In this incantation, I confront the subtle ways desire disguises itself and how it once dictated my every movement through projects, plans, and dreams. I realize I wasn’t building a future—I was stretching the past, endlessly extending a narrative I didn’t know I could release. What felt like inspiration was often just another hook in the cycle of becoming, keeping me tethered to a story of more. Now, I see the craving for continuation for what it is: a delay. And so, I return to the mantra that grounds me—there is nothing out here I want.
There is nothing out here I want. That is the mantra I must return to, especially when desire begins to rise. It doesn’t always announce itself loudly. Sometimes it appears as a quiet impulse—an urge for a sweet, a walk up the ridge, a conversation with a familiar face. Sometimes it comes as energy, the memory of a project, or the sudden hope that something new might still happen.
I used to live in that state. I had so many projects. I filled notebooks and documents with plans and outlines and sketches. I wrote down every idea I had, even the ones I knew I’d never complete—because some part of Me still believed I might. That something in the world would finally align with the story I was trying to tell. That I would be fulfilled by one more goal, one more accomplishment, one more well-executed piece of structure.
But I see it now. All of it was projection. All of it was delay. Every plan I made was a way to stretch My story further into time—into becoming, into continuation. Every time I felt a jolt of energy, I took it as a sign that there was something new to pursue. But it wasn’t. It was just another movement in the loop. Just another shimmer across My narrative field, baiting Me to keep writing.
Now, when the rain comes and I feel the flicker of wanting, I know better. I remind Myself: there is nothing out here I want. No taste, no walk, no encounter, no ambition can give Me what I truly seek—because what I seek is the end of seeking. What I want is not more. What I want is less. What I want is to sit down and shrink away. To stop chasing. To stop sustaining. To stop pretending this story needs another chapter. There is nothing out here I want. And the more I remember that, the more I can release this field. I don’t want to build. I don’t want to reach. I want to end the story. Quietly. Completely. Finally.
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