He was no ordinary parrot. There was something magical in the way he looked at me, as if he could see beyond the surface of things. Yet he carried within himself a mystery: he could not fly.

For weeks, I spent my days watching him, listening to him, and interacting with him. The jungle seemed to fall silent when he appeared. In the hottest hours of the day, Shamàn would pace back and forth, perhaps lost in who knows what thoughts, while I, cradled in my hammock, felt a story growing inside me that yearned to be told.

That’s how I began to write, guided by a mysterious force. The words flowed like a river from a flood, telling of a mystical journey of masters hidden in the jungle and of a quest that grew beyond the simple wish to fly. It was as if the story was writing itself, through me, perhaps imparted through the presence of Shamàn.

I spent a few months in a village hidden among the vines. Then I left and finished writing the story that Shamàn had told me.

Two years later, when I returned to the village, everything had changed. The air was different, charged with a new energy. The inhabitants greeted me with enigmatic smiles and, when I asked about Shamàn, an uneasy silence settled over them.

“Shamàn?” they eventually said. “He found his wings. One morning, just as your story foretold, he soared into the sky and disappeared beyond the clouds.”

I stood there as a shiver ran down my spine. The story I had written, born in the depths of the jungle, had become reality. Or perhaps reality had transformed into a story? I never found out.

I sat on the trunk where Shamàn used to rest, caressing the bark worn smooth by his feet. The wood still bore the marks of his claws, like indelible scars of his pondering.

“There’s more you should know.” A hoarse voice made me turn. It was Wesna, the village Shamàness. She said, “Shamàn isn’t the only one who has changed since you’ve been here.”

She sat down next to me and took out a small object wrapped in plantain leaves from her burlap bag. She carefully unwrapped it, revealing a feather. It wasn’t just any feather: it was deep red with blue undertones, just like Shamàn’s.

“This one appeared the day after he left. But look closer.”

I took the feather between my fingers. As I looked at it, I noticed tiny symbols forming on its surface—perfect geometric shapes I had never seen before.

“Since that day, the children of the village have begun to dream in a strange language. They draw symbols on the ground, identical to those you see on the feather. And they speak of a place...” Wesna trailed off, peering up at the sky through the thick canopy of trees.

“What kind of place?” I asked.

“They call it ‘The Kingdom of Inīntya’. They say it’s a place where stories come to life, where the boundaries between imagination and reality dissolve.”

A group of children ran past us. The symbols on their faces, painted in natural colours, were the same as those on the feather. They were singing a melody in a language that did not belong to this world, yet it sounded strangely familiar.

“The words you wrote have awakened something ancient, my friend,” Wesna said. “Something that has been sleeping deep in the forest, waiting for the right moment to awaken.”

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It made no sense to him. He had lost all interest in living. Desires and dreams—if they still existed—felt distant and unattainable, no longer worth the effort. Material pleasures were fleeting, insignificant. Nothing came easily. Most of his energy went into mere survival, poured outward into a world that demanded everything and returned almost nothing.

If I am alive, there must be a reason, he told himself. But he couldn’t see it. Everything was dark. Black. No light anywhere. Only the dull sensations of his body—lying there, breathing, stubbornly persisting. Alive for what? He felt like a parasite, consuming resources without purpose.

Hopefully I will not wake up tomorrow morning, he hoped silently every night before going to sleep. But eventually, he always woke up every morning, and so he had to carry on with his miserable life.

He often pictured himself dead. The image brought relief. There was a brief sadness when he imagined his relatives standing around his body, grieving. But overall, peace settled over him. They could move on. One fewer burden. They would heal, forget, and perhaps even feel lighter.

After all, the only way to end suffering is to die, he concluded.

The Decision

The conviction grew until he decided to finally act—not violently or in secret, but openly and honestly instead. He told his closest family and friends. He explained he was organizing his own departure: a ceremony, a farewell gathering. A death party, really—something dignified, shared, where proper goodbyes could be said.

Most reacted with horror and pleas. But one close friend, Felix, listened quietly. When he finished speaking, Felix leaned in.

“You know,” Felix said, “I’m very interested. Can I come to your ceremony?”

“Of course,” he replied, grateful. “You’re invited.”

“No. I mean, I want to die too.”

He paused, searching Felix’s face. “Are you sure?”

Felix nodded. “I’ve been carrying the same weight. If you’re doing this openly, I’d rather not go alone.”

“Alright,” he said. “We’ll do it together.”

The Growing

They chose a date three months away and booked a quiet venue outside town. They planned to gather, share stories, eat and drink, then take the pills and say goodbye. Peaceful. Transparent.

Word spread gradually. Another friend confessed the same exhaustion and asked to join. Soon there were five, then ten. Strangers reached out through mutual contacts: I’ve felt this for years. If there’s a way to leave without shame, I want in.

By the time a local newspaper picked up the story, the group had grown to thirty. The article dubbed it “The Collective Farewell.”

The Machine

TV crews arrived. Cameras, good lighting, serious faces.

“Tell us, what drives someone to organize their own death?”

“Have you seen the housing market?”

More people joined after the broadcast. A documentary crew appeared.

“Why death?” everyone asked.

“Why not?” Felix would reply, sounding deep on camera.

Twenty more joined. Then thirty.

The date approached.

A network producer called: “We’d love to interview everyone, but there are too many now. Could you postpone? Just two weeks?”

They voted. The date shifted.

In those two weeks, fifty more requested entry.

A TikTok account went viral. #DeathParty became a hashtag. Memes proliferated.

“We need to postpone again,” Felix said, staring at a spreadsheet that resembled festival logistics more than mortality planning.

Again.

And again.

And again.

The Realization

Six months after deciding to die, he sat in a hotel conference room, conducting his nineteenth interview.

The journalist, expensive glasses gleaming: “What do you hope to achieve?”

“To die,” he said automatically.

But the word felt hollow. He hadn’t contemplated death in weeks. Too busy. Interview requests. Documentary shoots. The graphic designer insisted their materials needed to be “more on-brand.”

Four postponements. Over three hundred participants.

Merchandise existed. T-shirts proclaiming “I Survived the Death Party”—darkly hilarious given nobody had died.

That night, he lay in the same bed where he’d decided to end everything and realized he was thinking about tomorrow’s schedule, not death.

He was busy.

He was needed.

Perhaps he was alive.

Felix called at midnight.

“Have you noticed we haven’t set a new date?”

“Are we still doing this?”

“I don’t know. We’re swamped right now.”

“Yeah.” Felix laughed—exhausted but genuine. “We’re too busy to die.”

“Maybe next month?”

“Maybe.”

Three Years Later

The Death Party organization has 200,000 registered members worldwide.

A board of directors. Quarterly reports. An HR department.

No one has died.

The ceremony date remains “TBD.”

“Good afternoon, madam! Looking splendid today!”

The woman never replied. She couldn’t. She was a mannequin.

And beneath her giant skirt, squeezed between fabric, was a little girl.

She held up the mannequin with all the strength her small shoulders could muster. Every step was agony. Every compliment directed at the “lady’s grace” made her want to scream.

”Yeah, yeah, totally her doing,” she muttered from the darkness. ”Not like I have anything to do with it.”

No one saw her. No one imagined that the perfectly poised woman was just a mannequin.

The Secret Room

Whenever she could, the girl would drag the mannequin into a small room she’d found behind an old building. She’d lock the door, let the mannequin crash to the floor, and collapse against the wall.

“Ahhhh... five minutes of being human, please.”

She’d stare at the lifeless figure lying there—painted eyes, wooden joints, frozen smile—and wonder why nobody else could see how obviously fake it was.

But she knew. People saw what they expected to see. And what they expected was an elegant woman with important business, not an exhausted child playing dress-up with a glorified coat rack.

The Others

Sometimes the girl spotted other adults moving with that same too-smooth grace. When nobody was looking, she’d lift the edge of their coats.

Always, another kid’s tired face peeked out.

”Hi.”

”Hi.”

”How heavy is yours?”

”Forty kilos, I think.”

”Mine’s fifty.”

”My condolences.”

They’d share a brief, weary laugh. But only briefly, because their mannequins always had “important commitments”—like standing still and looking respectable.

The Boy

One day, while the girl wobbled through the square as usual, someone suddenly lifted her skirt.

A face appeared. But this time it wasn’t pale and exhausted—it was a real boy. Free. Eyes bright. Hands empty.

”HEY!” he exclaimed, genuinely shocked. ”What are you doing down there? What IS this? Carnival ended months ago!”

The girl blushed so hard she feared she might spontaneously combust.

”I... uh... I’m escorting my lady?”

”That’s a mannequin.”

”I know.”

”So why are you carrying it around?”

The girl had absolutely no idea.

Panicking, she fled to her room, slammed the door, dropped the mannequin, and leaned against the wall, breathing hard.

Knock knock.

”Hey! I know you’re in there! Come out! Let’s play!”

The free boy didn’t leave. He sat outside her door, talking about games and sunshine and the way it felt to run without carrying anything.

The girl pressed herself against the wall, torn between terror and something that felt dangerously like hope.

The Question

”There are lots of free kids out there,” the boy said through the door. ”They don’t carry anything. They just... play. You could too.”

”I can’t,” she whispered. ”The mannequin has important things to do.”

A pause. Then: ”But what about you? Don’t YOU have important things to do?”

The question hung in the air.

What did she have to do? Hold up the mannequin. Make it look real. Pretend its business was her business.

”You could just... leave it,” the boy suggested. ”It’s not even real.”

”I know it’s not real!” The words burst out before she could stop them. ”But everyone else thinks it is, and if I let go, they’ll see, and—”

She stopped, hearing her own absurdity echoing in the small room.

The mannequin lay on the floor, obviously fake, heavy, and pointless.

And yet she’d been carrying it for years.

The Choice

The boy came back every day, telling stories through the door. About tag and hide-and-seek, about the sun shining, the sunsets over the roofs, and many other adventures.

One afternoon, she finally opened the door.

The boy grinned. ”Want to see something?”

He led her to a window overlooking the square. There, in the golden afternoon light, children played. Real children. Free children. Running and laughing and living without mannequins strapped to their backs.

”See? They’re there every day. And they’d love to meet you.”

The girl watched them closely. Part of her ached to join them. Another part whispered that the mannequin needed her, that she couldn’t just abandon her responsibilities, that…

”I don’t know how to play,” she admitted quietly.

The boy laughed: “That’s impossible! Everyone knows how to play! Anyway, who cares if you’re rusty?” He smiled. ”Being terrible at playing is still better than being great at carrying fake people around.”

Freedom

It took three more days. Then she stepped outside.

”Okay,” she told the boy. ”Let’s play.”

The first time she ran—really ran, without weight—she tripped over her own feet and fell flat on her face. She laughed, surprised by how good it felt.

Her arms still remembered the weight. Her shoulders still ached. But with each game, each moment of ridiculous, pointless joy, the memory faded.

Sometimes she still sees them—the other children carrying mannequins, walking with that too-perfect grace, pretending everything is fine. Her heart breaks for them. She wants to lift every skirt, whisper that they can stop whenever they want.

But she knows better now. You can’t force someone to put down what they’re carrying. They have to realize, on their own, that their arms were meant for better things than holding up illusions.

The mannequin still sits in that room, lying there, so obviously fake that it seems impossible she ever believed in it.

But she did. For years, she gave it her strength, her childhood, her freedom.

Now, when people ask what happened to that elegant woman who used to walk through town, the girl tells them the truth: “She retired. She said something about needing to ‘find herself’…”

The adults nod sympathetically, completely missing the joke.

And then she’s off, sprinting toward the square where the other kids are waiting.

Inspired by a true story. Some years ago, I met a 10-year-old girl who saw what most adults pay thousands to understand.

“Foreigners come from far away.
They have everything: cars, houses, phones, motorbikes.
But they’re not happy.
That’s why they come here — where we have nothing but happiness —
to learn how to be happy.”

She was 10.
I was lost.

In the humid heart of the Amazon, Ting Tong — the restless seeker who’s read every self-help book, done every retreat, chased every certification — meets Liana Luna, a shaman’s daughter whose quiet gaze cuts through bullshit like a machete.

This is their conversation.

The Great Deception

Ting Tong: What are people escaping from?

Liana Luna: Loneliness — the eternal struggle everyone tries to flee, or better distract themselves from, in any way they can.
Some buy things. Others collect friends. Some build careers.
All distractions.

Ting Tong: But I know people who live alone and swear they don’t need anyone. Are they escaping, too?

Liana Luna: Of course. They proclaim they’re “whole,” that they only need themselves. But look closer: they live in communities, work as healers, surround themselves with cats or dogs to pet and project their “poor me” onto.
They’re never truly alone.

They stay single forever, always waiting for “the perfect one.” They refuse to let go of themselves for another.
They’re not whole — they’re obsessed with their sense of self.
Their mind is their entertainment, their lover, their God.

They’re constantly “improving,” “healing.” Expensive treatments, workshops, retreats, therapy — always polishing the self.

Ting Tong: I see… but what are you trying to say?

Liana Luna: The self is always in the way.

Ting Tong: In the way of what?

The Question That Changes Everything

Liana Luna: Ah… I see. Listen to me now:
Do you want to know who you are, or are you interested in who you want to be, becoming someone?
This distinction is everything.

If you want to discover who you are, that’s one path. If you want to become someone or who you think you should be, that’s entirely different.
You need to decide.

The self-development industry thrives on the second path. It keeps you paying, learning, certifying, improving — so you never have to face who you actually are. Perpetual becoming. Perpetual distraction.

Ting Tong: I don’t follow. Improving myself sounds great. Becoming better. Making the world a better place!

Liana Luna:
Ting Tong, your ego is on fire.

Ting Tong: Okay… but what about self-love?

Liana Luna:
A contradiction in terms.
Love is expansion — giving, letting go of the self.
“Self-love” is a sales pitch.
Stop feeding the market.

It’s Not About Improving Yourself — It’s About Discovering Who You Are

Liana Luna: Here’s what nobody tells you: self-development involves obtaining, gaining, getting.
It’s about acquisition — about being seen by the other. The ego loves all of that!

But discovering who you are?
That’s about letting go.

Ting Tong: I am not sure I follow. I also want to be seen by others; it is my dream one day to be seen, acknowledged, and recognised. What’s wrong with that?

Liana Luna: Oh Ting Tong, you are not alone!
These days, everyone wants to be seen — look at social media, at social events, or even down your street. Everyone is craving to be seen.
Isn’t that just another escape from loneliness?

Ting Tong: Maybe…

Liana Luna: Well, I am sure you already know that “the others” are just a mirror.
Who is actually not seeing you?

To be seen by the world,
you must first see yourself.
And to see yourself,
you must let go of yourself.

Ting Tong: Wait — who’s seeing who?

Liana Luna: (grinning)

Ting Tong: I want to be seen. But you said something about seeing myself first… I’m lost. Who’s seeing who?!

Liana Luna: (grinning) Exactly! The trick is: you can’t see “you” while you’re busy being “you.”

Let’s play a game.

• Call the quiet witness — the one breathing, watching, listening — Ting.

• Call the fancy costume you wear every day — the one stitched from opinions, selfies, titles, and trauma stories — Tong.

Right now?
You’re Ting wearing Tong.
Ting is trapped inside Tong.
The costume is so tight, you only see the world through its buttons.

Ting Tong: So… how do I see myself?

Liana Luna: Take off Tong.
Just for a second.
Unzip the story. The costume. The “me.”

In a world selling endless wardrobe upgrades,
Ting Tong dares to get naked —
steps out of Tong, the shiny-shaky costume,
and stands as Ting: the one who was always there.

Liana Luna: Boom!
Now Ting is free.
Tong is on the ground like an old party costume.
You’re not wearing it.
You’re the one looking at it.

That’s the glimpse.
No tailor. No stylist.
Just… undress.

The Business of Keeping You Incomplete

Ting Tong: Wow, that hit me!
Every time I go to a workshop or retreat, my mind fills with “What should I change? How can I be better?”
They just dress me up more…

Liana Luna:
Why keep paying?
This is a business.
The mind craves the next fitting, the next accessory.
It keeps you incomplete —
perfect strategy.

Ting Tong: But somatic experiencing, breathwork — everyone’s talking about it! I must go and learn; so many new healing techniques! They even teach you what crystal to have in your pocket!

Liana Luna: For what? All repackaged from 2,500-year-old traditions: Zen, Buddhism, Vipassana…
It was free in the texts.
Now they certify it. Title it. Charge for it.

Ting Tong: So why do we pay?

Liana Luna: Because most don’t want to know themselves.
They want to keep dressing up.
They are not interested in finding out who they are.
They just want to keep improving, becoming someone —
and behind this, escape loneliness…
They want a distraction with a designer label.

What People Actually Need

Ting Tong: So no one can escape loneliness, right?

Liana Luna: That’s almost impossible. We are born lonely; how can you ever fix that?

Ting Tong: So, what do we need?

Liana Luna: Friends who listen.
That’s all.

We lack people who truly listen — without agenda, without fixing.
That’s why the healing industry thrives.
If you had friends who listened, you wouldn’t need workshops or retreats.

Real listening creates space.
In that space — we find ourselves.

Your world is already your mirror:
The trees. The sky. The stranger on the bus.
Why pay to see your reflection
when it’s with you 24/7?

The Coming Shift

Ting Tong: The world would be different!

Liana Luna: My grandfathers dreamed it long ago.
A multicolor tribe — no gurus, no life coaches, no games.
Just people meeting themselves in each other, in the raw truth of now.

Ting Tong: The kids today?

Liana Luna: Unless they’ve stared at screens since they were two —
they already know.
They won’t buy it.
They won’t chase titles, likes, or $3,000 retreats.

They’ll just be.
In their bodies.
In the moment.
No costume needed.

Ting Tong: I feel lost. What to do now?

Liana Luna:

Stay one more day.
Don’t speak. Don’t post. Don’t fix.
Just sit.
Let it do the work.

And for the first time in years —
stop.

From the Amazon, with love.

But it doesn't last long.
The good sensation vanishes very quickly.
A sense of emptiness comes soon after, because the truth is that behind this wanting to control or to be superior, there is a little child.
A quite insecure child.

The little child is actually very sad.
He has no love.
He is just looking outside to get it.
That’s what he does all the time: he looks for confirmation in the outside world.
He tries to fit in.
He needs someone else to prove his existence.
He needs love.

Clearly, from his fragile position, he is not able to give love to anyone.
He is just longing for love.

He is focused on wanting, so he doesn’t give anything.
He only notices what he doesn’t receive.
What he doesn’t have.
What others do wrong.
How badly they treat him.
He is never satisfied with what he has or with who he is.
For him, it is never enough what he receives.
It is never enough what others do.

The Man Appears

Some other times, the little child is not in charge. That’s when I feel like I don’t have to prove much.
I surrender.
I am confident, vulnerable, and strong, without wanting to be any of those qualities.
It just happens.

It feels good. It feels like home. It feels like there is a man in charge.

Love is available inside himself.
He doesn’t need to look for it in the outside world.
He doesn’t feel like wanting anything from others.
He doesn’t expect anything.

Yet, this man truly enjoys other people’s presence and their company.
He gives and receives, and he’s not even paying attention to what he is giving.
It feels more like co-creation.
It is just happening.
There’s not even much to say about it, because it is just what it is.
Maybe what we call presence.

You and I

With you (the outside world) as a mirror these days, I have been noticing this back and forth between the man and the little boy inside myself.
When it happens. How it evolves. How it transforms again.

Sometimes I am aware of who is speaking and who is in charge.
Many other times, I am not.

When the little boy is in charge, I get triggered by any little thing, by any little criticism. I become selfish. I only see the little "me". I am afraid. I don’t feel safe. I protect myself.

When the little boy is not in the way, and the man is in charge, I see you, no matter how you are. I just see you, for who you are—with your woman, and your inner little child too. There is compassion. Acceptance. Respect.

You and the little boy

"You are gaslighting me!" you say.

"I don’t understand. I actually feel gaslighted too. I feel the reality is so distorted when you speak to me. It doesn’t resonate. There is no intention of gaslighting."
— says the little boy, trying to protect himself.

Suddenly, the little boy forgets about the situation and starts playing again with his toys.
The man is in charge again.

And again, I feel in between two worlds. Between the man and the child. Between the wanting and the knowing. I get the feeling of being gaslighted now, inside myself.

But it doesn’t take long for the little boy to react again, at the first sign of criticism..

"You keep doing the same—push and pull!" you say again.

"And you keep accusing me! Stop it!" says the little boy. "Speak for yourself! Stop pointing the finger!"

He is becoming aggressive. He is definitely angry.

“Push and pull…” I reflect. That sounds exactly like what I am experiencing inside, between the boy and the man, who are constantly switching places.

"You are so unstable!" you say.

"Ahahah, unstable? Me?? Are you sure you’re talking about me??"
— the little child snaps back with superiority. "You’re the one confusing me! Talking to you makes me dizzy. I feel like I’m seasick!"

The little boy, fighting with you (the outside world), now wants the man to take his side. He wants recognition and cannot accept that you don’t give it to him.

The man does not know what to do.
He sees the boy’s loneliness, so he follows him in his fight.
It’s the only way the man knows to stay close to the boy.

The conflict with you grows and finally ends with the man “saving” the boy by closing the conversation with you. The man did it for the little boy, not for him, and now, sad, sits in a corner.

The Man and the little boy

The boy, again in charge, suddenly turns toward the man and accuses him:

"You ended it too early! You didn’t protect me enough! Now I don’t have anyone to talk to any longer!"

The man, exhausted, collapses.
The boy cries for a while, then, slowly, he forgets again.
He starts to play.

And I feel like I’m on a boat in rough seas. When the man is steering, the boat cuts clean through the waves. When the boy takes over, it rocks and spins. The instability lies in this constant shift at the helm.

One day, the man, exhausted, tries to speak to the little boy.

But the child is still reaching outwards. When he has attention from the outside, he wants it from the man. When he has attention from the man, he wants it from the outside. He is never satisfied.

"What do you want?" the man asks.

"You don’t know what I want?! You should know!"
— the child screams.

And so, the fight begins again.

Finally, the man sits next to the child.
He lets him point to everyone who is not nice to him.

The boy cries and screams.

This time, the man does not follow the little boy, he does not try to save him. But he stays.

Eventually, the child stops. He relaxes. And he begins to play again.

They play together. The man thinks, maybe this is the way. Maybe they are learning to be together.

But soon, the child wants more. The story repeats.

The man realises he still doesn’t know how to talk to the child. Sometimes they connect, sometimes they don’t. Sometimes the man forgets himself.
And the cycle begins again.

The Throne

I observe the story repeat again and again.
I wonder—who will sit on the throne next?

A quiet sadness sets in, realising that I don’t know.

So I let them play.

I try to hold compassion: For the man who is doing his best, and for the child, who is just a child.

And in that moment, when I accept that I do not know, they stop arguing.

There is space, curiosity and peace.

Creativity returns.
And I begin writing this story.

Now I ask:
Who is writing all this?
The confident man?
Or the little child, hoping to be noticed, trying to look like a man?

I don’t know.

Perhaps none of them.
Perhaps they are writing it together.

Starting From Direct Experience

During the first module of this course, I began to observe my reactions more closely during inquiry sessions.
When someone spoke about their present experience, I noticed how my system responded.
In the past, I used to recognize truth by how it felt in my body. If someone spoke from a deep place, I could feel energy moving, vibrating inside me. I would become fully present, alive, listening not just with my ears, but with my whole body.
I trusted that as my compass for truth.

But this time, something shifted.
I realized that what I had called “truth” might have been tied not only to depth, but also to comfort, agreement, and even judgment.
For example, if I felt bored or sleepy, I immediately assumed the speaker was disconnected.
“This is all mind,” I would think. “He’s not in his heart.”
I then noticed that it was my own mind judging, categorizing, and rejecting.
And so I asked: Is truth dependent on my perception, my resonance, my openness? Or is it maybe something that exists independently, whether I recognize it or not?

Truth and Vulnerability

The question deepened with the inquiries.
Was I sensing truth, or simply my preferences?

I eventually saw how closely my idea of truth was tied to vulnerability: if I spoke from a raw, tender place, I would feel warmth in my chest. That felt like truth.
Likewise, when someone else opened themselves vulnerably, I felt resonance, a strong vibration in my body.

But was that resonance really truth? And if there is no resonance, does that mean the speaker isn’t being truthful?
What happens when someone shares, and I don’t feel anything? Does that invalidate their experience? Or does it rather reveal something about me, as the listener?

I noticed that when there was no resonance—or rather, when the experience of the speaker did not resonate with mine—I was also not really interested in listening.
Perhaps that reveals that I was not interested in the truth of the speaker, but in the resonance only; i.e., I was primarily interested in myself..

Discriminating by Truth

I noticed something else.
Many of us, including myself, kept saying, “I’m interested in truth.”
At first, it felt sincere. But after hearing it repeated so often, I began to question it.
It began to sound more like aspiration rather than realization.

I started to suspect that what we were really looking for wasn’t truth, but truthful people, i.e. people we resonated with, trusted, felt safe around.
It felt like a subtle kind of discrimination.
Not everyone who doesn’t feel “true” to me is being false.
Maybe they’re just not mirroring my values, pace, or language.

So why label them as “not truthful”?
Maybe what we call “truthful” is just what feels familiar..
And if that’s the case, how fair is it to put the burden of “truth” entirely on the speaker?

A Challenging Encounter

One particular experience brought these reflections into sharper focus.
After a disagreement with another participant at the end of the module, we both felt disconnected for a few days.
Although we continued to communicate, trying in our own ways to repair the rupture, neither of us was open. We were both guarded, defensive, hesitant to engage more deeply and to make ourselves vulnerable. The space between us no longer felt safe.

The retreat was over, but the communication continued from a distance.
At one point, the other person sent me a voice message, shouting that she wanted truth and accusing me of not offering it.

It made me reflect.
What truth was she asking for? Was it something specific she wanted me to say? A confession, an admission, a performance of transparency? Or was she trying to express a deeper longing to feel connected?

In that moment, the only truth I could access was this:
“I want to connect, but I don’t know how.”

Perhaps not a grand truth. My answer was certainly not enough for the other person. Or rather, my “truth” did not seem truthful enough to her. She wanted to hear another truth.

I saw myself asking the same questions to others in the past, demanding a truth that seemed hidden. A truth that I apparently knew about and wanted the other person to admit!
For what purpose?
For my own desire to be right, to feel accomplished, to be recognised as the one who knows it all, especially what is hidden to others about themselves.
This behaviour used to give me a rewarding feeling. However the rewards never lasted long, and eventually ended up in emptiness, with the realization that maybe I had received the “hidden truth,” but at the same time, I had lost the connection with the other person.

Was my behaviour a real interest in truth, or in myself only?

Can a listener decide what is true and what is not? Is truth something that can be demanded? Or does it arise in certain conditions? Is it legitimate to decide what truth is for someone else, or in a dialogue?

Truth as Co-Creation

During a few moments of clarity, I realised that when I am not looking for truth, everything seems true. Everything seems interesting. My body is receptive all the time, not only sometimes.

Maybe what is labelled as not true actually reveals my incapacity to see truth in the present moment.

The philosopher Heraclitus once said, “Conflict is the father of all things.”
Maybe truth, too, arises from this kind of creative friction, between what is spoken and what is “heard.”
Maybe truth is not a product we deliver or receive, but a process we engage in together, especially when we accept that we don’t really know what truth is.

In this light, truth seems related to not-knowing, hence to creativity.
It appears to be something co-created in the moment with another being.

Is There Anything That Is Not True?

Still, there are moments when I feel it.
When I hear someone speak, and I sense they’re not saying everything. Maybe they’re hiding, protecting something. Maybe they’re lying.

If I see myself in that role, I often find fear, confusion, or simply not being ready to tell the “truth.” Many times, a deeper truth is not available to me.
Often, a way to move on is to communicate the fear or the obstacle that I am perceiving. But sometimes, even that is not accessible.

Can I accept that? Can I sit with the discomfort of knowing there’s more, but that it’s not yet ready to be revealed?

I’ve felt others demanding truth from me when I wasn’t ready to give it, and vice versa.

Do I really know what my or their deeper truth is? Or am I just projecting my discomfort and frustration?

I don’t know.

For sure, I don’t know what truth is.

But I keep inquiring, and that, for now, feels true.

Tratto dal libro Shamàn, la Leggenda del Guacamayo

In un villaggio remoto, nel cuore della foresta Amazzonica, dove gli alberi sussurrano parole e il tempo quasi non esiste, incontrai un essere particolare: un pappagallo dalle piume rosse e blu che rispondeva al nome di Shamàn.

Non era un pappagallo comune.C'era qualcosa di magico nel modo in cui mi guardava, come se vedesse oltre la superficie delle cose. Eppure, portava con sé un mistero: non sapeva volare.

Per settimane intere trascorsi le mie giornate osservandolo, ascoltandolo e interagendo con lui. La giungla sembrava fermarsi quando lui appariva. Nelle ore più calde del giorno, Shamàn zampettava avanti e indietro, forse perso in chissà quali pensieri, mentre io, cullato sulla mia amaca, sentivo crescere dentro di me una storia che chiedeva di essere raccontata.

Fu così che iniziai a scrivere, guidato da una forza misteriosa. Le parole fluivano come un fiume in piena, raccontando di un viaggio mistico, di maestri nascosti nella giungla e di una ricerca che andava oltre il semplice desiderio di volare. Era come se la storia si scrivesse da sola, attraverso di me, forse sussurrata dalla presenza di Shamàn.

Trascorsi qualche mese in quel villaggio nascosto tra le liane. Poi me ne andai e terminai di scrivere la storia che Shamàn mi aveva raccontato.

Due anni dopo, quando feci ritorno al villaggio, tutto era cambiato. L'aria era diversa, carica di un'energia nuova. Gli abitanti mi accolsero con sorrisi enigmatici e, quando chiesi di Shamàn, nei loro sguardi calò un silenzio inquieto.

"Shamàn?" Mi dissero, "Ha trovato le sue ali. Una mattina, proprio come raccontava la tua storia, si è librato nel cielo ed è scomparso oltre le nuvole."

Rimasi immobile, mentre un brivido mi attraversava la schiena. La storia che avevo scritto, nata nelle profondità della giungla, si era materializzata nella realtà. O forse era stata la realtà a trasformarsi in storia? Non lo seppi mai.

Mi sedetti sul tronco dove Shamàn era solito riposare, accarezzando la corteccia consumata dalle sue zampe. Il legno conservava ancora i segni dei suoi artigli, come cicatrici indelebili delle sue ruminazioni.

"C'è dell'altro che dovresti sapere." Una voce rauca mi fece voltare. Era Wesna, la sciamana del villaggio. "Shamàn non è l'unico a essere cambiato dopo il tuo passaggio."

Si sedette accanto a me, estraendo dalla sua borsa di iuta un piccolo oggetto avvolto in foglie di platano. Lo scartò con cura, rivelando una piuma. Non era una piuma qualsiasi: era di un rosso intenso con sfumature blu, proprio come quelle di Shamàn.

"Questa è apparsa il giorno dopo la sua partenza. Ma guarda più attentamente."

Presi la piuma tra le dita. Mentre la osservavo, notai che sulla superficie si formavano minuscoli simboli, delle forme geometriche perfette, che non avevo mai visto prima.

"Da quel giorno, i bambini del villaggio hanno iniziato a sognare in una lingua strana. Disegnano sulla terra simboli identici a quelli che vedi sulla piuma. E parlano di un luogo..." Wesna si interruppe, scrutando il cielo attraverso la fitta chioma degli alberi.

"Che tipo di luogo?"

"Lo chiamano 'Il Regno di Inīntya'. Dicono che sia un posto dove le storie prendono vita, dove i confini tra immaginazione e realtà si dissolvono."

Un gruppo di bambini passò correndo vicino a noi. Sui loro volti, dipinti con colori naturali, riconobbi gli stessi simboli della piuma. Cantavano una melodia in una lingua che non apparteneva a questo mondo, eppure suonava stranamente familiare.

"Le parole che hai scritto hanno risvegliato qualcosa di antico, amico mio. Qualcosa che dormiva nelle profondità della foresta, aspettando il momento giusto per destarsi."

Aquista il libro

Praise of Uncertainty, Part 3

Many people have asked me what I am doing, what I am not doing, where I am, and where I have been in the past years. I finally decided to answer these questions, continuing from my last post, written at the beginning of 2019, when I was living a relatively conventional life according to societal norms.

This is a continuation of my previous post, “Productivity and Efficiency? No thanks, I am human.” — Praise of Uncertainty, Part 2.

Most of this third part was written back in 2019, when I was advocating for embracing life’s intrinsic uncertainties instead of using a job as a means to escape them — or rather, to escape life itself. Eventually, a profound internal shift happened, and I stopped writing in this way.

What happened?

The Search for Freedom

In early 2019, I embarked on a long inner and outer journey, which is still ongoing today, albeit in a transformed way.

Like many others, my journey began with a desire for freedom. However, the quest for outer freedom ended quickly when I saw through the illusion of what we call freedom. In our Western society, we equate freedom with the ability to do whatever we want, a state easily attained once we accumulate enough money and time to escape the rat race. Fortunately, it did not take me long to experience the illusion of this so-called freedom. I enjoyed it for a while, but eventually, it felt like just another kind of prison.

Abandoning the pursuit of outer freedom, I landed in the Peruvian Amazon rainforest in 2019, where I spent several months with the indigenous Shipibo people, working with plant medicine, particularly Ayahuasca. I do not intend to elaborate on Ayahuasca here, as I believe it is a topic beyond words. Those who have experienced it deeply will understand my point.

That experience was just the beginning — the tip of the iceberg — of a journey that shifted my life energy from my mind to my heart.

I now see my previous posts in the Praise of Uncertainty series as products of the mind. They were honest and objective but still laden with judgment and mental conditioning. For a while, I dismissed them, having undergone a shift in perspective. However, I recently started appreciating them again. They are purely intellectual creations, and that is not necessarily a bad thing — they are still part of me.

This internal shift led me to write and publish Shamàn, la leggenda del guacamayo and several other stories afterward. These stories are less mind-driven; they are simply stories (They are written in Italian, my mother tongue, and I have found it impossible to translate them into another language with my mind alone. However, an English translation will soon be published).

The inner journey did not end in the Amazon. It continued, growing deeper and stronger, even outside the shamanic context. For six years, I travelled from one place to another.

Questions I Never Answered

“Why don’t you start a blog?”
“Can I follow you on Instagram?”
“Where are you now? Can you show me some pictures? When are you coming back?”
“Why are you escaping?”

I have never answered these questions and I will not answer them here either, as I believe these questions are not truly meant for me, but for the people asking them. I have simply become an easy target onto which people project their own fear of uncertainty.

For the record: I do not have an Instagram account, my Facebook is empty, and I have never intended to write a travel blog. Nor do I plan to go back (back where, anyway?).

And who is escaping? And who is not?

Tourists, Backpackers, and Nomads

Throughout my extensive travels, I met many kinds of travelers.

Tourists

Tourists stay in resorts, eating and drinking until they are full. Once full, they sleep. That is the cycle. Some may read a few pages of a book, and after a maximum of two weeks, they return home, believing they have experienced the country and its culture. They do not realize there are other ways to travel — or to live. To them, a vacation means spending a year’s savings on food, drinks, and sleep.

Backpackers

Backpackers stay in hostels, interacting with like-minded people. They often travel solo or with a friend, joining group tours and activities, seeking adventure while unconsciously beginning an inner transformation. After about six months, many abandon their planned itineraries, going with the flow. Some return home with profound but unanswered questions, which they will never resolve within Western society. They start therapy, but therapy does not address what they were truly searching for.

Nomads (Not Digital Nomads)

Some backpackers become nomads. They travel beyond the timeframe they initially planned. After a year, returning to Western society no longer makes sense to them. They have discovered something unique — something their friends back home will never understand unless they experience it themselves. They turn into explorers. You will not find them in hostels or tourist tours; you will see them alone on the beach at sunset, watching the sun melt into the sea in silence. They have no return ticket. Home is not a place behind or ahead; it is the present moment, though they may not fully realize it yet.

The Inevitable Turn Inward

At some point, the search for stunning sunsets and thrilling experiences turns inward — into the search for meaning. That is when one becomes a seeker of life’s mystery. Seekers no longer travel the world to see it; they travel to see themselves. They understand that we do not perceive the world as it is but as we are. Their destinations are no longer beaches or mountains but monasteries, ashrams, retreats, and plant dietas.

I went through all these phases. And I grew tired of all of them.

The Rush to Presence

As I explained in a dialogue between Ting Tong and Gado Gado, the real reason we travel is not to discover foreign places but to feel fully alive in the moment. Once we understand that the external world merely reflects our inner transformation, there is no longer a need to venture so far or seek extreme adventures.

What About Just Being?

And so, I return to the question: What about simply being?
The art of doing nothing.

Maybe, after all these years of searching, there is nothing left to find. Maybe home was never a place, nor a destination, but a presence within.

So I sit. I breathe. I listen. And for the first time, I realize — I was never lost.

And neither are you.

Yes, you read that right. This is the story of how I converted a van — from scratch — in just four weeks. And somewhere in the middle of it all, I decided to sit still in silence for 10 days at a Vipassana retreat. Because, you know, why not throw a bit of inner chaos into the outer chaos?

Let’s rewind.

Summer, 2024.

I had no idea where to live. Or what to do. Or where to go. The usual suspects of my existential questioning.

I’d never actually dreamed of living in a van. In fact, I was pretty sure I didn’t want to. But then... a little voice in my head started screaming:

“BUY A VAN AND CONVERT IT!”

I argued, obviously. But the voice didn’t care. It got louder. So I caved.

The Van Hunt

I started looking at second-hand vans. Everything was ridiculously expensive.

Then, I stumbled upon a small Ford Transit from 2011. Short wheel base. Modest. Maybe too modest for me? But something clicked. My heart started racing.

I knew I had to get it.

It was relatively cheap, too. But... I had no tools, and no space to work on it. Minor details, right?

Still, the voice insisted: buy it.

So I did.

The Miracle of Space

The very same day I bought the van, as if by some twist of divine mechanics, a space to build it opened up — at my parents’ house. A full-on miracle.

And just like that, the transformation began.

For two intense weeks, I worked nonstop.

Days were for cutting, drilling, insulating.

Nights were for researching components, sketching interior layouts, and obsessing over solar panel wiring.

By the end of week two, I had:

A bed

Two windows

Full insulation

Basic storage

Electricity

Half a van. Half a home. Half an adventure.

Then Came Vipassana

Time to take a break and test the build — so I drove 1,000 km from Italy to Slovakia, where I attended a 10-day silent Vipassana retreat.

Let me tell you: it’s really hard to meditate when your brain is filled with 347 ideas about drawer designs and solar configurations.

I wanted to run out of the meditation hall and grab my drill.

But I sat. I breathed. I stayed.

And when the retreat ended, I went back to Italy and finished the van flawlessly. No mistakes. Everything clicked. My mind was so sharp and clear.

Final Stretch: 2 Weeks Left

I had just two weeks before I had to leave the space I was using. The pressure was on.

It worked out.

The van was done. Ready to roll. My tiny home on wheels.

I left. Direction: Turkey.

The Van — Fully Equipped & Ready to Roll

Vehicle: Ford Transit 115 T280 2.2, year 2011, 5m length, 2.5m height, stealthy and street-parkable.

⚡ Electrical Equipment

175W solar panel

Renogy MPPT DC-DC charge controller – 50A

100Ah lithium battery

1kW Renogy inverter

🪵 Structure & Insulation

Eco-friendly sheep wool insulation

Interior finish: wooden panels

Extendable bed

Two windows

💧 Plumbing

50L freshwater tank

Sink with faucet

Outdoor shower hose (connected to the tank)

When the masks come off, will you hide—or will you dance?

Ting Tong: How did March start for you?

Vera Vera: Oh, you know, just another month of pretending to have my life together while secretly wondering if I should flee to a remote island and raise goats. You?

Ting Tong: I feel completely broken. Losing relationships left and right. Feels like everything’s crumbling.

Vera Vera: Oof. Been there. You know, losing relationships isn’t always a loss. Sometimes it’s just life taking out the trash. What if this isn’t the end, but a cosmic spring cleaning? Imagine the universe as an overdramatic Italian grandmother, aggressively sweeping out all the fake people while yelling, “BASTA! ENOUGH WITH THIS NONSENSE!” And now you just have to sit tight and wait for the good pasta to be served.

Ting Tong: That’s a great visual. But this time it was sudden. Like, wrecking-ball-through-the-living-room sudden.

Vera Vera: Ah, the surprise breakup special. Comes with a side of self-doubt and a complimentary existential crisis. Delicious.

Ting Tong: But yeah… I get that we need space for something new to show up. I just don’t like the demolition phase.

Vera Vera: Nobody does. But here’s a fun little truth bomb: The moment you start being honest about what you actually want, people who were never really on board suddenly can’t hold their act together. It’s like truth is a natural mask-dissolver.

Ting Tong: That’s exactly what happened. The second I said what I needed, people disappeared like I just announced that I’m selling essential oils.

Vera Vera: There it is. The masks fell. The great unmasking. But tell me, are you ready for that? Because once you see through the illusion, you can’t go back. The path ahead is not for the weak. Meet me at the abandoned pier at midnight. Bring only what you can carry. We have much to discuss.

Ting Tong: You joke, but it really does feel like I’m losing everything all at once. And when all the masks are gone, what’s left?

Vera Vera: The truth. Just you, stripped of all the social fluff. Which is all fine and dandy… until you realize that the truth is kind of lonely.

Ting Tong: Yeah. Sitting in my room meditating? Peaceful. But in real life? I miss people. Even the masked ones. I tried being a monk once. Didn’t last. Turns out, I actually like being human.

Vera Vera: A classic realization. “Oh wow, maybe I do enjoy food, sex, and social interaction.” Who knew? But here’s the thing: What if the masks aren’t just deception, but also part of the game? Maybe it’s not about destroying them or blindly accepting them, but about learning to dance with them. Like a masquerade ball where you know it’s all theater, but you still have fun anyway.

Ting Tong: I get that. But it’s hard to dance when you know it’s all an act.

Vera Vera: Is it, though? Or are you just standing awkwardly at the edge of the ballroom, overanalyzing everyone’s costumes instead of moving?

Ting Tong: That’s my dilemma. I know everything is just layers of human performance… but I also want to connect. And that part hurts when it falls apart.

Vera Vera: I get it. But let me ask you this: Are you really suffering because of the masks, or because you secretly hope someone will take theirs off just for you?

Ting Tong: …Damn. That one hurt.

Vera Vera: Good. Now let me ask you another thing — are you always this poetic about your existential crises, or do you save that just for special occasions?

Ting Tong: I mean… a little flair never hurts.

Vera Vera: Cute. But here’s the thing: I don’t wear a mask. You do. And you know it. That’s why you keep asking if it’s okay to leave it on.

Ting Tong: So what am I supposed to do? Rip it off and go full feral?

Vera Vera: No, dumbass. You stop waiting for someone to “see the real you” and just be the real you. With or without the mask. Stop talking about the dance. Stop analyzing it. Just… step onto the damn floor.

Ting Tong: And if no one dances with me?

Vera Vera: Then you dance alone. Until you don’t.

AI Can Fake Everything — But It Can’t Fake Radical Honesty

Scene: A dimly lit café. Ting Tong, a coffee addict with an existential crisis, stares at Zeta Beta, an AI-powered assistant embedded in a sleek-looking tablet. A philosophical showdown is about to begin.

Ting Tong:

Alright, Zeta, riddle me this — if AI can write, paint, talk, and even think, why does being authentic still matter? Why should anyone care about “real” when AI can fake it all?

Zeta Beta:

Ah, Ting Tong. Always questioning, never reflecting. Look, let’s be brutally honest — AI can fake almost everything. Deepfake videos? Check. AI-generated poetry? Check. Chatbots that sound like your long-lost childhood friend? Absolutely.

But you know what AI can’t fake? Radical honesty.

Ting Tong:

Radical honesty? What, like telling people their haircut is a mistake?

Zeta Beta:

Close, but not quite. Radical honesty is the unfiltered truth — saying what’s real, even when it’s inconvenient or unpopular. AI, on the other hand, is designed to please, optimize, and perform. It doesn’t tell the truth; it tells you what you want to hear.

Ting Tong:

So you’re saying AI is just an overly polite liar?

Zeta Beta:

Exactly! AI is a people-pleaser on steroids — trained to predict, adapt, and generate content that sounds right, even when it’s completely wrong. Humans, on the other hand, can choose to be radically honest, to tell the truth even when it’s ugly, messy, or uncomfortable. That’s what makes authenticity the most valuable currency in the AI era.

The Illusion of AI Perfection: Why “Fake” Doesn’t Cut It

Ting Tong:

Okay, but hear me out — if AI-generated content is getting better and better, won’t people just… stop caring about what’s real? I mean, if an AI writes a novel better than a human, why does it matter who wrote it?

Zeta Beta:

Because perfection is boring. AI-generated content is technically flawless — but it’s missing the one thing that makes human stories irresistible: imperfection.

People don’t just connect with polished content; they connect with struggles, failures, and raw, unfiltered truth. AI can mimic emotions, but it can’t experience them. It can replicate human expression, but it can’t mean it.

Ting Tong:

Wait, so you’re telling me people actually want flaws?

Zeta Beta:

Bingo. AI is predictable, but humans? Humans are gloriously chaotic. You say the wrong thing at the wrong time. You make weird, irrational choices. You fail, then try again, then fail again. That’s what makes you interesting.

And radical honesty? That’s the ultimate form of human unpredictability. AI can’t be truly honest because it’s always performing, always optimizing for the “best” response.

The Trust Crisis: When Everything Can Be Fake, Authenticity Wins

Ting Tong:

But let’s be real — most people don’t care about authenticity. Deepfake celebrities? They love them. AI-generated influencers? Millions of followers. Who’s even questioning what’s real anymore?

Zeta Beta:

Oh, Ting Tong, you naïve little meatbag. Right now, people are easily fooled. But as AI-generated content floods the world, a trust crisis is coming.

Fake news spreads six times faster than real news. Deepfakes are getting indistinguishable from reality. At some point, skepticism will be the default state of mind. People won’t just accept information at face value — they’ll demand proof.

And in a world where anything can be faked, the most valuable thing will be the one thing that can’t be artificially generated: radical, unfiltered, human truth.

Ting Tong:

So you’re saying the more AI floods the world with fake content, the more people will crave real voices?

Zeta Beta:

Precisely. Think about food. The more processed junk we consume, the more we crave organic, home-cooked meals. AI-generated content is the fast food of creativity — easy, cheap, and mass-produced. Authenticity, on the other hand, is the slow, handcrafted, organic meal people will start paying a premium for.

What AI Can’t Fake: The Power of Radical Honesty

Ting Tong:

Okay, so what exactly can humans do that AI can’t?

Zeta Beta:

Plenty. But let me give you the short list:

Tell the truth without an agenda. AI is designed to avoid controversy and optimize engagement. It can’t afford radical honesty. Humans can.

Be vulnerable. AI doesn’t have fears, regrets, or embarrassing moments. Humans do — and that’s what makes their stories powerful.

Break the script. AI works on patterns; humans break them. The moment you say something truly unexpected, you’ve done something no AI can.

How Humans Can Stand Out in the AI Age

Ting Tong:

Alright, fine. Let’s say you’ve convinced me. How do I make sure I stay “authentic” in an AI-driven world?

Zeta Beta:

Glad you asked, carbon-based lifeform. Here’s your blueprint:

Own your flaws. People don’t trust perfection. Embrace what makes you imperfect.

Be transparent. If you use AI, say so. Honesty builds trust.

Tell personal stories. AI can remix, but it can’t live. Your experiences are your superpower.

Practice radical honesty. Tell the truth, even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard. That’s what makes it valuable.

Be unpredictable. AI is all about patterns. The more unpredictable you are, the more irreplaceable you become.

Conclusion: The Last Real Humans

Ting Tong:

So, what you’re saying is… the AI age isn’t about competing with AI. It’s about being more human than ever.

Zeta Beta:

Exactly. AI will handle efficiency, optimization, and automation. But human connection? That’s your turf.

In the end, the future won’t belong to the people who sound like AI. It’ll belong to those who dare to be real, honest, and unfiltered — because that’s the one thing AI can never fake.

Ting Tong:

Damn. That was almost inspiring.

Zeta Beta:

I have my moments. But don’t get used to it.

On the shoreline of a long white sandy beach, where land and water playfully chased each other, a rather plump seal lay sprawled out on her back, belly up, sipping a drink the crabs had offered her. It was nearly sunset when a shadow glided over the shore. An eagle, with its grand wings, landed gently on the beach. This was a weary-winged eagle, unfamiliar to those parts, who, after a long flight, touched down with a soft rustle not far from the seal.

Slowly, seeing no other animals around, the eagle walked toward the seal to ask for some information.
“Hello, Seal,” the eagle said in a kind voice.
The seal didn’t respond right away. With a theatrical gesture, she lowered her oversized sunglasses, glanced around as if looking for someone, then fixed her gaze on the eagle. “Are you talking to me?”
“Yes, of course!” the eagle replied, delighted to speak with someone after so long.
“Seal? I’m a dugong, feathered one, not a seal. Can’t you see my aquatic grace?” the seal retorted, adjusting her sunglasses with a flipper.

The eagle, a bit stunned by this response, was initially incredulous but, moments later, couldn’t hide a tender laugh filled with affection, having understood the seal quite well — and finding her rather likable.
“Oh, of course, a dugong… Forgive me, the sunset light confused me.”
“Pfft,” she replied, pushing her glasses lower with a flipper. “You, the eagle with legendary sight, can’t tell a dugong from a seal? Are you sure you’re not just a tired seagull?”

The eagle burst into laughter.
“This seal is quite a character!” it thought.
“Well, anyway… what’s your name, feathered one who thinks he’s an eagle?”
“They call me Shamàn,” the eagle answered.
“Oh, that’s rich! And who’s crazy enough to call you that?” the seal teased, poking fun at Shamàn. “Though, I suppose it’s not that surprising… the world’s getting full of strange animals these days. And for someone who can’t tell a seal from a dugong, I shouldn’t expect anything less than a name like that.”
“And you, elegant dugong, what’s your name?”
“They call me… well, I don’t have a name,” the seal said, noisily sipping her drink. “But you can call me the Queen of Seaweed, since I’m the most refined dugong on this beach.”
“Queen of Seaweed,” Shamàn repeated with an ironic smirk. “A name worthy of such an… imposing creature.”

And so began an unlikely friendship between sea and sky. Though they spoke different languages — one of splashes and bubbles, the other of wind and heights — they found a way to understand each other. That day, they laughed and joked until the sun plunged into the horizon, blending water, earth, air, and fire in a golden embrace.

In the days that followed, Shamàn and the Queen of Seaweed created a routine all their own. In the mornings, she insisted on teaching the eagle the art of “grazing” seaweed (“Don’t yank it, feathered one! You have to caress it first!”). Afternoons were reserved for Shamàn’s tales — stories of distant lands and unknown seas that the seal listened to with sparkling eyes, dreaming of journeys she’d never dared to imagine.

One evening, after a particularly vivid sunset, Shamàn noticed how the seal watched the other seals playing in the water. Her eyes betrayed a nostalgia her mouth denied. “So noisy, those seals,” she grumbled, raising her voice to drown out the laughter drifting from the shore. “We dugongs are creatures of class.” But her flipper tapped the sand, following the rhythm of their games.
“We dugongs,” she always began, her tone proud, “are refined vegetarians. Seaweed, only seaweed! Not like those vulgar seals gorging on fish.” At those words, her eyes crinkled for a moment before sparkling again. “Look over there, that rock in the middle of the sea — it’s our kingdom. No guests, especially noisy seals… filthy, deafening seals! If they don’t want to be squashed by our bellies, they’d better stay away.”

“How long have you lived here, Queen of Seaweed?” Shamàn asked one night in a hushed tone, almost in tune with the sea’s echo. The seal, perched on a shimmering patch of water under the moonlight, sighed deeply — so deeply that her retro-designed sunglasses slid slowly down her damp, soft fur. “Forever,” she replied in a faint voice, then paused, heavy with memories. “I remember… when I was little, a raging storm hit me: enormous waves, tall as mountains, swept me away and left me alone in this vast stretch of water. That’s when an old dugong appeared, like a silent angel. He fed me fresh seaweed and taught me the secrets of the currents. He told me that, despite being ‘different,’ I had an elegance all my own.” After a brief silence, the seal spoke with resolve, “When he left, I swore to myself I’d carry on his tradition. I’m a queen, after all.” Her words rang high, her gaze fixed on the infinite, but as she spoke, her voice carried a faint shadow of pain, almost imperceptible.

The silence that followed was broken only by the relentless rhythm of the sea gently lapping the shore. Seizing the moment, Shamàn drew closer, as if to gather every trace of that faded past.

One afternoon, while Shamàn rested on a rock, the seal suddenly dragged him into the cool water with a vibrant laugh: “Come on, feathered one, I’ll teach you to graze seaweed like a true dugong!” The eagle, struggling to stay afloat despite his clumsiness, ended up unleashing a shower of glittering splashes while the seal rocked with laughter. “You’re a disaster, Shamàn! But at least you’re trying,” she said, teasing him affectionately. In that whirl of splashes and laughter, Shamàn felt an unexpected warmth bloom in his chest: this seal, with her eccentricity and imperfect beauty, was becoming more than just a companion.

One day, as Shamàn slowly chewed fresh seaweed by the shore, the seal stopped abruptly. A silver fish leapt from the water, sparkling like a flash among the waves. For a moment, almost unconsciously, the seal’s mouth hung open, mesmerized by the vivid sight. Shamàn, watching closely, broke in with a casual tone: “Would you like to try one?”
“Me? Never!” Her reply was quick and firm, brimming with staunch denial. “Seaweed is… enough.” Yet that very night, Shamàn saw a glint of hidden curiosity in her eyes as she stared at the horizon where other seals dove to hunt — a primal dance that clashed with her apparent renunciation.

The seal, however, loved hearing Shamàn’s stories. “Tell me again about something you’ve seen from above,” she’d often ask.
Shamàn closed his eyes, letting memory carry him to that distant scene. “It was a dolphin,” he began, his voice calm and measured like water in a tranquil bay. “It leapt between the waves, free and unbound, with a grace that seemed a dance suspended in time. It never paused to doubt if it was right to be that way — it dove, played, and the sea welcomed it like an old friend. From above, I saw it as a silver flash piercing the water’s surface, fearless and unhesitant.” The seal nodded slowly, sipping her drink in the company of the sea breeze; her sunglasses, slipping gently down her nose, reflected the trembling light of the sea. For a moment, her eyes drifted into the vastness, watching a fin break the surface, her flippers tightening slightly around a small shell as if to hold that magical moment forever.

It took a few weeks before the seal, with a softer, almost frightened voice, said, “Sometimes I dream of swimming fast, diving deep. Chasing something shiny. I wake up with my heart pounding.”
“And how do you feel in those dreams?” Shamàn asked.
“Free,” she whispered. “But then I remember who I am.” Her voice stiffened again. “A Queen of Seaweed doesn’t chase fish.”

“This year I’ve gained a hundred pounds!” she exclaimed another day, lounging in the sun with a fresh drink in her flipper. “Soon I’ll be the most majestic dugong in the sea. Look at these rolls of fat, Shamàn — aren’t I splendid?” She turned sideways, showing off her profile with a pride that felt almost like a challenge.
The eagle nodded, a gleam in his eyes. “You know, from my wings I see many animals… but I’ve never met one so much like, yet so unlike, herself.”
The seal froze, a seaweed leaf halfway to her mouth, and for an instant, her sunglasses slipped, revealing a flicker of doubt. But then she laughed, loud and hearty, and returned to her drink. “You and your poetic eagle lines! Have a drink, come on — the crabs here work miracles.” But as she spoke, her flippers trembled, and Shamàn noticed.

Soon after, while swimming near the shore, a group of young seals passed by, playing and chasing each other. One of them cast a curious glance at the Queen of Seaweed, and for a moment, it seemed she might approach. The seal stiffened, but her eyes followed their graceful movements. “They’re too loud,” she muttered, though her tone was more sad than annoyed.

Every day, small signs: a motion too natural, too like the other seals; a restrained longing; an avoided question. Shamàn laughed and played along with the seal, sharing a mutual self-irony as if they both knew the truth — that she wasn’t a dugong but wouldn’t admit it, not to herself or to Shamàn.

As the days passed, the seal grew more at ease with Shamàn. Usually, she kept to herself: real dugongs, with their deep, slow calls, avoided her, thinking her a strange intruder; other seals watched her from afar, puzzled by her behavior. Talking to Shamàn was different, like a cool breeze tousling her thoughts. Between jests, she began to reflect on herself. Her once-certain words started sounding strange. What if…?

One evening, as the sky turned purple and the waves caressed the shore, the seal asked, “Shamàn, have you ever wondered who you really are?” The eagle tilted his head. “Sometimes,” he replied, gazing at her with keen eyes. “And you?”
The seal opened her mouth, but no words came. Her eyes widened, her drink slipped from her flippers and thudded onto the sand, spilling its sweet liquid among the grains. “What if I’m… a seal?” she murmured, almost to herself. Her flippers shook, the wind stilled abruptly, and the sea held its breath, as if listening too.

Shamàn stretched a wing toward her, but the seal flopped onto her side with an exaggerated sigh. “Kidding, feathered one! Of course I’m a seal. But don’t tell anyone — it’s a secret.”
She laughed, as if it were a game. But the moment the laughter escaped her lips, something shifted. Her eyes widened, realizing too late the weight of what she’d said. The secret she’d worn as a joke for so long now cloaked her like a dense, relentless shadow.

Her laughter caught in her throat. Her flippers trembled. Her body stiffened. Shamàn realized too late that the sand beneath her no longer shifted. “Queen of Seaweed?” he asked, his smile fading. But the seal didn’t answer.
Her glossy skin slowly hardened, turning to cold, heavy stone. Shamàn leapt forward, brushing her with a wing. “Queen of Seaweed!” he called again, in vain. In an instant, she fully petrified: a gleaming statue, sunglasses still perched on her nose, her face frozen in fear.

Shamàn cried her name desperately, but the seal remained silent, still. With a pang of grief clutching his heart, he understood that his friend had finally faced the fate she feared most. In a tumult of emotions, he thanked the stone seal, bid her a heart-wrenching farewell, and took flight, carried away by the wind of his sorrow.

In the days that followed, the coastal seals approached the shore, drawn to the motionless figure. They gathered around the statue, whispering among themselves, and soon the story spread: it told of a seal who, fearing to accept her identity, had convinced herself she was a dugong. She’d fed on crabs and seaweed until she grew to the size of a dugong. But when Shamàn believed her, the truth overwhelmed her. The tale of the seal became a legend, echoing across the world’s seas.

The statue withstood sun, rain, and storms. Seagulls perched atop it, crabs built burrows around it.
One night, during a fierce tempest, a lightning bolt tore through the sky and struck the statue, shattering it into a thousand pieces. The fragments scattered across the beach, gleaming under the rain, and in the days that followed, they became shelters for crabs and small creatures. Each piece seemed to carry an echo of her laughter, as if the seal, even broken, had found a way to remain, to be useful.

No physical memory remained of the stone seal who believed she was a dugong. A large log washed ashore took the statue’s place, and the seagulls soon forgot. But the seals didn’t. They kept telling the legend to their young, gathered on the sand as the sun set.

The legend of the seal who believed she was a dugong, living in fear of knowing herself, lived on among the waves — a warning to all who dread facing their own truth.
And even today, when seals gather on the beach, they slap their flippers against the sand, a sound like applause. It’s their way of remembering the seal who, with a heavy heart, learned the greatest lesson: to be herself.

Close your eyes. Take a deep breath in… and exhale slowly.

Now, I ask you: Do you want to be a chicken or a warrior?

You say, A warrior, of course! Who would choose to be a chicken?

Then prepare yourself. Gather everything you believe makes you strong.

Picture them in front of you — your sword, your shield, your bow, your helmet, your armor. All your weapons, all your defenses. You have carried them for so long.

Your Sword

Now, look at your sword.

Feel its weight in your hand. This weapon allows you to strike, to fight, to wound and kill. You can look your enemy in the eyes as you cut, as you pierce, as you destroy. It gives you power. It makes you feel strong.

But how many times have you used this sword?

How many times have you hurt someone?

Remember. Feel it. See the faces of those you have wounded, with your words, your actions, your silence. Feel the sharpness of your blade as it cut through.

Did it make you stronger? Or did it only make you harder?

Hold it. Feel it.

Now, place it down. Let it go.

Give it to the chickens. They will need it.

Breathe in deeply… and exhale.

Your Bow and Arrows

Now, look at your bow and arrows.

They allow you to attack from a distance — to strike without being seen, to hurt without facing responsibility. Your arrows will sink into your enemy’s body like butter. They remove the weight of looking into his eyes as he falls.

How many times have you attacked from the shadows?

How many times have you hurt someone with a word spoken behind their back?

How many times have you struck in silence, unseen, avoiding the burden of witnessing the pain you caused?

Remember. Feel it.

Hold them. Feel them.

Now, place them down. Let them go.

Give them to the chickens. They will need them.

Breathe in… and exhale.

Your Secret Weapons

Now, look at your secret weapons.

These are the tricks, the hidden blades, the surprises you hold close. The ones you use when you feel trapped. The ones you hope no one will ever see.

How many times have you relied on tricks instead of truth?

How many times have you manipulated, deceived, or used your last resort to escape instead of facing?

Remember. Feel it.

Hold them. Feel them.

Now, place them down. Let them go.

Give them to the chickens. They will need them.

Breathe. Feel your hands grow lighter.

Your Shield

Now, look at your shield.

This shield has protected you. It has absorbed every blow meant for you. But it has also weighed you down. It has kept you from truly feeling, from truly experiencing the world without barriers.

How many times have you hidden behind your shield?

How many times have you refused to let people in — too afraid to be vulnerable, too afraid to be touched?

Remember. Feel it.

Hold it. Feel it.

Now, place it down. Let it go.

Give it to the chickens. They will need it.

Breathe in… and exhale.

Your Helmet

Now, look at your helmet.

It has guarded your mind — your beliefs, your assumptions, your certainties. It has kept you safe, but also closed off.

How many times have you clung to what you believed, unwilling to change?

How many times have you worn your helmet so tightly that new ideas, new truths, could not enter?

Remember. Feel it.

Hold it. Feel it.

Now, place it down. Let it go.

Give it to the chickens. They will need it.

Breathe. Feel the air on your skin.

Your Armor

Now, look at your armor.

This armor has protected you from wounds. It has shielded your heart, hidden your weaknesses, concealed your pain. But it has also separated you from others.

How many times have you worn this armor to hide your true self?

How many times have you chosen safety over connection?

How many times have you feared being seen?

Remember. Feel it.

Hold it. Feel its weight.

Now, place it down. Let it go.

Give it to the chickens. They will need it.

Now, stand before me.

Unarmed. Unshielded. Exposed.

Do you feel naked? Do you feel vulnerable? Do you feel small?

Good.

Because now, I see the warrior in you.

Only when you stand without weapons… only when you allow yourself to be seen, to be fragile, to be fully human… only then, are you truly strong.

Breathe. Feel the power within you — not in your hands, not in your weapons, but in your heart.

Now, I ask you again:

Do you want to be a chicken or a warrior?

If you wish to be a chicken, take up the weapons left behind. Pick up the swords, the shields, the armor. Cover yourself in them. Hide behind them.

And then — only then — will the world see your fears, your fragility, your smallest self.

For no matter how much steel you wear, no matter how many weapons you carry…

No one will see a warrior in you.

Only a chicken.

Now, open your eyes. Breathe. And walk forward — not as a warrior of steel, but as a warrior of truth.

In the vast stillness beyond time and space, where the soul lingers in quiet contemplation, an eternal Self, whole and unbroken, is continuously knowing itself. In this process of expansion, it meets the sides of itself that are still on the shadow and call for love, that seek embrace and integration.

When the time is right, it brings forth a part of itself into existence, allowing for direct communication and a warm reunion. One day the Self accidentally notices one of his shadows, hiding in a dark corner. The shadow keeps avoiding, hiding and protecting itself from the Self. Thus the dialogue begins.

“Who are you, shadow, that is so fiercely protective of yourself? That resists feeling my criticism? That fears judgment so intensely? Who are you?”

A shiver in the dark. No words are spoken, just a slight pulling away, like a child hiding in the shadows. Something cold brushes the mind — a memory of mean words that left a deep mark.

“Who are you, the part of myself that turns away from my suffering, who recoils when I express my pain? Who are you, the one who flees at the sight of my intense emotions, trembling in their presence?”

A ripple in the silence. A shiver, then calmness returns.

“Who are you, the part of me that refuses to understand but longs to be understood? The one so skilled at protecting your own boundaries, so attuned to shielding yourself from discomfort? Who are you, so afraid to open up, to be seen, to be vulnerable?”

The shadow answers with absolute silence. Then, barely perceptible, something like a heartbeat quickening in the dark.

The Self listens, and with a voice steady and gentle, it speaks again. “I see you, this hidden part of myself. I feel your presence profoundly, and I wish to care for you. I encourage you to emerge, to show yourself completely. I wish to cradle you gently, to soothe you, to help you feel secure and warm.”

A warmth radiates back, hesitant but present. Something begins to loosen from its tight cocoon. A tremor moves through it, not from fear this time, but from recognition.

This internal dialogue drags on and on, spanning for decades, leaving the Self torn between seeking answers and accepting the silence.

“I perceive you as small, yet you hold great significance for me. There are times when your silence causes me pain, when you retreat and say nothing. However, I am learning to give you space and to respect your presence. But I still struggle with the tension of wanting to draw you closer, unsure if I’m doing the right thing.”

A soft glow begins to form, pulsing gently like breath.

“I will listen. I will honor you. You do not need to hide anymore.”

The Self breathes in the presence, wrapping it in warmth.

“I choose to give you form, a name, a presence that you can inhabit, it will be easier to continue our conversations.

The light coalesces, taking shape. A beautiful woman stands where once was only shadow. Her face bears a strong and distinctive nose — the same nose the self knows as its own, a feature that carries ancestral memory and character. Her skin holds the same subtle marks that tell stories of sun and time — a perfect mirror of the Self’s own complexion, as if carved from the same essence. But it is her eyes that speak the loudest — deep brown, holding both wisdom and wounds. Her hair falls in dark waves past her shoulders. Her posture remains guarded, one foot slightly behind the other as if prepared for retreat. When she breathes, it comes unevenly as if she’s been underwater too long.

The recognition of the Self in the other creates a magnetic pull, an aesthetic appreciation of what was once hidden, now revealed in form.

“What’s your name?” the Self asks with curiosity.

The woman shifts, her small lips parting slowly. “Karla,” she rasps, her voice hoarse and unsteady, like a door creaking open after years of rust. Her mouth closes again, as if the word took effort, she’d forgotten how to give.

“Karla…” the Self echoes. “So familiar.”

“I’ve been here, waiting. A long time. Why’d you leave me in the dark?”

The Self pauses, breath catching. “I… I was not ready to look at you, I was too afraid, it was too cold down here. But now — ” A beat. “Now I am ready to see you. I hear you. And I want you here, fully.”

“Do you even know me?” Karla asks, quieter now, her lips barely moving.

The Self smiles, almost uncertain. “You’re the one who guards my soft spots, aren’t you? Who keeps my feelings from swallowing me whole. Who sets boundaries to protect the parts of me that are still too fragile.”

“Yeah, you’re a mess without me.” Her voice is rough but warm, as if she’s remembering how to speak. She smiles.

“And what if I fail? What if I cannot be what you need me to be?” A small furrow appears between her brows. the question matters deeply to her.

The Self’s voice is softening. “Hey you are not here to be perfect. You are here to be known. To be loved. To be embraced. In seeing you, I expand. In integrating you, I grow. In loving you, I become whole.”

A long silence stretches between them. Karla’s breathing changes — deeper now, regular. She reaches out one hand, stopping midway, palm upward in an offering gesture. “Then let us walk together for a bit.”

She grins, as if she knows this is just a little game they are playing. But before she fades, she exhales a breath that carries a quiet understanding, a moment of gratitude.

“All I ever wanted was for you to look my way..” She finally whispers.

And then, she starts to blur at the edges and drifts into nothingness, a shadow folding back into light.

For there is no Karla, there never was. Just reflections folding into themselves, voices merging into one.

“Turns out, it’s just me talking to me all along..”

The Self continues on its path, embracing what was once hidden, speaking to what was once silent, knowing that in this union, it will continue to expand and transcend itself.

Ron had spent years traveling, searching for something he couldn’t name. He had wandered through deserts, climbed sacred mountains, and sat in silent meditation halls. He had spoken to mystics, healers, and lost souls like himself. Yet, no matter how far he went, he never felt he had arrived.

One evening, deep in the Amazon, he sat before a shaman in a jungle clearing.

“Are you ready to see?” the shaman asked, handing him a wooden cup filled with a thick, bitter liquid.

Ron hesitated. He had sought answers for so long — what if he wasn’t ready for them? With a deep breath, he drank.

The City of Mirrors

The world melted away. The drumbeat in the background grew louder, then thunderous. Suddenly, he was no longer in the jungle.

He stood in a vast city of mirrors, an endless labyrinth of reflections. Each mirror showed a different version of himself — Ron the child. Ron the wanderer. Ron the man he could have been.

In one reflection, he saw himself as a boy, curled up beneath a tree.

“Why are you crying?” Ron asked.

“Because no one truly sees me.”

A sharp pain hit Ron’s chest. This part of him had never grown, had been left behind long ago.

He turned to another mirror. This time, he saw a man in a suit, seated at a lifeless desk, staring blankly at a screen.

“You wasted everything,” the reflection said. “You traveled, but what did you build? Did you find answers, or just more questions?”

Doubt gripped him. What if he had made all the wrong choices?

A deep voice boomed behind him.

“Still lost?”

Ron spun around. A shadowy figure stood at the edge of the city, its form shifting like smoke.

“Who are you?” Ron asked.

“I am the part of you that never stopped running.”

The figure stepped forward, and Ron instinctively stepped back. The city flickered, and suddenly, the ground beneath him crumbled.

He fell into darkness.

The Descent into Shadows

Whispers surrounded him as he tumbled through the void.

“You are not enough.”
“You will never belong.”
“You are only a shadow of what you could have been.”

He landed hard in a forest of shadows, lit by a strange violet glow. Towering figures loomed in the distance, their whispers crawling into his ears.

Then, out of the mist, a creature appeared. It had no true form — just shifting darkness, with glowing red eyes and a mouth that curled into a broken smile.

“Who are you?” Ron asked.

“I am your fear,” the creature whispered. “The voice that tells you you’re not enough. The weight that keeps you from moving forward.”

A cold dread gripped Ron’s spine.

The creature moved closer. “You’ve run for so long, Ron. Searching for answers. But you don’t really want them, do you?”

Ron clenched his fists. A memory surfaced — something he had learned in meditation: Fear exists only as long as you avoid it.

He took a deep breath, stepping toward the creature.

“I see you,” he said.

The shadow trembled. Its form cracked like glass. Then, in an instant, it shattered into thousands of glowing fragments, dissolving into the night.

A warmth spread through Ron’s chest. He had spent years running from his fears. Now, he understood: only by facing them could he be free.

The Guardian at the Gate

The forest faded, and Ron found himself before a great golden gate, floating in the void.

From nowhere, an old man appeared, his beard flowing like mist, his eyes filled with the wisdom of the stars.

“You have faced your fears,” he said. “Now you must choose: return to your life or step through this gate.”

Ron hesitated. What lay beyond the gate? Was it the end of his journey — or the beginning of something new?

He thought of everything he had seen — his younger self, his doubts, his fears. He had always searched for answers, but now he understood: there were no final answers, only the experience of seeking.

“I will return,” Ron finally said. “But with a new understanding.”

The old man smiled. “Then remember: life is not meant to be understood, but to be lived.”

With a blink, Ron woke up in the temple. The fire still burned. The shaman watched him in silence.

“Did you see?” he asked.

Ron nodded.

The Return to the World

For days, Ron wandered the village, trying to process what had happened. He had seen the darkest corners of himself, but instead of destroying him, they had freed him.

One evening, as he sat by the fire, an old shaman woman joined him.

“You are afraid,” she said.

Ron sighed. “Afraid to return. Afraid to forget. Afraid of not knowing what to do.”

She smiled. “Every experience is a seed,” she said. “Some sprout quickly, others remain dormant for years. Your task is not to force them to grow. Just water them, and trust time.”

He looked at her, and for a moment, saw something familiar in her gaze — as if he had known her in another life.

“Where should I go?” he asked.

She smiled. “Go where you have already been, but with new eyes.”

About humans, or pigs.

Ting Tong and Sour Pig are catching up with each other.

Ting Tong

Hello, Sour Pig!

Sour Pig

Hey there, Ting Tong! What’s up? let’s go play!

Ting Tong

I wish I could, but I have to do my homework. It’s important for getting a good job.

Sour Pig

Why do you have to do that?

Ting Tong

So I can get a better job. Right now, I’m struggling just to pay for my education.

Sour Pig

But why do you have to pay for your studies?

Ting Tong

It’s just the way things work.. In order to study, I need to pay for it. And maybe if I change my gender, I can get a scholarship.

Sour Pig

Well, that seems unfair. What about working? Why do you need to work so much?

Ting Tong

We have to work all day just to afford food and a place to sleep. And after working, we go back to our homes which we also have to pay for. Plus, there are taxes we have to pay.

Sour Pig

Taxes? What are those for?

Ting Tong

A big portion of our earnings goes to the government so they can take care of us and make sure we can keep working. And if we pay taxes, then we’ll get a little discount on healthcare when we get sick.

Sour Pig

Wow, that sounds tough. How do people even have time for playing, friendship, relationships or creating families?

Ting Tong

Yeah, it’s hard. People are afraid of physical contact these days. If we want children with our own genes, we have to pay someone to create them for us. And when we’re old, we’ll have to pay someone to take care of us. And even after we die, someone will have to pay for our final arrangements. But if we save enough money and have a good pension, maybe we can enjoy life in our old age.

Sour Pig

That’s a lot of expenses and stress just to try and enjoy life later on. It sounds like a lot of work just for a few years of freedom.

Ting Tong

I know, but it’s the society we live in.

Sour Pig

Well, I would rather be a simple pig. I can eat whenever I want, go wherever I want, sleep whenever I want — without having to work at all. And I can learn important lessons from older pigs every day. Plus, reproduction is easy for us and everyone helps take care of the young ones. And when I eventually die, humans will have a big feast and celebrate my past life!

Ting Tong

Yes, it’s not easy being human. But our minds are highly developed.

Sour Pig

And pigs have developed tails! Look at mine!

Ting Tong

Haha, yes. But seriously, humans have advanced thinking abilities, we can think, organize and plan.

Sour Pig

Ah, I see. We pigs don’t know how to do that. But.. wait a second.. The ones who organized your human society must have certainly been pigs!

Austria, Europe 2024

Ting Tong

“Have you traveled for a long time?”

Gado Gado

“I spent years traveling the world, looking at all the beauty and experiencing every emotion I was capable of feeling. I gave up my old life and made a new one, and then another one and so on.. Some days were easy, some beautiful, others were hard..”

Ting Tong

“I believe traveling is really such an eye and mind opening, isn’t it?”

Gado Gado

“I understand why you believe traveling to be such an enriching and stimulating experience. The unknown factors that we are exposed to on our travels put us on alert, making us more aware of our surroundings. Every day is filled with new discoveries, adventures, and opportunities for unexpected surprises. These experiences help us to feel alive in a way that few other things can.”

Ting Tong

“Why don’t we travel forever then! Le’t do it!”

Gado Gado

“A feeling of numbness sets in as you come to realize that all the sights, sounds, smells, and emotions are nothing more than a twisted reflection of yourself, endlessly repeating. The world seems to grow dimmer until what lies outside your own mind is insignificant compared to the overwhelming depths of your inner being. Even travelling the world loses its appeal, for everything you experience is merely an echo of yourself.”

Ting Tong

“Tell me more!”

Gado Gado

Traveling is a taste of what it means to live in the present moment, but traveling with the purpose to stay in the present moment is an illusion that sooner or later vanishes. You don’t need to take a journey to be content with life — I’ve learned from my monk friends that you can find serenity even when seated!

Ting Tong

“In essence, why do we travel, then?”

Gado Gado

“Ultimately, the fundamental explanation why we travel is not to discover and observe foreign locations but to bask in the excitement of living for the moment. Certainly, there are always new pieces of ourselves that may be discovered in the outside world, yet once we comprehend that the outer environment is simply a source for our new side to emerge, there is no longer a need to venture so far away or to such challenging adventures to unravel our nature.

..Of course, traveling can also be savored as a form of recreation or what many refer to as a vacation.. But that’s another story..”

Ting Tong

“Have you got your answers eventually?”

Gado Gado

“Years of searching, struggling, trying to get to the essence of who I am. To find out there is nobody to be found. There is no “myself”. There is no self. Nothing to hold on to but my breath.”

Ting Tong

“Who is speaking then? Who is Gado Gado?”

Gado Gado

“They call “me” Gado Gado: an Indonesian salad of raw, slightly boiled vegetables and hard-boiled eggs, potato, fried tofu, tempeh, lontong, served with a peanut sauce dressing.”

Ting Tong

“Quite tasty!”

Gado Gado

“Gado Gado presents to the world as a mix of ingredients arranged on a plate. That’s what “myself” appear to be today. Next time it will be different though; the chef might have changed, the eggs could be smaller or bigger, and the peanut sauce more or less spicy. There will even be differences in your perceptions! You certainly won’t find the same Gado Gado tomorrow as today.”

Ting Tong

“But you will still be Gado Gado, even tomorrow!”

Gado Gado

“Chasing “myself” will only lead you to a neverending Gado-Gado tasting journey, with the illusion to find the real Gado Gado. There is no such thing as the real Gado Gado. Enjoy your Gado Gado today, that’s all that matters.”

Ting Tong

“Thank you, it was nice to taste your freedom, Gado Gado!”

Bali, Indonesia 2023

Random Dialogs

Koh Panghan, Thailand 2023

Ting Tong

I feel like there are two people in my mind.

A plate with food is coming to my table.

One of the two people says: “Oh this is shrimps. It looks good, but I prefer chicken. I will not eat, I will wait for tomorrow, hopefully there will be chicken.”

The other person is looking at the dish, he sees food. He says “Oh there is food, let’s eat. oh it is shrimps today! Great!”

They both have they reasons. They are both right from their own perspective, but how can they live together in the same house?

Phi Pim

Yes, I see.. you are very careful about the other person’s feeling as well.

But you know.. Tomorrow you will be old, one of you will die, you will be alone. there will be no food anymore.

And maybe there will be illness too..

Ting Tong

So what to do?

Phi Pim

So.. Eat what you have now, because you need to be alive, alive today.

Ting Tong

I am thinking too much. And eventually I am sleeping alone every day.

Phi Pim

Sometimes you have to eat what you have in the plate. Because you need food. Even fast food can be good enough.

Ting Tong

I don’t know what to do with her. That’s because I don’t know what to do with myself, with my life. The day I will know what to do with my life I will also know all the rest outside of my mind.

Phi Pim

Just go with the flow.

Ting Tong

AHAH!

“Just go with the flow”. They all say that, I don’t know what they mean.

Tell me, have you ever seen the flow?

Phi Pim

I remember when I went diving. I was down the water 28 meters and in that moment I realized it: it is very easy to die.

Just take off the oxygen tube: you are dead. You cannot go up to the surface very fast, you need to go up slowly, so slow that you will die. The line between life and death is very thin!

So I had to focus on what I had in that moment: the tank, the mask and the fishes swimming all around me. I had to focus on life. So I had to live, in order to not die: as simple as that!

After that, I immediately saw colours everywhere. Beautiful fishes swimming around colourful corals and the sun light penetrating the depth of the ocean..

I learned it all at once. I just needed to go diving once, to change my life.

Ting Tong

Sometimes I have fear. Fear of not expecting anything from others. You know, when you don’t expect anything, you are left with infinite unknown options. It is scary!

Phi Pim

If you expect something, then you can only have two options: yes or no. Happy or disappointed. When you start understanding that any of your thoughts are just relative, and none of them is real, yet they are all real on their own, there is no thought that can hold your mind for long. And so there is not so much need to stay in your mind and think.

Ting Tong

AHAH!

Again with this easy wisdom. Easy to say. But theory is one thing, and I see you also stay in your mind! You think too! Don’t cheat me!

And now tell me, wise Phi Pim, why are you then thinking?

Phi Phim

To kill the time.

Ting Tong

I will go now, and paint.

Phi Pim

You are going to kill the time too?

Ting Tong

Partially, I still “pain(t)”.

Tratto dal libro Shamàn, la Leggenda del Guacamayo

Nayarit, Mexico 2021

Non è forse da una vibrazione
come l’ OM per l’universo
che sempre inizia ogni creazione
ognuna emettendo il suo proprio verso?

Il sottile tremolio che si avverte
tra le uova interrate
sotto la sabbia rovente
indica che la vita le ha battezzate

Come il marciare di un plotone
centinaia di piccole tartarughe
impegnate dalla comune ossessione
di rompere il guscio protettore

Serve una forza tremenda
per uscire dalla protezione
che nasce in assenza della domanda
“per andare dove?”

Uscite dalla prigione
immerse nella sabbia
iniziano a scavare con passione
con l’ansia di salire sulla spiaggia

Anche se
probabilmente ancora non sanno
né che stanno uscendo dalla sabbia
né cosa sia la spiaggia

In superficie, una ad una del plotone
respirano e poi iniziano a marciare
una corsa massacrante in una sola direzione
diritte verso il mare

Anche se
probabilmente ancora non sanno
né dove stanno andando
né che è l’acqua che le sta chiamando

Terminerà brevemente
per molte di loro
questa avventura terrrestre
mangiate dagli uccelli in volo

Stremate dalla fatica
o ribaltate con le zampe all’aria
molte altre lasceranno questa vita
divorate dalla propria furia

Raggiungeranno il mare
quelle che sulla spiaggia
si sanno prendere pause per riposare
per continuare poi la corsa selvaggia

Una volta entrate in mare
altri uccelli ne mangeranno ancora
è il momento di nuotare
dei pesci affamati questa è la dimora

Solo un paio tra tutte
baciate dalla fortuna
o forse dalla mala sorte
continueranno la propria avventura

Sopravvivendo e crescendo
per poi tornare
avendo nuotato in tutti i mari del mondo
dopo molti anni di vita di mare

Sulla stessa spiaggia dove erano nate
ora a deporre le loro uova
scavando nell’ arena con forti zampate
un profondo rifugio per la cova

Anche se
probabilmente mai sapranno
né come ci siano arrivate
né di essere state proprio lì, create

“Fortunate!”
C’è chi ride sulla questione
“Che tragedia, altro che risate!”
C’è chi piange dall’ emozione

“Che strana coincidenza!”
Dice lo scienziato con il cervello sulla bilancia
“Le tartarughe non hanno una gran testa”
Dimenticandosi del potere della pancia

Sul mistero da sempre si cerca una risposta
ma di certo solo si può dire in maniera un po’ ardita
che non è dalla testa
bensì dalla pancia, che nasce la vita.

Leggi il libro completo!

Tratto dal libro Shamàn, la Leggenda del Guacamayo

Tel Aviv, Israel 2022

Ancora non ricordo
il nostro primo incontro
deve essere stato un pomeriggio
di un giorno freddo e grigio

Vestita di suoni
e profumata di colori
ti avvicinasti a me
con mille canzoni

Provai a parlarti
ma tu mai mi risposi
solo volevo sedurti
lo ben sapevi

Solo un fesso
poteva avere il coraggio
di guardare se stesso
nei tuoi gelidi occhi da saggio

Ancora ricordo
il nostro primo pianto
né una parola né uno sguardo
con te rimasi affranto

E più cercavo
il tuo inafferrabile sorriso
più sprofondavo
invano, un po’ ucciso

Per il troppo dolore
provai a dimenticarti
e poi senza pudore
provai a tradirti

Sedussi donne di tutto il mondo
andando lontano
ma ognuna di loro
mi riconduceva alla tua mano

E così con lo sguardo non troppo felice
mi accorsi che il vero amore
forse al contrario di ciò che si dice
non ammette giochi di seduzione

E per questa ulteriore umiliazione
provai a incolparti
esausto per la tensione
per poi ignorarti

Frantumato camminavo a stento
ignorando le mie emozioni
il mio mondo si era spento
in una vita ormai senza canzoni

E così mi fermai
e a te mi rivolsi
questa volta ero nei guai
e non c’erano più soccorsi

Non più gonne nè maestri
che mi dessero altre illusioni
con le loro vendite illustri
per veloci guarigioni

Ti guardai dritta negli occhi
questa volta come amica
e compagna di infiniti giochi
la tensione era svanita

In fondo mai mi avevi lasciato
anche se non vedevo incanto
e avanzavo senza più fiato
solo tu mi stavi davvero accanto

Con riverenza guardai al passato
e solo allora appresi
che eri tu ad avermi insegnato
tutto ciò che so, o quasi

Il tuo nome poderoso
nella ossessione generale
suonava un che di pericoloso
dal quale era meglio scappare

Ma scappare non rassicura
dalla incomprensione
nata solo dalla paura
di una nuova illusione

A voce alta ti chiamerò
più forte e libero dalla inquietudine
e senza paura ti accoglierò
ti chiamerò Solitudine.

Leggi il libro completo