In this incantation, I find myself withdrawing from the complexity of inner and outer spaces, growing weary of maintaining the mental and emotional landscapes demanded by relationships, objects, and desires. The burden of managing these spaces has led me to seek simplicity—fewer connections, fewer demands—rejecting the restless impulse to expand into new realms. Instead, I seek to unburden myself, redirecting my energy away from desire toward the cessation of it, in pursuit of unwakening.
I have been experiencing this for some time now. It’s tempting to attribute it to a generalized exhaustion, but that explanation feels inadequate, as it suggests that the root of my weariness is something physical or mental. It’s not that simple. It comes before that.
This morning, the day began with a shrill alarm—my inverter signaling that it was out of power, or something along those lines. I reluctantly got out of bed, and trudged outside to silence the machine, pushing the button just enough to stop the noise. I had no interest in troubleshooting it myself. Instead, I called Ankush and told him to get the electrician. The electrician will probably come, press a button, and restore the power. For that, I’ll hand over two full days’ wages and then send him on his way.
As I write this, I’m working on multiple pieces—one on my inner and outer spaces, and another on the limitations of language—and it all begins to click. I am withdrawing. There’s a deep, almost instinctual desire to collapse the number of inner and outer spaces that I have to navigate in my waking life. Every new entity, whether it’s a machine like that inverter or a human relationship, demands its own space—both in the external world and within my mind. That inverter doesn’t just exist in my physical environment; it occupies mental space because it requires management. I’m exhausted by the constant upkeep of these spaces.
This exhaustion extends to relationships as well. I no longer feel the urge to engage with what they offer. I don’t want to maintain the emotional and mental spaces required for a relationship with my brothers, for example. It’s as if every connection, every object, every dream requires me to carve out and maintain spaces in both my inner world and the outer world. But I’m tired of this maintenance.
This is why I’m moving less, both physically and emotionally. It’s why I no longer have the energy to create new dreams, new inner spaces that might eventually materialize into outer realities. I’m not interested in adding more to the burden of spaces I already manage. Instead, I find myself increasingly drawn to simplicity—to the idea of fewer spaces, fewer connections, fewer demands. I am withdrawing, not out of a sense of defeat, but out of a desire to unburden myself from the relentless need to maintain and manage these spaces.
The few people who still inhabit my waking life are insatiable in their desires. They constantly seek more—more possessions, more experiences, always reaching for something larger and grander. But each of these desires demands movement, both inwardly and outwardly. I find myself rejecting such pursuits. I have no interest in a bigger, better house filled with bigger, better things. I have no desire to explore new places, acquire new sheets, or collect the latest electronic gadgets. I don’t want anything that will force me to move more, to expand into spaces I no longer wish to occupy.
What I seek is to unwaken. I recognize that my state of awakening is a condition, fueled by a restless impulse. It is this impulse that keeps me tethered to the waking world, but I now understand that it needs to be redirected. The true purpose of this impulse is not to propel me toward more desires but to guide me toward the cessation of desire altogether.
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