The Truth of Being - a diary essay

February 20th. It’s Friday, isn’t it? Or perhaps time no longer matters when the window is blurred by that particular sort of dampness that makes the world look like a watercolor washed away by the tears of some deity. The truth of being. God, how heavy that sounds, as if I’m trying to lift a mountain with my bare hands, when in reality I’m just sitting here, breathing in the scent of toasted bread and that slightly lingering, bitter smell of cold coffee that always reminds me of unfinished conversations.

You know, sometimes I think that truth isn't an event, but a rhythm. It lies in the pulsation between what we show the world and what we hide in the darkest closets of our subconscious—there, where Jung says our shadows live, dancing with the ghosts of our ancestors. Sigh, how we just slide across the surface of our days, believing that control is possible; that if we arrange our books by color or observe all the rituals of our morning humility, chaos will pass us by. But chaos is just another form of order we haven't learned to read yet—a sacred language of destruction that prepares the soil for a new germination.

Today I woke up with a sense of emptiness. Not the scary, black kind, but more like the silence after a prayer. A strange, stretched-out state where my body feels heavy, but my spirit seems to have hooked itself to a cloud and refuses to come down to the electricity bills and dusty windowsills. And so, I began to ask myself: where do I end and where does the world begin? Maybe the truth of being is exactly in that gap, in the invisible membrane between "I am" and "everything is."

Sometimes I catch myself seeking solace in those small, sweet poisons of everyday life—you know them, those glass illusions we peer into so we don't have to see our real faces. We drink from the forgotten springs of the past, intoxicate ourselves with the smoke of others' expectations, becoming prisoners of our own mirages that promise peace but bring only a greater thirst. It’s as if we are lost in a labyrinth of mirrors, where every turn offers a new mask, more beautiful and more false than the last. And yet, right there in that fall, in that voluntary blinding, lies the chance for metanoia. For a turning over.

God is silence. It’s funny how we try to clothe Him in words, to lock Him in dogmas, while He simply breathes through us while we argue over parking spots or weep for unrequited loves. The truth is, we are just conduits of light that is often too bright for our eyes. So we filter it through sadness, through nostalgia for places we’ve never been, for people we’ve never met. It’s as if we carry within us a map of a non-existent homeland.

I look at my hands. They’ve aged by another day; the skin is slightly dry, and there’s a small nick on my index finger from yesterday’s paper. These tiny scars are my true diary. Psychoanalysis would say I’m seeking punishment in the minor self-inflictions of daily life, but I see it differently—it’s grounding. The truth of being isn't in grand philosophical treatises; it’s in the way you fold the laundry, in the quiet sound of rain on the tin windowsill, in that second of hesitation before you say "I love you." Or "I forgive you."

And what about fear? Oh, it’s always here, sitting in the corner of the room like a disgruntled guest who refuses to leave. The fear that we are inadequate. That if we stop running, we’ll find there’s nothing behind us. But isn't that the paradox? Only when you stop can you be caught by yourself. Sigh, how much energy we waste fleeing our own center, scattering ourselves into a thousand small tasks, social masks, and meaningless digital noise. But the center is motionless. It is the holy of holies of our psyche, the place where the human and the divine meet in an endless embrace.

Yesterday I read something about surrender—not as defeat, but as an act of supreme will. To surrender to the current of life, to stop fighting the waves and simply let them carry you. This requires immense courage. It requires believing that the ocean doesn’t want to drown you, but simply to make you a part of itself. Anyway, today that feels like the only possible path. Everything else is just noise. Vanity of vanities.

There is a particular moment in the afternoon, around four o'clock, when the light turns golden and somehow... merciful. In that moment, everything seems possible. Transformation isn't something that happens once in a lifetime; it is a daily choice. The choice not to yield to bitterness when the world disappoints you. The choice to see the sacred in the ordinary—in a slice of apple, in an old wool scarf, in the smile of a stranger.

Maybe the truth of being is simply presence. To be here, with all your luggage, with all your broken pieces, your unfulfilled dreams, and your shameful secrets. To stand before the mirror and say: "This is me. And this is enough." No embellishments. No filters. Just a soul dressed in fragile flesh, trying to find its way home.

It’s strange how pain can be a teacher. It strips us naked, peels away the layers of ego until only the essence remains. Psychologically speaking, we spend the first half of our lives building the Ego, and the second half dismantling it to make room for the Self. For Wholeness. And this process hurts. It hurts like birth. But then again, without this pain, would we ever know relief? Without the darkness, we wouldn't recognize the light when it finally breaks through our cracks.

I breathe in deeply. The air is cool and smells of impending change. Maybe snow, or maybe just a new stage. I don’t know. And it’s good that I don’t know. Not knowing is freedom. It is the blank canvas upon which God paints our days, while we imagine we are the ones holding the brush.

And so, today I choose to be imperfect. I choose to leave the dust on the shelves and watch the way the shadows dance on the ceiling. I choose to be vulnerable, because only in vulnerability is there true strength. Everything else is armor that prevents us from feeling. And I want to feel everything—the sadness, the joy, and that quiet, background hum of eternity that accompanies us from our first breath to our last.

The world is a song. We just have to find our key. Sometimes we hit a false note, sometimes we lose the rhythm, but the music never stops. It continues, woven into the rustle of leaves, the beating of our hearts, the silence between two thoughts. And if the truth of being is simply this—to be part of the symphony—then everything is worth it. Every failure, every tear, every wandering in the dark.

I’m closing this notebook. My hand is a bit tired, but my heart feels lighter. It’s as if, through these words, I’ve managed to toss out some of the ballast that was dragging me down. Isn't that why we write? To organize the invisible. To give a name to our wordless longings. To not feel so alone in this vast, beautiful, and sometimes terrifying universe.

In the end, the truth is very simple: we are loved. Not for what we do, but for who we are. Even when we don't believe it. Even when we feel lost in the thick fog of our own illusions. The light is always there, just around the corner of the next breath.

The paradox of today is that the more I lose myself in these reflections, the more I find myself. Freedom isn't doing whatever you want; it’s being what you were meant to be—a small, glowing miracle amidst the infinite. And that is the most optimistic thought I can end this day with. Everything is unfinished, everything is in a state of becoming, and right there in that imperfection lies the highest form of grace.

I am here. And that is completely, absolutely, astonishingly enough. Maybe tomorrow will be clearer, or maybe it will be even foggier, but what does it matter? The important thing is that the dance continues. And that I, with my clumsy steps and uncertain movements, am still on the dance floor. Eh, life... how strange you are, and how beautiful in your cruel honesty.

Anyway, the coffee is quite cold now. I must drink it to feel its bitterness—the real taste of reality, before I dive back into the dream of being.