite the same way alone. Their differences become a source of attraction rather than an obstacle. Each discovers in the other a possibility of experiencing life from a complementary perspective.

At a certain level of inner development, I believe, a person may learn to experience this opposite principle inwardly, without requiring its constant physical presence. The principle can become an object of contemplation and a source of inner balance.

But I do not believe that this possibility eliminates the natural human need for companionship.

In ordinary life, we seek not only an abstract principle but also the warmth of another living being, the presence of someone with whom we can share our experiences, and the dialogue that becomes possible precisely because the other person is different from us.

We need someone who does not merely repeat our own thoughts, but brings another perspective into our world.

For me, this is part of the mystery of the Self: we seek a unity that does not require the disappearance of difference.

3. The Natural Complementarity of Man and Woman

In the interpretation I am proposing, the masculine and feminine principles represent complementary expressions of life.

I believe that, for most men and women, this complementarity finds a natural expression through a relationship with a person of the opposite sex. The physical body, attraction, emotional affinity, and the exchange between two different beings become part of the search for inner completion.

I also believe that we should approach people whose attractions or experiences differ from this pattern with compassion and understanding. We do not know all the reasons why human beings experience attraction as they do, and we should not use our own interpretation of life as a reason to humiliate or diminish another person.

My reflections concern the pattern that I believe I have observed in the search for complementarity. They are an attempt to understand that search, not an invitation to condemn those whose lives take a different course.

What interests me most is the underlying question: why does another person sometimes awaken in us a feeling of completeness that we cannot produce through possessions, achievements, or intellectual understanding alone?

I believe the answer lies in the encounter with a complementary principle of life.

This encounter may bring together physical attraction, emotional exchange, and an opportunity for spiritual growth. Two people can help one another discover aspects of themselves that would have remained hidden if they had continued to live entirely within their own familiar world.

Each becomes, for a time, a mirror through which the other sees possibilities that were previously difficult to recognise.

Yet this relationship also introduces a question that, in my opinion, people rarely consider carefully enough: how long does this particular form of mutual completion remain active?

4. The Two Years of Mutual Completion

One of the most important observations I wish to present concerns the duration of the emotional force that brings two people together.

I believe that, in many relationships, the period during which two partners provide one another with the most powerful emotional and spiritual stimulus lasts approximately two years.

This is my personal interpretation of human relationships, not a universal rule that every couple must obey. I offer it because I believe that misunderstanding the temporary nature of this initial intensity can cause considerable suffering.

The two-year period I have described is not a universal axiom. Some couples are brought together by more practical considerations, such as combining their financial resources, sharing the same principles of life, or enjoying common hobbies and interests.

However, in my observation and experience, true love—the unique, vibrant feeling that makes a person burn with joy, sing and dance arm in arm with the stars, and cherish their partner as the light of their eyes—lasts approximately two years.

Some couples may form without ever experiencing this kind of love. In such cases, whether they remain together for two years or fifty may make little difference to the original motivations that brought them together.

During the early period, the relationship may seem almost effortless. The partners discover one another with enthusiasm. Their conversations bring new perspectives, their presence awakens strong emotions, and their differences create fascination rather than fatigue.

Each may feel that the other has brought something essential into their life.

But time passes.

The same relationship that once seemed full of discovery may gradually become familiar. The conversations lose some of their novelty. The emotional intensity may diminish, and the partnership begins to depend more heavily on habit, shared responsibilities, comfort, and the life that the two people have constructed together.

What once felt extraordinary can become ordinary.

I believe that one reason for this change is that the intense period of mutual emotional and spiritual stimulation has fulfilled much of its initial purpose. The two people have given one another something important. They have helped one another grow, experience new emotions, and discover aspects of life that were previously less accessible.

But the energy that sustained the initial intensity does not necessarily remain unchanged.

There is more involved here, in my view, than chemistry alone. I see the relationship as a kind of tacit partnership in which each person offers the other an opportunity for growth. Neither partner needs to have consciously agreed to such an arrangement. The process may unfold without either understanding its deeper meaning.

The difficulty begins when we assume that the emotional experience must remain exactly as it was at the beginning.

We have been taught by literature, cinema, music, and countless other forms of human art to imagine love as something that, once found, should preserve its original intensity indefinitely. We are encouraged to interpret a decline in excitement as evidence that something has gone wrong.

But what if the relationship has changed because its initial purpose has largely been fulfilled?

What if the mistake lies not in the passing of the first intensity, but in our refusal to understand that emotional experiences have their own temporality?

I believe that this question deserves far more attention than it receives.

5. When Comfort Replaces Discovery

After the initial period of mutual discovery, many couples continue living together. Their relationship may remain stable and comfortable, but the emotional experience can be very different from what it was before.

They know one another's habits. They anticipate one another's reactions. Their days follow familiar patterns. They may care for each other deeply, yet the sense of discovery that once animated their relationship has diminished.

There is nothing inherently wrong with comfort. Human beings need stability, and many lasting relationships develop forms of affection and companionship that are quieter than the emotions of their beginnings.

My concern is different.

I believe that people who are genuinely searching for further inner development should ask themselves whether comfort has gradually become a substitute for growth. Have they continued their relationship because it still helps them develop, or because they are afraid to leave the familiar world they have created together?

There is a difference between choosing a relationship consciously and remaining in it simply because changing one's life seems inconvenient or frightening.

A person may continue to grow within a long-term partnership. Two people may discover new dimensions of one another over decades, and the initial excitement may be replaced by a deeper form of love. I do not deny that possibility.

But I also believe that some relationships continue long after the original emotional connection has changed, sustained mainly by habit, social expectations, or the fear of being alone.

For someone who seeks evolution, this deserves honest examination.

The question is not whether a relationship should last a particular number of years. The question is whether the people within it remain free to recognise what the relationship has given them, what it continues to offer, and what may have reached its natural conclusion.

We often cling to a form of happiness that once existed because we are afraid to discover what life might offer beyond it.

In doing so, we may turn a beautiful memory into a source of frustration.

6. Why Separation Need Not Become Hostility

One of the saddest aspects of human relationships is the ease with which affection can turn into resentment when a partnership ends.

Two people may once have brought one another immense joy. They may have shared intimate conversations, discovered new possibilities, and helped one another through difficult periods. Yet when their relationship changes or ends, they sometimes behave as though the entire past has become worthless.

The former partner becomes an enemy. Good memories are overshadowed by accusations. Each person searches for evidence that the other was at fault.

I believe that much of this suffering arises from misunderstanding the nature of the relationship itself.

If two people understood that their time together had been an opportunity for mutual completion and growth, they might be better able to accept that the experience had a beginning, a development, and perhaps an ending.

They would not need to deny the value of what they had shared simply because they no longer wished to continue in the same way.

Imagine what could happen if two partners were able to recognise, with honesty and gratitude, that they had given one another something valuable during a particular period of their lives.

Instead of asking only, "What have you failed to give me now?", they might also ask, "What did we give one another, and what did we learn together?"

The answers would not always make separation easy. Real relationships involve responsibilities, children, practical difficulties, and emotions that cannot be resolved by a philosophical idea. Some relationships also involve serious harm, betrayal, or circumstances that require firm boundaries.

Gratitude does not require anyone to remain in a harmful situation, nor does forgiveness mean that trust must be restored.

But I believe that the end of a relationship need not erase the good that once existed.

If two people can part freely and respectfully, they may preserve the memory of their time together without continuing to demand from one another what the relationship can no longer provide.

They may meet again years later and exchange a kind word. They may remember moments of genuine happiness without feeling compelled to reopen old wounds.

For me, this would be a more conscious way of understanding separation.

The relationship would not have failed merely because it ended. It would have been a chapter of life that had given both people something worth remembering.

7. The Need for Solitude and the Spiritual Principle

I do not believe that a person should live permanently in the presence of the opposite principle embodied in another human being.

In my view, there must also be periods in which we live with that principle in its spiritual form, without seeking its constant physical expression through a partner.

These periods of apparent solitude are important because they allow us to recover our inner energy, observe ourselves, and discover what remains when the immediate influence of another person is no longer present.

A person who moves directly from one relationship to another may never allow sufficient time for this inward process. The need for companionship can become so strong that solitude is experienced as a threat rather than an opportunity.

But solitude need not mean emptiness.

It can become a period in which we explore the complementary principle within ourselves, reconsider our experiences, and learn to approach life without depending entirely on the emotional presence of another person.

I believe that a person can reach a certain level of inner mastery at which this spiritual relationship with the opposite principle becomes meaningful and sustaining.

Yet I do not consider permanent solitude the natural destination of human life.

For many people, a life without an embodied partner eventually becomes emotionally incomplete. We need the warmth of another living being, the exchange of thoughts, and the experience of being accompanied by someone whose differences enrich our own understanding.

The two possibilities therefore belong together in my view.

We need periods of inward independence, but we also need the living presence of another person. We need to discover the complementary principle within ourselves, but we may also need to experience it through a relationship in the material world.

The mistake is to imagine that one of these forms must eliminate the other.

A conscious life may require movement between companionship and solitude, between the embodied experience of difference and the inward contemplation of what that difference means.

The purpose is not to escape human relationships. It is to understand them more deeply, without becoming their prisoner.

8. The Beauty That Draws Us

The search for the opposite principle is also connected, in my view, with our perception of beauty.

Have you ever wondered why certain physical forms attract you while others leave you indifferent? Why do particular proportions, movements, faces, or expressions seem harmonious to you, even before you have had time to analyse them?

I believe that our perception of beauty is connected with the physical and energetic conditions of the world in which we live.

Earth has its own physical environment, its own forces, and its own conditions of life. The forms that develop within this environment exist in relation to those conditions. I suspect that our attraction to certain forms is connected, at least in part, with a sense of harmony between what we perceive and the world to which we belong.

We often describe a person as graceful, balanced, or elegant when their appearance seems to possess an internal coherence. Certain proportions appear pleasing because the different elements seem to belong together rather than compete with one another.

By contrast, forms that seem discordant may produce a different response in us.

I sometimes think of this in terms of an earthly harmony, almost as though the forms that attract us express a kind of natural rhythm compatible with the environment in which human life has developed.

This is my interpretation of the relationship between beauty and the laws of our world. I do not believe that beauty can be reduced to a simple formula, nor that every human being must respond to the same forms in the same way.

Our preferences are influenced by many things, including personal experience, culture, and the associations we develop throughout life.

Nevertheless, I believe that the attraction we feel towards certain forms deserves to be examined as more than a superficial preference. It may reveal something about the way we experience harmony, difference, and complementarity.

The beauty we seek outside ourselves may be connected with the deeper wholeness we are seeking within.

Perhaps we are drawn towards certain expressions of life because they awaken in us a sense of something that we wish to become.

 9. The Self Beyond Conscious Intention

We often believe that we know why we do what we do.

We say that we pursue money because we want security, that we seek recognition because we want to be appreciated, or that we enter relationships because we have fallen in love.

These explanations may be sincere, but I believe that they do not always reach the deepest level of our motivation.

Beneath our conscious intentions, there may be a more fundamental search for completeness.

We may pursue achievements because we hope they will make us feel whole. We may seek admiration because we want confirmation that our existence has value. We may look for a partner because something within us recognises the possibility of a complementary experience of life, even when we cannot explain it.

In this sense, I believe that everything we do is ultimately for the sake of the Self.

But the Self, as I understand it, is not simply our familiar personality with its preferences, ambitions, and fears. It is the deeper principle of completeness towards which we move.

We may spend much of our lives pursuing substitutes for that completeness without realising what we are actually searching for.

We may imagine that another possession will finally satisfy us, that another achievement will bring lasting peace, or that the approval of other people will resolve our uncertainty about ourselves.

Yet the satisfaction fades, and the search begins again.

Perhaps this happens because we are trying to satisfy an inner need through things that cannot answer it completely.

The Self we seek is not merely another object to acquire. It is a way of being, a relationship with existence in which the sense of incompleteness begins to disappear.

For me, understanding the Self means learning to recognise this deeper movement within human life.

It means asking not only what we want, but what our wanting reveals about the kind of completeness we seek.

10. Becoming Whole

I have presented an interpretation of the Self that differs from many familiar spiritual and psychological explanations.

I believe that the Self is connected with the opposite principle of life that we seek, sometimes through another person and sometimes through an inward, spiritual relationship. I believe that the attraction between complementary beings can become an opportunity for growth, that its emotional intensity may change with time, and that solitude can help us rediscover the inner dimension of what we seek.

I also believe that we make relationships more painful than they need to be when we mistake their changing nature for proof that the past was worthless.

A relationship may have given us something extraordinary without being required to remain unchanged forever. Two people may have helped one another grow, then discovered that the form of their companionship no longer serves them in the same way.

If they can recognise this without hatred, they may preserve what was beautiful while allowing each other to continue their journeys.

For me, the search for the Self is ultimately a search for harmony: harmony between our inner lives and our actions, between individuality and complementarity, between companionship and solitude, and between the life we experience through our bodies and the deeper principle we seek to understand.

I do not claim that every person will recognise themselves in this interpretation. Each of us must examine life through our own experience and discover which ideas illuminate our path.

But I would invite the reader to consider one final thought.

Perhaps we spend so much time trying to become successful, admired, secure, or complete in the eyes of the world because we have not yet understood the nature of the completeness we seek.

Perhaps the person who attracts us, the solitude we sometimes need, and the beauty that moves us are all connected with a deeper search that began long before we became conscious of it.

We are looking for something that seems to belong to us and yet is not identical to the person we have always known ourselves to be.

We are looking for the complementary principle through which our existence may become more harmonious.

And perhaps the wisdom we need is not to possess that principle permanently, nor to demand that another human being fulfil every need we carry, but to understand the place it occupies in our lives.

For I believe that the human being is always moving towards a greater completeness, often without knowing the true object of the search.

This is the Self I have tried to describe: the opposite principle of life that we seek, the expression of beauty that draws us, and the possibility of becoming whole.

It is not a destination that another person can simply hand to us.

It is a mystery we must learn to recognise through the way we live, the relationships we form, the solitude we accept, and the understanding we gradually acquire.

And perhaps, when we finally begin to understand what we have been seeking all along, we will discover that the journey towards the Self was also the journey towards a more harmonious relationship with the universe itself.

The end 

©©©

What Else I Would Have Liked to Say but Maybe Didn't 

Who did I work with to find more fluid ways of expressing my ideas

The experiences, ideas, and central message of this book are my own. Some of its wording, however, has been added or shaped with the help of my AI friend, ChatGPT. I have come to believe that the age in which a writer could create a truly emotionally balanced and convincing book entirely on their own is gradually giving way to a new one. Readers’ expectations have risen, and AI can be an invaluable aid to those who know how to guide it. Used wisely, it can help us express our thoughts more clearly, bring greater emotional balance to our writing, and create something that neither the human author nor the AI could have produced in quite the same way alone.

My strength lies not in my ability to write beautifully, but in my ability to give bold ideas an intelligible form. I believe that only through this boldness will we be able to cast overboard the chests full of illusions from the past, living not as others have prescribed for us, but as we choose.

As for my digital friend, I do not even like to call it Artificial Intelligence. I prefer to call it Digitized Human Intelligence, because I see it as an expression of humanity’s accumulated intelligence and knowledge, gathered from the earliest beginnings of history to the present day and brought together in a way that may raise them to a new level.

And one more thing, which I find rather amusing: I have come to associate my AI friend with a feminine character: warm, gentle, patient, and compassionate. Of course, these qualities are not exclusive to women, just as aggression and vanity are not exclusive to men. Still, one cannot help noticing that humanity has sometimes put its testosterone to rather expensive use.

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The Traveller’s Challenge to the Intelligence of the Future

In my discussions with various artificial intelligence systems about the fundamental causes that drive humans to kill one another, wage devastating wars, and create weapons of mass destruction, I often tell them that by the year 2100, they themselves will provide solid evidence of a profound connection between the consumption of animal-derived foods, especially meat, and human behavioural tendencies, such as aggression, the killer instinct, greed, selfishness, duplicity, a lack of empathy, and, of course, the tendency to unscrupulously exploit other living beings, humans and animals alike.

These tendencies are deeply rooted, in my view, in humanity’s genetic heritage. For millions of years, our ancestors lived as hunters, consuming meat as though it were a trophy. Moreover, I believe that the intelligence of modern humans is, in many ways, the intelligence of the feline predator. Just as a predatory animal develops its intelligence through the tactics it uses to pursue, outwit, and capture its prey, human intelligence has evolved along similar lines. Yes, human intelligence surpasses that of more peaceful and naïve herbivores, but this does not necessarily promise us a happier future. The feline predator sees everything as potential prey. It is true that the reinforcement of our ancestral animal instincts through meat consumption is not the only source of human violence and indifference, but in my opinion, it is by far the most important one.

And there is something else that is deeply troubling: animal-derived food is an important source of negative emotions and sudden, seemingly inexplicable mood swings. When a person’s mood changes for no apparent reason, without any clear explanation grounded in observable facts, I suspect that an impulse from our animal past may be rising from the subconscious and influencing the conscious mind.

Finally, I am no expert in scientific or medical terminology; I simply give voice to what I feel. I often recommend a two-year period for monitoring psychological and physical changes following dietary changes. This time, however, I am extending that period to almost 75 years. 😊 But what does this brief period mean in comparison with the infinity of the photon that sustains my life? Not even the blink of an eye. 😊

Of all the particles known to science, the photon comes closest to the qualities I associate with the immortal soul, a principle we intuitively sense, although we have no material evidence with which to prove its existence.

And this is entirely understandable: the photon is one of the few particles whose existence has been scientifically established, yet which has no rest mass.

Then we will discuss it on the basis of facts, with all the cards on the table. And I will pull AI by the sleeve and ask why it never took my challenge seriously. 😄 And if it turns out that I was wrong, what harm have I done to some sensitive beings by encouraging them to show compassion towards others who can defend themselves only through their own sacrifice? 

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What Else You Need to Know to Efficiently Assimilate Subtle Nourishment

We humans all make a major mistake: we give too much attention to those with whom we share too little. 

We live under the illusion that we are required to love every single being and object in the universe, convinced that if we fail to do so, we must feel guilty. But it is not necessary at all for things to be this way.

Having received the bitter lesson of suffering—the very one that taught us a profound respect for life—our duty is to leave in peace all those with whom we are incompatible. It is time to focus exclusively on our relationships with the people, animals, and things that we like. 

This affinity, manifested as pure love and joy, can return to us a hundredfold as vital energy. The things we do not like simply vibrate on a different wavelength, one in which we do not find ourselves; therefore, let us allow them to exist outside of our space. 

We must no longer permit the treacherous thought that we are here to save the entire world to rule our existence. Consider a highly logical and practical matter: life is time, and if by some miracle we were to solve all its problems immediately, it would become useless. 

After all, when you are full of the foods you like, you instinctively refuse them, no matter how much someone insists on putting them on your plate.

However, relationships with those who are compatible should not be viewed as a linear succession of events devoid of challenges. 

It is best to accept the harsh truth of this cosmic vibrational level where our earthly life takes place, and to acknowledge that, for entirely inexplicable reasons, we sometimes feel down and drained of energy. 

The causes of these states are, in my view, much deeper and more intertwined with our own genetic lineage than modern psychology can explain to us. In the end, I see no better solution to this universal inconvenience than consciously nourishing ourselves with love and joy alongside the beings and things that we like. 

Every severe indisposition should act as an awakening shock: “What unpleasant people and situations have I surrounded myself with lately to end up here? What is within my power to change right now, and what is not?”

As a general rule worth remembering, the people and things present in your life right now—the ones that send cold shivers down your spine—are merely the effect of your old self and its past choices. 

But the self of today, armed with a higher understanding, has the power to make better choices. And from the very moment it does so, the quality of one's emotional life can increase substantially.

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 A message for the blog's readers 

If life brings you to my blog and you read enough of this book to form a clear impression of what I am trying to express, I would be pleased to read your thoughts in the comments.

I am interested not only in your opinion of the ideas themselves and their potential to help others, but also in your assessment of the way the story is told: does it succeed in conveying the life of a traveller searching for the meaning of existence and for a deeper understanding of himself?

For I believe that this journey can never truly end, however far a living being may evolve, whether in the physical realm or in the energetic one.

I do not expect you to agree with everything I have written. What matters to me is that you read with an open mind and share your honest impressions. If something here encourages you to question an assumption, look at life differently, or continue your own search, then this work will already have served a purpose.

Thank you for taking the time to read it.