Tuesday, 18 January 2005, 1:44:16 a.m.
The tyrannical mind.
Deepest sorrow and depression girds me while I think of my lost years, which have passed like the wind, touched me and are now gone. Where was I to not have lived them? Where else? In my mind. There, where nearly all my brothers are, where we were taught to live since we were children or even infants, where our mother also lived while she had us inside her womb and fed us with whatever she ate, drank, saw, thought and felt.
No matter how much life gives me, how much I accomplish and obtain, the anxieties are not altered. Exhaustion, this is the only result, exhaustion and disappointment. But this cannot be true, I must have misunderstood something. This is not possible, for some other reason am I here, certainly I am missing something. Whom can I ask, who will show me how not to put faith into my mind any more? There is nothing new for him to tell me anymore; who will show me how to turn off the switch of thoughts?
I request, I implore, I beg whoever knows to show me how to silence the tyrannical mind. His fears do not represent me any more. I am afraid only out of habit. I am afraid to lose goods long ago squeezed out and debunked, which I do not really care if I lose. I am touchy, I get angry when others offend me, I am distressed when they reject me, although I do not really care about what they say. I get offended, angry and distressed – all out of habit.
My mind always rushes, fills my whole being and makes me forget that the only thing I really desire is to become free from him and not all other things which he wants me to believe that I am afraid to lose or not to obtain.
Because, as soon as I become free, I shall fly, my whole body will be filled with joy for the first time in my life, I shall enjoy the gift of my existence deep in my roots. As long as he has me trapped within his web, everything is muddy and indistinct, neither joy nor sorrow are real, as if a dusted glass stands between them and me. Every speck of dust is one thought. Millions of specks, millions of thoughts. This is not real life; it is its mirage, which is immaterial, unattainable, theoretical.
 This was, according to my computer, the time when my mind, not bearing any more his self-torture, made the decision to start writing down his confession and begin his journey to freedom.
 One of the basic illusions of the mind is that there are lost years. The truth is, as I shall understand later, that all my years were useful and all the experiences fruitful, even those which seem useless and harmful from first sight.
 Subsequent remark: For the sake of history I mention that at this point I interrupted my writing and deleted whatever I had written up to then, because I momentarily changed my mind out of fear that I was going to be irreparably exposed if I would publish such a text presenting my misery in such an unsheltered way. However, I soon pressed the key to undo the deletion, the text re-appeared and I continued writing, having decided to precede, because I felt an urge to twist the knife deeply in the wound and free myself from my mind, the tyrant of my life.
am I going to lament
over the grave
of a miserable past?
Until when will I tremble
under the shadow
of a threatening future?
I need space,
to live the present
freely and joyfully.