Maybe you’re sitting. Or lying down. The weight of your body, felt. Pressure at points of support. Air temperature on skin. All this was here a second ago, but you notice only now, having read these words.

Breathing. It’s been happening all along while you read these lines. But where was your attention? In the words. And breath went on breathing itself.

Now you’ve noticed the breathing. Has it changed? Become slightly tense, controlled? Wait. In a few words you’ll forget again. And it will return to being natural.

Sounds. What sounds are here right now? Don’t turn on attention specifically. Just allow sounds to be noticed. Close ones. Distant ones. Maybe a refrigerator’s hum. Or voices through the wall. Or traffic noise. They were here all along. The world was making its sounds while you read in the silence of words.

Thought: “So what? What’s the point?”

Did you notice? It came by itself. You didn’t decide to think it. Just — arose. From where? Now perhaps another one arose. Or an evaluation. Or a memory. They come and go like clouds.

Expectation. You’re waiting for something important to come next. Some meaning. Some revelation. Where are these simple observations leading?

But while you wait for what’s next, this is happening. Reading. Breathing. Sensations. Thoughts. Expectation. This is all there is right now.

Maybe you’re reading quickly, eyes skimming, looking for the essence. Or slowly, thoughtfully. Or with irritation: “So what?”

Whatever’s happening — that’s what’s happening right now.

This page. These letters. This seeing. This understanding or not understanding. This agreement or argument. All of this — right now.

Not yesterday’s regrets. Not tomorrow’s plans. Not memories of the past. Not dreams of the future. Only this.

But here’s what’s strange. As soon as we say “only this” — attention starts looking for something else. As if “this” is too simple, too ordinary. There must be something more important, deeper, more…

What if there isn’t?

What if all there is — is what’s happening right now? Without hidden meaning. Without secret depth. Without special importance.

Just: words being read. Thoughts arising. Breathing happening. Body being felt. Sounds being heard.

Are you still waiting for something from this chapter? Some conclusion? Direction? Revelation?

What if this very simplicity is the revelation?

Right now the last lines of the first chapter are being read. Perhaps slight disappointment: “That’s it?” Or curiosity: “What’s next?” Or recognition: “Yes, exactly.”

Whatever’s happening — is happening right now.

And nothing else is needed.

Chapter 2: The Problem with Words

Tree.

You read this word. What happened? An image arose in consciousness. Maybe a specific tree from childhood. Or a generalized image — trunk, branches, leaves. Or just understanding: “ah, tree.”

But where’s the tree itself? Not here. Only four letters.

Look out the window. Do you see a tree? Or something you call “tree”?

There it stands, real. But the moment you think “tree,” you’re already with the word, not with the thing itself. Between you and the living, unique, unrepeatable this-ness, the category “tree” has appeared.

Pain.

What arose? A memory of pain? Slight tension? Rejection?

Now pinch yourself. Really. Feel it? That’s not “pain.” That’s burning, pressure, pulsation. “Pain” is just a label. The sensation itself is far more complex, alive, specific than any word.

The most used word. I think. I feel. I go. I want.

But what does it mean? Who is this “I”? You use this word hundreds of times a day, but can you say what it names?

Words create an illusion of understanding. Say “table” — and it seems you know what a table is. But touch the table. Feel the hardness, coolness, smoothness or roughness. This isn’t “table.” This is what you call table.

The word “table” is the same for everyone. But what you’re touching — is unique.

Love. Fear. Joy. Sadness.

Four words. Neat, convenient boxes for the chaos of feelings. But remember a moment of real fear. Was the word “fear” there? Or was there heartbeat, cold, tension, readiness to run?

The word comes after. Like a label on a box containing what has already passed.

Now you’re reading words about words. Understanding words through other words. A consciousness dictionary where each definition refers to another definition.

Where’s the exit from this circle?

— Silence.

No words in it. But as soon as you think “silence” — it’s no longer the same. It became a word.

You’re breathing. But when you think “I’m breathing” — between you and breathing appear “I” and “breathing.” Two words instead of one process.

Try breathing without words. Just allow breath to be. Can you? Or does the inner commentator whisper: “inhale… exhale…”?

This book is made of words. Points with words to what’s beyond words. Absurd? Yes. But there’s no other way. Words are the only ladder. You climb it to then throw it away.

The problem isn’t with words. The problem is believing the word is what it names. That “life” is life. That “death” is death. That “I” is I.

But words are just sounds. Marks. Air vibrations. Ink on paper.

What happens when you understand this? The world becomes quieter. Not outside — inside. The endless chatter about the world subsides. The world itself remains.

But as soon as you say “the world remains” — here are words again.

You’re finishing this chapter. Understood something or got confused — doesn’t matter. Both are just words about words.

And what’s beyond words — you already know. Just forgot that you know.

Because this knowledge — isn’t in words.

Chapter 3: Trying Not to Try

Now you know. Words lead away from reality. Between you and immediate experience — a veil of concepts.

So what do you naturally want to do? Remove the veil. Break through to the real. Be here and now without words.

Try.

Right now. Put aside all words. Just be with what is. Without commentary. Without names. Without evaluation.

What happens?

“I’m trying not to think in words.” But that’s a thought in words. “Need to just relax.” That’s a command. “OK, inner silence.” That’s a commentary about silence.

Try to relax. But how? Tell your shoulders to relax — they tense up from the effort to relax. Tell your mind to let go — it grips harder.

The more you try to relax, the more tension. Paradox? No, that’s just how effort works.

“Don’t try” — say the wise books. Fine. Try not to try. What happens? You’re making an effort not to make effort. Trying not to try.

The snake bites its own tail.

Maybe you need a special state? Meditation? Mindfulness? Presence?

Sit comfortably. Watch the breath. Don’t control, just watch. After a minute you’ll notice: breathing has changed. Become deeper or shallower. More even or irregular. The very act of watching changed what’s being watched.

You want to catch the moment. Catch the present. Hold clarity. But the one catching is the obstacle. The one trying to catch is what prevents catching.

Like a hand can’t grasp itself. Can only make a fist.

“Just be yourself.” Sounds nice. But who will be yourself? And which “yourself”? The one who tries? Or the one who doesn’t try? But to not try, you need to try.

Head spinning? That’s normal. The mind has met its own impossibility.

What if you do nothing at all? But “doing nothing” is also doing. A decision to do nothing. An effort not to make effort.

Even giving up is an action. Even refusing to struggle is a choice.

Here you are reading these words. Maybe with irritation: “So what am I supposed to do?” Maybe with interest: “Yes, exactly, a paradox.” Maybe with fatigue: “Enough riddles.”

Whatever you’re feeling — no need to change it. No need to achieve a special state. No need to become “aware.”

But here’s the thing: “no need” is also a direction. Also a path. Also a trap.

What remains? Nothing remains. And this isn’t nihilism. This is simple seeing: any movement away from what is creates tension. And movement toward what is remains impossible — you’re already here.

Maybe at some moment exhaustion happens. Not a decision to give up — just exhaustion. Not a choice to stop — just stopping.

And suddenly… nothing special. Just reading happening. Just sitting happening. Just breathing happening. Without trying. Without effort. Without the one who doesn’t try.

But as soon as you notice this — here’s the mind again: “Oh, it worked! Need to remember this state!”

And it starts all over again.

This chapter doesn’t teach how to stop trying. That’s impossible to teach. It just shows the comedy of attempts. Maybe, having laughed at yourself, the mind will tire of playing these games.

Or maybe not.

And that’s fine too.

Chapter 4: You

Who’s reading these lines?

Simple question. Try to answer not with words, but by pointing. Where do you point? At your head? But that’s the head, not you. At your chest? That’s the chest. At the point between eyebrows? That’s a point between eyebrows.

Where is the one who reads?

You’ll say: “I am my consciousness.” Fine. Where is it? Show me. Inside the head? But if we open the skull — we’ll see the brain, not consciousness. Behind the eyes? But there’s darkness and bones there.

“I am my thoughts.” But where are thoughts? Here a thought about lunch arose. Where was it before arising? Where did it go after? And who noticed its coming and going?

Maybe you’re the body? But you say “my body,” as if you and the body are different. Who is this owner of the body? Where is this owner hiding?

Maybe you’re the name? But before you were named, you already were. And when you sleep without dreams, there’s no name, but in the morning the same one wakes up who fell asleep.

Now, reading these words, something strange is happening. There’s seeing of letters. There’s understanding of meaning. There’s agreement or disagreement. But where is the one with whom all this happens?

You’ll say: “Here I am, reading, thinking, feeling.” But these are words again. Try without words to find yourself. Not a description of yourself, not a thought about yourself, not an image of yourself — but directly yourself.

Reading happens. But is there a reader separate from reading?

Seeing of the page happens. But is there a seer separate from seeing?

Understanding happens. But is there one who understands separate from understanding?

When you look for yourself, you find only objects: body, sensations, thoughts, feelings. But who finds all these objects? Try to find the finder.

Like an eye can’t see itself, only its reflection. Like a knife can’t cut itself. Like a finger can’t point at itself — can only bend.

And here’s what’s interesting. You can’t find yourself. But you’re absolutely certain that you are. Moreover — this is the only thing you can’t doubt. You can doubt the reality of the world, the truth of memory, the existence of other people. But not that you are.

You are. But what are you?

Maybe you’re the very impossibility of finding yourself? Not an object among objects, but that for which all objects exist? Not something, but no-thing?

But these are words again, concepts, attempts to grasp.

What if you stop looking? Right now. Without finding, just tire of looking. What remains?

A page being read. Air being breathed. Sounds being heard. Everything happening. But not “to me” — just happening.

Does what’s happening need someone it’s happening to?

Strange thing. Looked for yourself — didn’t find. Stopped looking — and here you are, never went anywhere. But try to say who this “you” is — slips away again.

Maybe you’re the very slipping away?

You’ve finished this chapter. Who finished? Where is this who? Can you point with certainty?

But here’s what’s certain: the reader was on the first line and remained on the last. Elusive but undeniable. Unfindable but the closest.

Closer than breathing. Closer than the thought about yourself.

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