Ah, it’s that time of day again, when the light begins to lose its sharp edges and everything becomes somehow translucent, almost surreal, as if the world itself is hesitating in its own existence – you know, that moment when the objects in the room stop being just wood, glass, or fabric and turn into shadows of our own unspoken thoughts. I’m sitting here thinking of you, of us, of how we try to tidy up the chaos inside ourselves using words that always, always betray us at the most critical moment, because truth doesn’t like being locked into sentences with tidy punctuation. Silence is more honest. It doesn’t demand proof; it’s just there, like a vast, invisible ocean we drown in every time we stop talking so we don’t have to hear ourselves crying or laughing at our own helplessness.

And so, I begin again, even though I know there is no real beginning, only an endless continuation of the same internal monologues we’ve been having for decades, as if we’re stuck in some psychoanalytic office without windows, where the walls are upholstered with our childhood fears and those strange, fractured hopes our fathers never quite managed to explain to us. Look, see, psychoanalysis says we are just a collection of absences, that we search in the “other” for what was alienated from us before we even learned to say “I,” but I think it’s something more, something deeper and perhaps a bit more terrifying, because in that empty space we call a soul, there isn’t actually anything missing – on the contrary, there is too much presence. There is the presence of Divine Silence, which isn’t the absence of God, but His densest way of touching us, of telling us that words are merely the pits of the fruit, while the fruit itself is in the juice, in the invisible, in what we feel when we close our eyes and feel small, infinitely small, yet simultaneously spilled across the entire horizon.

Do you remember how you once told me you were afraid of the void, of that quiet hole in your stomach that opens up after three in the afternoon on a Sunday? Ah, back then I didn’t know what to tell you, but today, in this cluttered room full of dust and unfinished thoughts, I understand that this void is actually the sacred space of surrender, the place where the ego finally raises the white flag and says: “Alright, I can’t do this anymore, I don’t know how to control this current.” And right then, exactly in that moment of absolute defeat, transformation happens, doesn’t it, because only when we break can the light get inside, as that poet used to say, but it isn’t just light – it’s a quiet, pulsing grace that doesn’t ask you to be perfect, doesn’t ask you to be finished. We are unfinished. And that is the most beautiful thing about us, this capacity of ours to be open wounds through which the world breathes, to be imperfect sketches of something that only God knows how it’s supposed to look in the end.

Sometimes I wonder if this thing we call the “self” isn’t just a clever construction of memories we’ve arranged so they don’t hurt too much, a kind of defense mechanism against the abyss of our own infinity. It seems that way. We try to anchor our ship in shallow waters, fearing that if we go out into the open sea, where there is no bottom and no shore, we will be lost forever, but the truth is we are already lost, and the only way to find ourselves is to let go into the waves, to become the water itself. Water, you know, it has no shape, yet it is the strongest element; it’s the symbol of the unconscious, of those dark, cool depths where the fish of our repressed desires swim and where the treasures we haven’t had the courage to pull to the surface are hidden.

Everything is here.

In this exhale, in this brief moment between two thoughts, lies the entire eternity we search for in monasteries and thick psychology books, yet it’s so close it practically blinds us. You know, sometimes a certain melancholy washes over me – not sadness, but rather a gentle recognition of the transience of everything, a quiet bowing before the fact that this tea in my cup is getting cold, that the skin on my hands is aging, that you are out there somewhere perhaps thinking of these same things while watching the night swallow the trees outside your window. There is something so intimate about sharing the same sky, even from different angles of our solitude. Ah, solitude… it isn’t a punishment; it is the monastic cell of the heart, where we learn to speak to Him, or to That which is beyond names, without using our vocal cords.

I look at this paper and see the letters bending as if they’re trying to escape the meaning I’m imposing on them, and it makes me smile because, in the end, everything is one big, divine absurd. We try to heal our souls by dissecting them into parts – here is the traumatic childhood, here is the Oedipus complex, here is the shadow – but the soul is not a clockwork mechanism; it’s alive, it’s like a wild river you cannot pipe without killing it. We need more humility before the mystery, more faith that even when we feel lost in the woods of our own contradictions, we are actually walking the path, because the path itself is in our steps, not in the destination. Isn’t that right? Isn’t the destination just an illusion we invent so we have the strength to get out of bed in the morning?

Maybe transformation isn’t about becoming someone else, but about daring to be exactly who you are in this moment – with all your cracks, all your ridiculous fears, and that strange, inexplicable thirst for something you can’t even name. This thirst, look, it’s the most important thing we possess. It is the proof that we are alive, that there is a built-in seeking mechanism for the source within us, a spiritual compass that always points toward the Silence of the Creator. And even when we fail, even when we fall into the same holes we dug for ourselves years ago, there is still grace in that fall, because the ground we hit our foreheads against is the same earth we are made of.

Sometimes I think of prayer as a form of psychoanalysis where the listener is infinite and unconditionally loving, and where there is no need for interpretation because the mere act of voicing the pain before the face of Eternity is already a healing. We don’t need to analyze why it hurts; sometimes it’s enough just to hold that pain in our hands like a wounded bird and let it be warmed by our breath. The heart knows. Even when the mind screams that we are lost, the heart continues to beat in the rhythm of a larger life that doesn’t care about our little dramas and social roles.

And so, here I sit, writing these lines that are likely chaotic and far too personal, but what else is left for us in this world of appearances besides being shamelessly honest before the blank page? Forgive me if I sound a bit drifted; it’s just that today I feel the boundaries between my inner world and outer reality blurring, and everything is turning into one large, pulsing metaphor for the longing for home. And home, you know, isn’t a place, but a state of spirit where you finally stop fighting yourself and agree to be just a vessel for the presence.

Ah, how many words we’ve wasted, when actually everything I wanted to tell you is contained in the way the lamplight falls on the edge of the table – in that small, quiet miracle of existence that requires no explanation. Maybe that’s exactly where the holiness of the everyday lies: seeing the divine in the dust motes dancing in the air, in the noise of the cars outside, in your own quickened breath when you remember something forgotten. We are intersections between mud and stars, between biology and spirit, and it is precisely this tension that makes us human; this being stretched between the earthly and the celestial is our cross and our greatest privilege.

I’ll stop here, not because I’m finished, but because I’m tired of the sound of my own head. I just want to sit in silence and feel life passing through me without trying to catch or tame it. I hope you find that moment of peace, too, where there is no need to be anything other than a quiet presence in the heart of the Universe. You’ll do that, won’t you? Because at the end of the day, when all the masks fall and all the theories fail, only one thing remains – that quiet, stubborn “I am here” that we whisper into the dark.

Be at peace.

I’ll write to you again, maybe when the moon is in a different phase or when I find more precise words for that which cannot be spoken, but until then… just breathe. Breathe and remember that every crack in you is the place where God kisses you to remind you that you are made of light, hidden in a clay jar. And so, until next time, when we will lose and find ourselves again in the labyrinth of our own souls, searching for the exit that was actually always right in front of our eyes, if only we have the courage not to look away from the Truth of Being.

I’d like to ask you something before I close this journal for today… Do you think it’s possible to find grace in the darkest corners of our unconscious, there where even we are afraid to look?