The launch of Artemis II brought back the emotion of that day, July 21, 1969, when I was seven years old. Now, after a long time, the first crewed flight to orbit the Moon is on. The ten-day mission will carry four astronauts, testing life support systems, navigation, and manual piloting capabilities before returning to Earth. They won’t land yet, but it’s a beginning. Last February marks 53 years since we last set foot on that place. From what we’re told, we will do so again next year, with Artemis III.

I grew up in a time of few conflicts, or at least that’s how it seemed.

I was born in 1962, and in the 1980s I started working. I was a witness to the greatest change humanity has undergone within my memory. The first had been at age seven, as I mentioned above.

The second, which struck us all, was September 11, 2001. Of course, before that I had already been affected by the Vietnam War, by Bosnia, by earthquakes, floods, and natural tragedies that swept the planet, but all of that carried a certain distance. September 11 was different. It was the first open fracture of the 21st century, something the generation before mine could scarcely have imagined. And more recently, the pandemic.

My point here is simple. Throughout history, countless tragedies and conflicts have shaped our lives, and without our noticing, they have offered us clues about our true nature. At some point, I began to consider that a different way was possible. Life could not be reduced to this.

Still a teenager, I began searching for answers. I joined study groups, circles of inquiry; I explored traditions such as Zen, Tao, Gurdjieff’s Fourth Way; I drew close to Hawaiian shamanism and the indigenous peoples of North America. I read, studied, practiced, went deeper - without ever forming a definitive bond with any of these lineages. I always knew, in a quiet place within me, that this was something no one could do for me. I learned, questioned, inquired, practiced. More than forty years of it. Until one day, something clicked.

What fell away was the illusion of separation. The clear, effortless perception that there had never been a “self” separate from everything else. The Consciousness that perceives these words, that hears the noise from the street, that feels the weight of the body in the chair — that Consciousness is not inside me, I am inside it. It has no address, no edges, it belongs to no one, because it is the very field in which everything appears, including the sensation of being someone.

The curious thing is that contemporary science is arriving at exactly this place, from the outside in. Donald Hoffman, cognitive scientist at MIT and professor at the University of California, spent decades demonstrating that our senses did not evolve to perceive reality - they evolved to keep us alive. What we see is not the world; it is a useful interface. The brain does not generate Consciousness; it filters it, reduces it, translates it into an operational version that allows us to cross the street without being run over.

Bernardo Kastrup a Brazilian-born Dutch philosopher and computer scientist who worked at CERN, the European Organization for Nuclear Research, takes this further with a lucidity that unsettles the academic establishment: matter does not produce Consciousness, Consciousness is what manifests as matter. The physical world is the outside of an universal mental process. Each of us is a temporary whirlpool in a river with no banks.

Does it sound like Eastern philosophy? Agreed. Except now it comes with equations, peer-reviewed articles, and considerable discomfort for those who still believe the brain manufactures the mind the way the pancreas manufactures insulin.

Every tradition I studied pointed toward this, each in its own language, and it took me decades to notice the obvious: there was never any distance between me and what I was seeking. The search itself was the only obstacle.

This perception, when it matures on a collective scale, will be the next and definitive shift in the human condition. Greater than the moon, greater than any war. The recognition that separation never existed. If it happens.

Today, I use the mind the way one uses a tool: analytically, on demand, when practical matters arise and call for some action. Like downloads. Beyond that, the mode is idle, available, with full attention on the present moment, on what surrounds me, registering each instant, each experience, grateful to be here. No gratitude journal, no meditation as a technique for quieting a mind that has already grown quiet on its own, because when the mind realizes that only what is here exists, it quiets itself.

Everything else is a projection: an idealized future that does not exist, or an imprecise memory insisting on generating sadness, anger, resentment. Imagination hijacks attention toward places that are not real.

Irrelevant.

Try, for even a short while, treating any thought as irrelevant, unimportant. See what happens, then tell me.

Who became sad? Who became angry? The ego. The mind.

Take one step back and observe this body/mind “unit” from a perspective that does not belong to it. Something is there, watching the thoughts and feelings that spring from those projections, from that imagination, from that always imprecise memory.

That something is you.

- The Big Lebowski

I heard a Zen story the other day that compelled me to write this essay. It was about a monk who decided to retreat to a cave in China, where he would live out the rest of his days. He was an artist, and for years his only activity, besides meditation, was painting a tiger on one of the cave walls. The work was so meticulous, so perfect, that when he finally completed it and stood before it in contemplation, he felt fear.

The story made me reflect on how, sometimes, we create our own illusions, our own expectations — and how they can frighten us when they become real, or seem to.

Cut to today. After many years, I felt fear again. Not the fear of a painted tiger, but the fear that rises when we confront the fragility of life, the wearing down of the body, the relentless passage of time.

I have always enjoyed enviable health. In nearly 64 years, very few medical episodes have marked my path. The most serious, if I can even call it that, was surgery to remove my gallbladder — laparoscopic, three small holes in the abdomen. I walked in and out of the hospital the same day, as if nothing had happened.

Over the years, a bout of shingles hit me shortly after my father’s death. Perhaps that explains it: the low immunity born of my tendency to relativize pain and suffering, to avoid confronting them head-on. I remember a phrase my father used to say: “I don’t want a wake.” At the time, I clung to that idea as a way to accelerate grief and minimize my own suffering. But the bill arrived months later, when the shingles appeared. What resists, persists — as some barroom philosopher once said.

After that, a few bouts of the flu, one possible Covid (I’m not certain — the test was inconclusive), and nothing more. Until then, my health seemed an impregnable fortress. But this week, visiting the ophthalmologist, I received the news that I will soon need cataract surgery. My mother, who turned 90 on February 10th, never needed glasses — only recently, for reading. I thought I had inherited her luck in that regard. But the reality is that for some time now I have been noticing difficulty reading.

I write my texts originally on a typewriter, then transfer them to a digital file, which I edit on the computer. Each time I go through this process, the sharpness of the letters seems to slip away — as if all those characters were slowly fusing into one another.

The fear that came over me is not about the surgery itself. From what people tell me, it is a nearly routine procedure these days.

My struggle is with accepting the natural deterioration of the body, the gradual diminishment of vitality and physical strength. Mentally, I feel I still have agility — that my mind holds its own against time. But the body is not so forgiving. It signals, little by little, that the flow of life cannot be ignored. And that is where fear tries to settle in: in the acceptance that other signals will come, that aging is an inexorable process.

Every day I practice trying not to paint the tiger. That is, not to build unrealistic expectations, not to imagine ideal scenarios and then cling to them as if they were the only truth. Everyone speaks of hope — that things will unfold in a way that gives us enough time to avoid despair. But hope, that troublesome little word, which is nothing more than fear in disguise, is merely the other side of the same illusory coin. Whoever lives without hope also lives without fear.

The Danish writer Isak Dinesen has a crystalline phrase: the secret lies in dealing with the situation without hope and without despair. Accepting what life presents, because at bottom there is no alternative. We are not absolute agents of our destiny, but part of a greater Consciousness — which sages and philosophers across millennia have held to be perfect in its imperfection.

And so I demand of myself that I stop painting tigers. Not to create illusions that, in the end, only exist to frighten me. Life is what it is, and fear, however much it tries to disguise itself as hope or despair, is simply a sign that we are alive — that we still care, that we are still here, facing the natural flow of things.

And so I go on, trying not to paint tigers, but no longer afraid to face the ones already there, ready to remind me to pay attention to what is real: the beauty of being alive now, in this very (and only) moment.

There is a division that precedes all others. It predates politics, religion, economics, and conflict between nations or neighbors. A separation so fundamental that we carry it as if it were the very structure of reality, believing that the world has always been this way and that there is no other way to exist. It is the inevitable and atavistic division between subject and object, between the “I” that observes and the “world” that is observed, between what is inside and what is outside. Everything we call a human problem, when you dig deep enough, has its roots in this misconception.

A young child is not born with this division already in place. Research in developmental psychology suggests this, but anyone who has ever sat in silence with a baby just a few months old knows it intuitively: the one who looks has not yet completely separated the act of looking from the object being looked at. The world and the being who perceives the world still share a permeability, a continuity that has not yet been severed by language and concept. Then the knife comes in. Gradually, the process of socialization, of naming things, of identity construction, erects a kind of membrane between the “self” and the rest. When this membrane is established, the problem begins, because a separated subject is a fearful subject.

Fear is the logical and inevitable consequence of separation. If there is an isolated “self,” delimited and with defined boundaries, then that self can be threatened, diminished, destroyed. It must defend itself, expand, accumulate, and compare itself to others. It must win, or at least not lose. Competition is not a human trait; it is arithmetic: where there are two separate entities, a hierarchy is possible, and where a hierarchy is possible, there is anxiety.

Look closely enough at any conflict, and you will find this mechanism at work. War between countries is the amplified version of what happens between two people in an argument, which is the amplified version of what happens within a single mind when it resists what is happening. The structure is always the same: an “I” that perceives itself as separate and threatened, reacting to preserve its boundary. The content and scale change, but the mechanism is identical. Imperialism, racism, misogyny, tribalism of every kind - all of these are technologies of separation, ways of making the boundary between the “self” and the “other” sharper and more justified, and therefore more permanent.

What non-duality observes (and this is evident in Vedanta, Buddhism, Taoism, Zen, certain interpretations of Christian and Islamic mysticism, and philosophy) is the realization that this separation is a construct, not a discovery; curiously, this understanding is also beginning to emerge in quantum physics and the cognitive sciences. The subject did not find itself as something distinct from the world. The subject was fabricated, slowly, by layers of thought, language, and repeated experience, until the fabrication seemed as solid as the furniture in the room. Bernardo Kastrup 1 describes individual consciousness as a whirlpool in a river: it has form, it has its own movement, it can be identified and named, but there is no moment when it ceased to be water. The separation is functional, not ontological. Useful for navigating the world, catastrophic when taken as absolute truth.

That is precisely where the misconception lies. It is not the existence of an individual perspective, a localized point of view, or a particular subjective experience that is real (and worth living to the fullest). The misconception lies precisely in believing that this perspective is an independent entity, a “self” that exists on its own, separate from the consciousness that permeates it and the world that constitutes it. When this happens, the whirlpool forgets it is a river and wastes all its energy trying to sustain itself, trying to grow, trying not to dissolve, in a struggle that is, by definition, endless.

Most human suffering has this texture. Chronic anxiety, the feeling of inadequacy, the compulsion for external validation, the difficulty of being present without the mind constructing protective narratives, the addiction to busyness (ah, the glamour of saying “I’m so busy”...) to avoid feeling the terrifying emptiness—all of this is the experience of a person who believes they are separate and needs to sustain themselves within that separation. The problem lies in the structure that organizes each person’s specific contents, that imaginary center around which everything orbits and which, when you look directly at it, has the consistency of a shadow.

The most direct question there is, the one that non-dual traditions ask in different ways, is simply: who is this “I”? Or what is this “I”? These are not abstract philosophical questions; it is a real investigative technique, performed now, in this very moment. When you look for the observer, what do you find? There are thoughts, sensations, perceptions, images, sounds, the weight of the body on the chair, the breath that continues on its own. But the “I” that should be coordinating all of this, the central subject that grammar presupposes in every sentence, that one, when you look directly at it, slips away, dissolves, always one step behind the gaze. The observer and the observed have never been as separate as everyday experience suggests.

I write about this here on The Psychonaut because I believe, with the conviction that comes from repeated observation, that this recognition is the only thing that changes anything at its root. Political reforms, technological advances, cultural changes, all of these have value, but nothing will reach the source as long as the separate subject continues to operate as an unquestionable premise. The ecological crisis is the relationship of the subject to nature treated as an object of use. The political crisis is the relationship between subjects who recognize no shared substance. The mental health crisis is the cost of maintaining a separate identity in a world that, at no fundamental level, sustains that separation. I am not proposing dissolution, passivity, or indifference to the world. I am not a nihilist. I am merely pointing out that there is a way of existing in which the individual perspective remains alive and functional, but the existential terror that comes from absolute separation begins to lose its power.

When the whirlpool remembers that it is a river, it does not stop spinning; it continues to move, continues to have form, continues to be identifiable. It just stops fighting against the water. The subject is the problem that resolves itself when you stop looking for someone to solve it.

“Yeah, well, you know, that’s just, like, your opinion, man.” - The Big Lebowski

Between what happens and what we say about what happens, there is a brief, almost invisible interval. That is where the machine usually takes command. This essay lives in that interval.

Beyond the familiar tendency to organize and live our lives around the prevention of discomfort and the construction of zones of safety — in search of lasting comfort — there is a subtle movement shaping how we think, speak, and explain ourselves. It appears in everyday language, in the almost automatic structuring of sentences, in a short and socially neutral word that rarely attracts attention. This three-letter word is “but.” When it appears, something in us contracts. Try to notice.

“But” works like a reflex, an automatic reaction of what Gurdjieff called the machine. The machine comments, adjusts, reorganizes. It operates through repetition, memory, and conditioning, sustaining the continuity of the character with remarkable efficiency. “But” is a central gear in this functioning, always ready to maintain internal coherence while preserving the feeling of “logic and clarity,” things our mind/ego appreciates.

When I say, for example, “I’m excited about next year, but…,” the experience has already been interrupted. It appeared whole for a moment and was then reorganized to fit a narrative familiar to us.

This becomes evident in ordinary situations. Someone close says something that touches a sensitive point — simple, direct, without accusation. The body reacts before the next sentence exists. There is a slight tightening, a short silence, a moment in which everything is still open. Soon after, the “but” appears. The response comes polite, articulated, apparently conscious. The conversation continues; both remain seated at the same table, and yet something has moved away. There was no conflict, only an adjustment — the encounter replaced by “management.”

No one argued, no one raised their voice, no one openly disagreed. From a social and psychological point of view, everything went well. The conversation remained civilized, mature, functional. That is precisely why the gesture goes unnoticed.

The moment “but” enters, listening ceases to be whole and becomes strategic. The response no longer arises from the impact of what was heard, but from the need to maintain balance, image, emotional control, narrative coherence. The other is still physically present, yet no longer truly met — they are being managed. What occurred was an internal adjustment.

This is why something in us withdraws even without conflict. Encounters ask for risk, silence, presence without editing. Management asks for efficiency, adjustment, continuity. When one enters, the other leaves.

The gesture repeats in even smaller scenes. A fatigue appears in the middle of the day. The body asks for a pause. Thought recognizes it for a second and immediately adds a “but not now,” “but just a little longer,” or something similar. Nothing dramatic happens. The day continues functioning and so does the body, yet something has again been placed in parentheses by habit. The machine knows how to keep going.

This movement shifts our attention toward something recognized, touched, perceived — and quickly transferred to a more familiar, manageable territory. The sentence advances, reasoning proceeds, the conversation continues, while the living point dissolves somewhere within the dialogue. “But” restores a comfortable distance, sufficient so nothing has to be fully met.

At the base of this functioning, of this “logic,” lies a silent assumption, rarely examined: that there is a center in charge of administering experience. A “self” located somewhere, organizing what appears, deciding intensities and impacts, regulating duration and sequence. From this assumption, life becomes a process to be managed. In the nondual view, this separation appears as a perceptual habit sustained mainly by language and memory — I write this not as a claim, but from experience.

“But” sustains this habit. It always appears after the event, as a late attempt at reorganization. The experience has already passed through. “But” arrives to rearrange the scene, soften impacts, redistribute meaning — a later commentary trying to occupy the original position.

When this assumption of centrality and separation relaxes through some direct, lived clarity and understanding, the need for this kind of intervention diminishes. Language no longer requires conscious correction. The gesture loses strength for lack of function. What becomes evident is inclusion, a natural consequence of a less fragmented perception.

Relationships could then carry less accumulated tension, conflicts would stop gaining additional layers of explanation, decisions would no longer require prolonged internal debate for legitimacy. Life would continue with its usual challenges, and the automatic resistance to them would lose intensity. Much of the weight is not in what happens, but in the constant attempt to reorganize what happens so it aligns with a previously desired image — unconsciously, or consciously too.

This does not mean we must monitor our words or replace linguistic constructions, because that would only shift the same mechanism to another level. The important point is to notice the reflex when it occurs, recognize the gesture in action, and not interfere. The machine continues operating, as it always has. What needs to dissolve is the belief that it occupies the center.

Gratitude has become too light a word for the weight of the life we live. Repeated, decorated, performed, it circulates easily precisely because it no longer requires presence nor any confrontation with the contingency of being here. Perhaps for that reason it needs to be returned to the only place where it still makes sense — outside discourse, outside the display window, close to what we prefer to avoid. This essay does not propose another gesture nor an exercise to be practiced. It points to the moment in which gratitude stops being language and becomes evidence, when attention touches the present with the same lucidity that death tends to impose.

The word gratitude feels tired, worn out from being exhibited, repeated, embellished, diluted into friendly versions that demand neither presence nor real contact with the experience of being alive. It appears as an email signature, a photo caption, the automatic closing of a conversation, sometimes accompanied by a namastê, a “gratitude-and-light,” a rehearsed smile that seems to fulfill a social function more than express something actually lived. In this format, gratitude has become a shop-window object, part of the catalog of boutique spirituality — the kind that fits neatly in a profile bio, does not embarrass, does not unsettle, does not come close to the discomfort that sustains life as it is.

There is nothing wrong with the word itself, nor with the act of thanking. The wear begins when the word turns into mechanical habit, into surface language, a kind of varnish covering hurry, privilege, and distraction. Gratitude is talked about a lot, but little is lived from it. The word circulates easily precisely because it asks for nothing beyond agreement; it does not summon attention nor alter how time is occupied or how we look at another person.

It was from this long-standing unease that, one day while listening to an audio by Sam Harris, a question appeared almost inevitably, without effort and without the intention of a quick answer: what could gratitude possibly have to do with death?

He spoke of gratitude as a minimal, almost obvious attitude in the face of the inequality and suffering of so many of our fellow human beings. The number is too large to be comfortable. More than a billion people in the world right now, while this text is being read, are going through extreme situations — wars they did not choose, forced displacement, hunger, precarious access to water and sanitation, serious illness, the absence of a roof, of safety, of predictability. It is not a distant or abstract scenario. It is difficult to imagine that, if the exchange were possible, if that billion could choose to be exactly where you are at this moment, reading these lines, the choice would not be made without a moment’s hesitation.

The sequence seems too obvious to question: to be born, grow up, work, die. Death remains outside the daily frame, treated as a distant event, inconvenient and impolite to remember amid so much toxic positivity. Perhaps for that very reason, gratitude has become so light, so ornamental.

Death, seen up close, without romanticizing and without performative fear, has a curious effect. It reorganizes perception, reminding us directly that nothing here is guaranteed, that continuity is a comfortable assumption but not a fact of reality. At any moment we may no longer be here — or those we love may not. Understand this not as a threat, but as a simple fact of living. When this is truly seen and felt, not merely thought, something changes in the way the present is experienced.

If it were possible to return after death to this exact moment — to this body, this environment, this apparently ordinary interval of the day — gratitude as a word or gesture would not need to be activated. It would be evident. The simple fact of being here, breathing, reading, looking around, would already be more than enough. Look now at what is happening as you read: the place, the body supported, the surrounding sounds, the time available to read these lines. There is nothing special about it, and precisely for that reason everything is special.

The deepest gratitude does not arise from lists, journals, reminders, or repeated affirmations in the morning or before sleep. It happens when attention remains in the present without ruminating about the past or anticipating an imagined future. When the present is seen as the only possible place of experience, without distraction and without additional narrative, thanking ceases to be an obligation, a moral or spiritual posture, and becomes a silent recognition of our own human condition.

When I look at what I am doing now, who I am now, where I am now, the only honest response that appears does not take the form of a speech. It feels more like an inner nod, a simple clarity. I could be in Gaza, in Ukraine, in Iran, in Africa, in Minnesota.

And you could too.

I rewatched Arrival (Denis Villeneuve, 2016) almost ten years later, and the experience unfolded in a completely different way. There was no surprise in the story — the film was the same, even though some might say that its interpretation changes over time. But no, this time it was I who had changed. And profoundly so. Especially in the way I felt what the film proposes.

My attention, as I revisited the story, was no longer concentrated in that usual point behind the eyes, where we tend to organize life as if someone were in there running the show. The gaze felt more diffuse, lower, supported by the whole body, with the breath accompanying the images. The film was not simply being watched; it was resonating in a place that had now become available.

Perhaps that is why Arrival awakens an emotion so difficult for me to explain (it is one of my three favorite movies ever) and, at the same time, so easy to recognize. The emotion does not arise from the narrative, the suspense, or attachment to the characters. It emerges before the story takes shape — a direct, almost physical recognition of something that was already there. The remarkable director Denis Villeneuve does not force understanding, does not lead the viewer by the hand, does not resolve anything. He creates a space in which certain mental structures begin to relax on their own, especially the one that sustains our relationship with time and language.

What I saw and felt this time

In the film, language ceases to be merely an instrument for exchanging information and begins to reveal its deeper role: organizing experience, giving continuity to memory, sustaining the sense of identity and our understanding of the world. The reference to the “Sapir-Whorf Hypothesis,” or linguistic relativity, is a fundamental point in the film’s argument.

As for time, when seen from this perspective, it appears as a functional arrangement — useful for operating in the world — that notion of line and continuity. Yet it is insufficient to explain what is alive now. The emotional impact comes from this subtle shift, when perception recognizes that life does not happen in sequence; it was narrated that way so the character could remain coherent.

This recognition does not usually appear as a clear idea. It arrives more like a feeling — a gentle pressure in the chest, a pause in the inner hurry, a kind of emotion without a defined object. It is the same quality of presence that shows up when we listen to instrumental music, watch someone sleeping deeply, or follow a sunset without the need to comment on it or post it on Instagram. Arrival sustains this state through long silences and cinematography that favors space and interval, refusing to over-explain. The gaze slows down and, with it, thought loses the impulse to step forward with explanations and interpretations.

Rewatching the film, it became difficult to ignore the contrast between this silent field and the kinds of issues that usually capture us as a humanity: fear of the other, struggles for control, urgency to predict scenarios, incessant attempts to secure safety in a territory that has never offered guarantees.

While these concerns repeat themselves, the film points to something much simpler and, for that very reason, rarely considered — the suggestion that Consciousness is not located inside the body nor confined to the mind, created by neural activations. It is the wider field in which bodies, minds, stories, and expectations appear and disappear, without effort and without a fixed center.

What makes Arrival so moving is that it does not soften this realization, nor does it protect the identity we believe ourselves to be. The experience of the linguist portrayed by Amy Adams makes it clear that understanding time does not eliminate pain, that seeing farther does not prevent loss, that loving means welcoming the entire experience with everything it carries — and it carries a lot. The emotional weight arises precisely at this point, when the fantasy of control loses its support and life presents itself as it is, whole, with no possible editing. Remaining there requires more honesty than strength.

It is deeply human to notice that the Consciousness watching the film is of the same nature as the Consciousness sustaining every form that appears on the screen — whether the characters, the two heptapod beings (Abbott and Costello 😉), or the silence between one scene and another. When this perception touches, even briefly, experience is no longer organized in terms of inside and/or outside. The film is not in front of someone on a screen; it happens in the same field where thoughts, sensations, and emotions arise.

Perhaps Arrival provokes so much reflection — and even some discomfort — because, as it shifts our relationship with time, language, and identity, something very intimate begins to lose its contours. This does not happen abruptly or spectacularly, but with the naturalness of something that has always sustained experience and that, for a moment, ceases to be taken as a character.

The question I asked myself and repeat here

In that silent moment that remains after the credits, when there is no longer a story to follow nor meaning to interpret, what exactly continues looking?

The time we live in exposes the limits of a perception centered on a separate “self,” and conflicts, polarization, excessive consumption, and inequality appear as expressions of the same basic confusion about who looks, who decides, and from where life is being conducted.

Observe a typical corporate meeting. Artificial personalities sit around a table, each defending imaginary territories, protecting constructed egos, performing importance for other performers. Everyone knows that the meeting could be an email, that the decisions are irrelevant, that the project will eventually be sidelined by the hype of the moment. But the ritual continues because each separate "I" needs to justify its individual existence.

Corporate architecture - glass towers, marble lobbies, closed offices - physically materialises our belief in separation. Each cubicle is a cell in the prison we have built by believing that we are isolated fragments fighting for survival. Reports, meetings, positions, organisational charts, all this keeps alive the fiction that we are these fragments, when in reality we express the same Consciousness.

Today's tiredness doesn't come from physical effort, but from sustaining artificial identities. It's exhausting to live ten or twelve hours a day as if your "professional self" were real, as if tasks had intrinsic meaning, as if you had to defend a territory that never existed.

Companies are going through a process similar to the secularisation of religions: we've abandoned faith in rituals, but we're still attached to the beliefs that sustained them. We no longer believe that meetings and reports matter, but we still insist that we are isolated individuals competing for survival.

As David Graeber observed in his book "Bullshit Jobs", we have evolved into entire ecosystems of mutual absurdity. But the root of this pathology doesn't lie in economic structures - it lies in the fundamental belief that we are beings separate from each other and from reality.

Some are beginning to see this. They are the corporate heretics, those who fulfil their roles without being confused with them, who use the system's resources to create something genuine and who recognise colleagues not as rivals, but as expressions of the same Consciousness. Few, very few still, but they are starting to appear.

These pioneers have discovered that when you stop defending a separate "I", the stage work becomes less exhausting. No more energy is wasted maintaining imaginary borders or protecting territories that were never real.When this realisation sets in, the theatre loses momentum, because no more energy is spent protecting imaginary borders.

All attempts to reform the system while maintaining the premise of separation are doomed. Benefits, home office, purpose speeches - everything is still based on the same illusion: that we are isolated individuals who need to be motivated and managed.

NO STAGING IN THE THEATRE OF WORK

The only real transformation begins when we see that we are not people competing, but a single Consciousness experiencing itself in different forms.

At that moment, competition loses its meaning, hierarchy becomes absurd and collaboration happens effortlessly. Companies made up of people who experience this clarity wouldn't need sophisticated protocols, because the very basis of the dysfunction has disappeared.

Corporate theatre only exists as long as we believe in the characters. When we recognise that we are the Consciousness that plays all the roles, the staging dissolves and the work can finally stop being a meaningless burden.

ALL ATTEMPTS TO REFORM THE SYSTEM WHILE MAINTAINING THE PREMISE OF SEPARATION ARE DOOMED TO FAILURE.

Deep down, it's fear that keeps the theatre going - fear of losing power, of no longer being influential, of no longer being recognised, of being seen as irrelevant. Fear acts as the invisible cement of separation, imprisoning leaders and professionals in fragile roles that need to be defended at every turn.

While fear occupies spaces, vital energy is wasted on maintaining characters that never really existed. Seeing this mechanism clearly doesn't mean denying work or leadership, but rather freeing them from the need for masks, allowing them to be lived from another place, without the constant defence of an illusion.

The real challenge is not to lead others, but to have the courage to unmask your own fear.

Leadership is an idea, not an individual.

If I were to write about a memory—one that left a formless but persistent mark—it would not be to construct a narrative of self-knowledge or to teach anything. It would simply be to bear witness to a moment when everything that sustained my idea of reality fell apart, not in chaos or collapse, but in an enveloping silence.

There was no external scene. Nothing happened in the eyes of others. But inside, what I called “me” ceased to make sense, dissolved abruptly. The central reference disappeared. Body, identity, thought, everything was suspended, as if the backdrop had been pulled away and what remained was not emptiness, but what had always been there, but had never been noticed, sometimes, very rarely, sensed.

For a while, I tried to repeat the experience, I wanted to return to that place. I hadn't understood that there is no “returning” to what never went away. The more I sought it, the further I moved away. The search is the restlessness of the ego. Presence, when perceived, does not respond to this command.

Later on, I began to recognize a pattern. It did not come as an answer, a result, or a reward. It appeared when the structure of the “I” failed in the face of fear, exhaustion, an extreme situation, a real surrender. It was not expansion, it was dissolution, and along with it, a raw, sharp, impersonal, and precise lucidity.

It is not about being connected to the whole because there is no separation. The idea of a self here and something greater out there is just an idea, an inference. What exists is a continuous functioning of which we are a part, but which does not begin in us nor end in us. Life does not happen “for” us. Life lives through us.

Somehow, we know this, we recognize it immediately when distractions cease. It is not a memory, it is not a concept, it is not a belief. It is closer than our own body. Quieter than thought. A stable, immovable, intact background, even when everything around it moves. Imagine the bottom of the sea, which is not shaken by the current on the surface. Or the rock in the middle of the river, motionless, even when all the force of the water passes over it.

This presence does not need to be cultivated, nor does it need to be explained. It already is. What covers it is not ignorance, but the constant noise of identity, of the “I” we think we are, trying to assert itself all the time. We are not separate from the whole, but we are also not connected. We are temporary expressions of something that has no form or time. What changes is attention. When it shifts from the character to that which sustains everything, recognition happens quickly, rawly, and unquestionably.

It is quite common to confuse this with altered states or “mystical” experiences. Many people seek shortcuts, gurus, substances, practices, techniques. Some tools open space, others distort. Recreational drugs increase noise, giving a false sense of expanded consciousness. It is not. It is alteration. Earth medicines and power plants can open gaps, but what really breaks the structure is not the substance, it is the collapse of control. It is when the self loses control and something deeper takes over, not as an agent, but as the basis of everything.

Consciousness is not a state to be sought or achieved. Consciousness, with a capital C, is everything. It embraces everything. Including the feeling you get when reading these words. From somewhere, where, in theory, your attention resides.

The word “conscious” can also refer to the simple fact of being awake, attentive. But I am not talking about that state here. I am talking about a Presence that is perceived in the surroundings. That is heard, that is felt on the skin, outside and inside. A place that is not accommodated behind the eyes or between the ears, as we imagine when thinking and directing our lives. Consciousness already IS.

Consciousness is not a special experience. It is what makes all experiences possible. It is what remains when the effort ceases and when the “I” that wants to understand, feel, evolve, disappears. What remains is not emptiness. It is what has always been here: motionless, silent, nameless. The bottom of the sea, the rock in the river. The point is simple, but uncomfortable: as long as the “I” is in charge, trying to understand, control, or lead, that other place remains inaccessible. But it is not because it is far away, but because the movement of seeking is already an obstacle.

Being present, wholly, without defense, without narrative, without expectation, is perhaps the only real gesture. And perhaps it is not even a gesture, but simply a withdrawal from excess, an emptying of effort. A cut in the flow of the self.

When the “you” ceases to occupy the center, what emerges is not a grandiose vision. It is the obvious that has always been here, but that the ego does not allow us to see.

“Yeah, well, you know, that's just, like, your opinion, man.”

―Jeff Lebowski (The Dude)

I wake up again with a heavy feeling in my chest. I'm not sure what time it is or where I am. It's like that when I wake up abruptly, as if a dream had turned into a nightmare in the blink of an eye. I grope around, looking for the time on my cell phone: 3am.

I lay my head back on the pillow and fragments of the dream begin to pop up, like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that is never complete. Once again I find myself barefoot, vulnerable, walking through unknown terrain, aimless and unprotected. Scenes that have been repeated over the last few months, as if my mind were trying to tell me something that I still can't decipher. But I don't look for interpretations and I don't try to decode the symbols. I've never given much thought to dreams anyway and I'm not going to start today.

As the involuntary protagonist of these dreams, I dive in and live the scenes without realising that I'm suspended in another dimension. During the dream, the illusion is just as real as the reality I'm experiencing now. Waking up brings relief, but also a peculiar unease: where does the dream end and reality begin? In the first few moments after opening my eyes, everything seems to be part of a single experience. There's no clear distinction between what was a dream and what was waking up. Gradually, the scenery around me reveals itself: the room, the bed, the silence of the early morning. And then I localise myself, as if I were once again inhabiting a body that had been forgotten.

But then I start another dream - that of waking Consciousness. In it, and because of my confused and ethereal awakening, I clearly realise that there is no separation between me and my surroundings. The external world and the internal world are not two, but one. I sail peacefully in this expansive Presence that embraces everything, that permeates every atom, every thought, every breath. In this state, the pressure for results at work or the search for a ‘better’ version of myself dissolve, they are what they always were, illusions. There is no finish line to cross, because I am already the fullest expression of myself. There's nothing to look for outside that isn't already part of me. This realisation brings lightness, even when I know I need to play the social game in this sleeping world. And we all do.

I work, I relate, I fulfil obligations, but without falling into the illusion of separation and independence. I know deep down that everything is interconnected, that every action, every word, every thought reverberates throughout the whole. This awareness doesn't exempt me from participating in the world, from its joys and tragedies, inducing me to feel nihilistic towards life; on the contrary, it allows me to live with a new perspective. No longer as an isolated, independent individual struggling for survival or recognition, but as a unique expression of a single Consciousness that manifests itself in the unique experiences of more than 8 billion forms.

The heaviness in my chest that I feel when I wake up is then transformed. It doesn't disappear, but is integrated into a broader understanding. It is no longer a nuisance, but a subtle reminder of the impermanence and fluidity of all things. And so, even in the densest and most tense hours, I focus my attention on non-duality, knowing that, in the end, everything is part of the same Awakened Presence that I caught a glimpse of a few years ago. And I've never stopped pointing it out every chance I get. The dream and the waking, the self and the other, the inside and the outside - everything is part of the same Consciousness, which had no beginning and will have no end. In this understanding, I find a peace that I've been searching for since my childhood and adolescence. But almost 50 years have passed to be here, now, present and aware.

The realisation of non-duality brings a profound and subtle transformation to my interpersonal relationships, as if a veil that once separated people is lifted, revealing a more essential and true connection. However, this change generally doesn't occur abruptly or dramatically, but rather as a gradual understanding, which gradually creeps into each interaction with my surroundings.

Before, my relationships were marked by a sense of distance, as if the other person and I were isolated islands, separated by an ocean of misunderstood differences and mutual expectations. I always felt a constant search for validation, for recognition, for love. Every encounter was, to a certain extent, an attempt to fill a void that I believed existed within me: ‘Maybe it's now, with this person, or in this situation?’

But with the realisation of non-duality, this emptiness revealed itself as an illusion. It's not there, because there was never any separation. The other is not someone distant from me, but an extension of the same Consciousness that dwells in me and in everything that exists. It's like opening a door that leads inwards.

This doesn't mean that my relationships will become perfect or conflict-free. On the contrary, challenges continue to arise, as we are all immersed in a world of apparent dualities, where differences and misunderstandings are inevitable, especially in times of polarization such as we are experiencing.

The difference lies in the way these challenges are perceived and faced. I no longer see the other person as an opponent, someone who is against me, a competitor (so common in corporate relationships), but as a mirror that reflects aspects of myself that still need to be understood and integrated. Each conflict becomes an opportunity for self-knowledge and the expansion of consciousness.

Empathy, previously limited by mental and emotional barriers, by my history, beliefs and values, flows more naturally and spontaneously. When I realise that the other person is myself in another form, compassion arises effortlessly. Without rigid judgements or unrealistic expectations. Each person is seen in their entirety, with their lights and shadows, and this allows for a deeper and more genuine acceptance. Not that I ignore hostile or harmful behaviour, or become passive in the face of attitudes that cause harm, whatever it may be, but the way I deal with it becomes more sensitive and less reactive. Very different from how I've always acted (sometimes I still do, but less often when I direct my attention to my heart and try to see the world from there, a gesture I learnt from some of the Dzogchen sages).

My relationships have also become lighter, less loaded with need and dependency. When I realise that nothing is missing in me, that I am already complete in my essence, I stop looking to others for what I believe I don't have.

However, this new perspective also brings challenges. Taking part in the social game in a world that still operates under the illusion of separation can be challenging. I often find myself in situations where conventional expectations of relationships conflict with my deeper understanding. How do I act when the other person is still trapped in patterns of dependency, control or manipulation? How do I maintain authenticity without hurting or alienating those who are still searching for their true nature? These are questions that keep coming up, and the answers are not always clear.

What I have learnt, however, is that non-duality is not an excuse for isolation or indifference. On the contrary, it invites me to be whole, to be fully present in every relationship, to engage with the world in a loving and compassionate way, without losing sight of the deeper truth that unites us.

Inner Frontier" is a transformative journey that invites leaders, entrepreneurs, professionals and the curious to explore the depths of human consciousness and discover the unity that permeates all experiences. Readers are guided along a path of self-discovery, where the separation between the self and the world dissolves, revealing the essence of non-duality.

It's as if we were watching a river from the bank. This is how we imagine life flowing past us with all its events, people, objects and consequences. We keep ourselves separated by a mistaken notion that we are the subject and everything around us are mere objects (some people also include people in this).

This margin represents our identification with the ego, an apparently safe and controlled position. From there, we name and judge what we see: ‘this is good’, ‘that is bad’, ‘I like that’, ‘that upsets me’. We create a false sense of control, as if we could manage the flow of the river from its banks.

But the river is not something separate from us. The flowing waters are our own consciousness, carrying all the phenomena of existence. Thoughts are like floating leaves, emotions are the ripples on the surface, experiences are the different volumes and speeds of the current.

When there is the fundamental insight, we realise that we were never really on the bank. We are the river itself, on our way to the sea - the water, the movement, the deep currents and the shimmering surface, in the form of a whirlpool, which lasts as long as it lasts and then dissolves. There is no observer separate from the observed. What we call ‘I’ is simply the conscious flow of all experiences.

The margin is just a mental concept, an illusion of separation. When we ‘dive’ back into the river, we recognise our true nature: we are the flow of consciousness itself. There's no one experiencing it - there's just the experience happening in itself, like the river that simply flows without the need for a streamer.

This metaphor also shows us why it's so difficult to maintain this understanding: our conditioning constantly pulls us back to the illusion of the shore, to the false security of separation. But once we recognise our true nature as the river, even if we sometimes momentarily return to the shore, we know that it is only a limited perspective of who we truly are.

The river has no beginning and no end, no inside and no outside - just like the consciousness that we are. Everything that arises - thoughts, sensations, emotions, perceptions - are just different expressions of the same continuous and indivisible flow of existence.

When I understand that the river is me, with everything that happens to me, I realise that I'm not just an observer - I'm an inseparable part of the experience. I am THE experience itself.

My first glimpse of this reality (perhaps my second) brought an overwhelming sensation: my physical body dissolved while perception expanded infinitely into a vast white space. In an instant, I felt my point of view shift from perceiving this phenomenon to observing it from within itself, until I finally realised a fusion into a kind of absolute unity. A single thing. Over time, it has been more natural to return to this state, when I let go of the limited viewpoint of the mind and ego to flow into this all-encompassing gaze. Sensory experiences - seeing, hearing, smelling, tasting, touching - converge into a single integrated perception, as does a shift from the rational mind to something more sensory, intuitive. Words limit the description of this concept, but in a way, the state of flow, when experienced, is exactly that.

The gravity of the ordinary mind constantly pulls us back, but when I recognise this, I leave the shore and dive back into the river of consciousness, where there is no separate ‘who’ experiencing the sensations. What exists is just the experiencing itself: looking, hearing, smelling, tasting and touching happening simultaneously, as in the Titãs song - ‘all at the same time now’.

A deep sense of familiarity emerges when the point of view shifts to the gaze of awakened Consciousness. The first time was extraordinary - I clearly felt an emotion of ‘coming home’, a relief that is very difficult to explain and which remained even (and especially) in the face of challenging or threatening situations, whether physical or social. It was a glimpse, fleeting, but I felt it was there.

This account viscerally expresses my experience from the glimpse of what I understand to be our real identity. The initial impact of the simplicity and obviousness of this ‘understanding’ made me realise why the greatest secrets are hidden in plain sight.

Perhaps that's why this fundamental reality is so neglected - because of its very simplicity. The spiritual ‘supermarket’ thrives full of sellers and buyers, endlessly negotiating in search of something outside of themselves. Something that, ironically, has no path, no trick and no recipe to be won, because it has always been free and accessible. It has always been here.

This very accessibility, ironically, means that this ‘something’ is disregarded and even despised by some of us (although there is no real ‘other’, but dual language is inevitable) who are numbed by our individual programming and conditioning, stemming from our upbringing over time, with the ego always eager to prove an illusory superiority, which has a name: Spiritual materialism.

Inner Frontier" is a transformative journey that invites leaders, entrepreneurs, professionals and the curious to explore the depths of human consciousness and discover the unity that permeates all experiences. Readers are guided along a path of self-discovery, where the separation between the self and the world dissolves, revealing the essence of non-duality.

In these days between contemplation and work - the beginning of the year takes a while to get going - I found myself thinking about what a few moments of pure idleness mean, or on the contrary, pure flow. I used to be guiltier about this, but today I realise that it's just one of the ways in which we are conditioned to continue playing the game we call ‘society’.

Time, this fascinating construct that we've been trying to understand since our first ancestors appeared, manifests itself in different ways in different cultures. The ancient Greeks distinguished between chronos - linear, measurable time - and kairos - the opportune moment, the qualitative time of divine opportunity. In Asian countries such as China and Japan, where traditional writing flows in vertical columns from right to left, time is naturally visualised in that direction.

In the West, following the Greco-Roman pattern that influenced Latin writing, the flow of time is conceived from left to right. This difference is not just aesthetic - it deeply reflects how each culture processes and records its history, calendars and literature.

Curiously, some people, including myself, mentally visualise time flowing from right to left, even though we live in cultures where the convention is the opposite. This phenomenon, studied by cognitive psychologists, suggests that our perception of time may have deeper roots than our cultural upbringing. Are these remnants of other experiences, other times and places that inhabit my unconscious? Carl Jung, with his theory of the collective unconscious, suggests so.

The truth is that time is deeply subjective. Einstein revolutionised physics by demonstrating mathematically that time is not absolute, but relative to the observer. When we refer to the past or imagine the future, we always do so in the present. The past exists only as a memory - neurons firing in specific patterns in our brains - and the future as an imagined possibility, neural projections based on past experiences. Both are mere fantasies, since we know that even memories are unreliable. What we actually have is a succession of ‘nows’, micro-moments, which intertwine to form what we call experience. These micro-moments have been researched in what is known as the ‘Planck Time (here).

This experience takes place within a single, absolute Consciousness, a concept present in various ancient philosophical traditions. In Advaita Vedanta, one of the six classical schools of Indian philosophy dating from around 788-820 AD, this idea is central. According to this perspective, we are all manifestations of this same Consciousness, participating in a collective dream.

Our bodies and minds are like temporary ‘spacesuits’, instruments through which Consciousness observes itself, creating experiences to enjoy earthly materiality.

Following this line of thought, birth and death are only transformations of the ‘spacesuit’, not of the conscious essence that we are. In the Hindu tradition, this concept is expressed through Atman (the individual self) which eventually merges with Brahman (the universal consciousness) to continue the cosmic dream. This concept finds interesting parallels in modern quantum physics, especially in the theory of non-locality (of Consciousness) and quantum entanglement, where particles separated by great distances maintain an instantaneous connection inexplicable by the standards of classical physics.

Many spiritual traditions, from Tibetan Buddhism with its teachings on Bardo (intermediate states of consciousness) to Sufi mystics, use the metaphor of the dream within the dream. The Chinese philosopher Zhuangzi (369-286 BC) already questioned whether he was a man dreaming of being a butterfly or a butterfly dreaming of being a man. When we dream at night and remember the dream when we wake up, we realise that that experience, although ethereal and fleeting, seemed as real as our everyday reality.

Non-dual philosophy, present both in the East and in Western thinkers such as Plotinus (204-270 AD) - who was based on the idea that there is a unique, indivisible and transcendent ‘One’ that is prior to all existence - and in modern thinkers such as Francis Lucille, Rupert Spira, Stephen Bodian or the late Alan Watts, Douglas Harding, Jean Klein, Peter Brown, among others, goes further, suggesting that our ‘waking’ reality is also a dream - the dream of universal Consciousness.

Just as in a nocturnal dream where everything seems real until we wake up, we live in a bigger, more elaborate, denser dream. The only difference is that we haven't fully awoken from this bigger dream. Modern neuroscientists have discovered that brain patterns during REM dreaming are remarkably similar to waking patterns, giving some scientific ‘support’ to this old metaphor. We continue to dream the dream of Consciousness, experiencing materiality through these temporary bodies, on this universal stage we call Earth.

These perspectives have always intrigued me and for some time now I've been wondering: is our perception of time just another layer of this cosmic dream? A necessary construction so that we can tactilely and physically live a material experience, but not necessarily an absolute truth?

While chronos represents the quantitative time that we measure with clocks and calendars, kairos would symbolise those significant moments that seem to go far beyond our common notion of time - the moments of insight, the mystical experiences, the moments of deep spiritual realisation, the connection with Consciousness, with Presence.

It is precisely these ‘kairological’ moments that make it possible to glimpse the deeper nature of reality, suggesting that our conventional understanding of time and our own identity may be just the tip of a much deeper and more mysterious iceberg.

In my talks, I share perspectives that may sound controversial to some, but which find support in various fields of human knowledge. When I use information, studies and scientific and neurological discoveries, I do so not to validate absolute truths, but to create bridges with those who need rational anchors to consider possibilities beyond the known.

I always talk about the power of the imagination and invite people to use our ‘sixth sense’ to visualise the moment we arrive in the world: a completely new being, a blank canvas, absorbing everything around it with a raw intensity, without filters, without labels, without a name to call its own. It's as if it were just a living, pulsating consciousness, breathing in the here and now. Nothing is separate, nothing is judged. Everything simply is. This state of pure presence is almost like the ocean before you know it has waves.

But inevitably, the waves come.

Around the age of two, or a little more, something changes irreversibly. You begin to realise that you exist as something distinct, different from your surroundings. It's the ‘I’ being born, the ego taking shape. You learn that you have a name, a history, a body that belongs to you. Suddenly, the fluidity of that ocean is interrupted, and you begin to identify with the waves, as if the world around you is gently, but insistently, almost mechanically, labelling you: ‘This is you. This is not you.’ Language, that incredible tool we use to connect, here also begins to separate us. Good and bad. Right and wrong. Me and the other.

This ‘I’, which we call ego, is not a villain as some spiritual or self-help ‘gurus’ want to convince us. It is born as a protective mechanism, a compass that tries to navigate life. But over time, what is initially useful becomes a cage. You start to believe that you are just that: a body, a mind, a story, your story. The ego protects you, but it also imprisons you. That inner voice, that dialogue we all have with ourselves, whispering fears of loss, comparisons, inadequacies, creates conflicts that seem impossible to resolve and, perhaps most cruelly of all, convinces us that we are alone.

What if it had been different from the start? What if we were taught that the ego is just a tool, a kind of costume we wear to live in the world, but that deep down it's not who we really are? What if we were shown that, behind the divisions, there is an unalterable unity? An essence that hasn't been touched by words or stories? It would be like living without forgetting that we are the ocean, even when the waves are rough.

This kind of realisation sometimes comes like a flash of lightning, a sudden glimpse that tears away that imperceptible veil of separation. At other times, it's a slow process, like someone peeling away the layers of an onion, one by one. The point here is not to learn more, but to unlearn. It's letting go. Letting go of what we've been told we should be, so that we can remember who we've always been.

Practices such as mindfulness and meditation have been like lanterns on this path. They don't magically eliminate thoughts or problems, but they offer something more precious: a new way of looking at them. Suddenly, you realise that your thoughts are just that, thoughts. They're not absolute truths, they're not orders you have to follow. They come, they stay for a while and they go, like clouds in the sky. Just like emotions.

And a curious thing happens when we start just observing instead of reacting: our relationship with others changes. It's as if we can see beyond the masks we all wear. We realise that each person is doing the best they can, just like the rest of us, fighting our own internal battles. This brings unexpected compassion. Not that condescending compassion, but one born from a deep place that recognises the other as a reflection of oneself.

And time? Ah, time. Before, it seemed like a tyrant, always pulling us back to the past, usually ruminating or mulling over regrets or pushing us into the future, in a time shift that steals almost half of our lives (see here). But little by little, we discover that the only real, tangible and concrete place, at least for our senses, is now. Not the now as a beautiful concept that you read about in books or listen to in the abundant videos and podcasts available in the spiritual supermarket, but the now as a visceral experience.

Of course, the journey isn't linear. There are days when we feel more aware, more free. And others when it seems that nothing has changed, when the old patterns come back like insistent ghosts, like the force of gravity that brings us back to the world of the mind, of the ego. But even in this there is beauty. Because every time you realise your unconsciousness, you're already one step closer to freedom, by returning to that place of silence, of self-observation.

It's like waking up from a dream inside another dream, until one day, perhaps, you'll be fully awake. Or you'll realise everything that was already there and that we didn't see because of the chained thoughts that kidnap us and the stories we tell ourselves all the time.

There is no ‘end’ to this journey. There is no place where we finally arrive and say: ‘There, now I've understood everything.’

What exists is the process, the journey. Every second is an invitation to be present, to explore the mystery of existence with renewed curiosity. Sometimes this means meditating in silence. At other times, it means laughing with friends, dancing for no reason or simply sitting in the garden and contemplating that flower that wasn't there yesterday.

We are already where we need to be: here, now, in this very moment.

The journey of understanding our real identity isn't really about becoming someone new, it's about remembering who we've always been. And in remembering, we find something deeply liberating:

We have always been the ocean.

The waves, after all, were just a dance, a temporary manifestation of Awakened Consciousness, of Presence.

I'm sitting here, on this January afternoon in 2025, and my mind goes back in time to a memory that seems as clear as if it were yesterday.

It's an autumn afternoon in the late 1990s, and I suddenly find myself back on that farm, a place that seemed to exist outside of ordinary time, a refuge from the world outside, where I was staying.

The smell in the air is a mixture of the coffee crop spread out on the patio to dry and, ironically, wet earth, remnants of the previous night's rain. I'm lying on my back on the grass, propped up on my elbows, looking at everything around me. The texture of the grass under my hands, the moisture that still remains in it, all this brings me a feeling of connection with the earth that I haven't experienced for a long time, I've always lived in the city and in flats...

Not far away, I hear laughter, mixed with the gentle sound of the wind, which was constant that day. The joy of the farm children is contagious, and for a moment, all worries seem to dissipate. I look at them, playing, running free around a century-old fig tree, with an energy that only parents know is inexhaustible, but still in perfect harmony with the nature around us. Children, for a long time, just observe and absorb what the world presents, without judgement. Our problems begin later, when we find ourselves separated from the whole, competing for a finish line that doesn't exist.

The autumn sun covers everything with a golden light, my favourite to photograph, creating a play of shadows on the ground between the leaves of the trees. The shadows dance with the breeze, creating mesmerising patterns like a kaleidoscope and capturing my attention.

As I write this scene, I think of ‘Perfect Days’, a recent film by Wim Wenders, where the protagonist loves to observe komorebi, a Japanese word that defines the way light and shadow filter through the leaves of trees.

A gentle breeze touches my skin while the sun warms me gently, without exaggeration. It felt like someone had prepared this perfect moment just for me.

In front of me, a forest with huge trees that seem to be watching me silently, just like the passage of time. No hurry. The ‘standing people’ as the North American natives define these impressive beings. Their sturdy trunks and branches reaching for the sky make me seem small, but somehow part of something much bigger. I feel integrated into all this life around me, as if nature and I were in the same rhythm, a rhythm completely dissociated from the hands of the clock - I still use analogue - and the commitments of life.

The leaves of the trees move with the wind, producing a characteristic sound that relaxes me, while a squirrel runs along a branch, stops for a moment, looks at me with a certain air of curiosity and continues its journey. All this reminds me of the simplicity and beauty of life that we often ignore because of our daily rush, in the now assimilated ‘hurry’; a word that causes me some discomfort, especially since I decided to move away from the big centres a few years ago...

But inside, things aren't so calm. My relationship with my now ex-wife, who is also on this trip, is not going well at all. I feel torn between countless doubts and a growing desire to change, very different from the peace I see around me. It's a striking contrast - the external serenity and the internal turbulence. Unresolved issues between us, as tangible as the clouds hovering just above me. In the immense blue sky, these clouds pass by slowly, changing shape as if they were actors changing costumes on stage. As I look at them, I have a profound realisation, something that only later, many years later, I will understand as one of the most important moments of my life.

The clouds become a living metaphor for the thoughts and emotions that pass through my mind - ephemeral, constantly changing, but always against the unchanging backdrop of that blue autumn sky.

In that instant, I feel deeply connected to everything around me. I no longer see myself as separate, but as part of this forest - I'm the tree, the bush, the blade of grass and even the woodpecker tapping on the trunk of a nearby tree. It's a strange yet familiar sensation, as if I'm remembering something I always knew but had forgotten.

This feeling of togetherness, however brief, marks the beginning of my journey to better understand reality. It's my first step out of the illusion that we are separate from everything, showing how all things are connected. It's as if a curtain has been lightly and briefly lifted to reveal a deeper and more interconnected reality that I had never imagined, a glimpse of something very significant.

At that moment, I feel as if the whole universe is breathing with me, in a single movement of which I am a part. Every inhale and exhale seems synchronised with the movement of the leaves on the trees, with the flight of the birds, with the flow of the stream I hear from afar. It's a feeling of belonging so profound that it almost takes my breath away.

Even though it was brief, very brief indeed, a fraction of a second, this experience continues to illuminate my path, always reminding me of the beauty of being truly present and connected. In the years that followed, in moments of anguish or loneliness, I would return to that memory as a beacon, a reminder of the fundamental unity that exists behind all apparent separation.

Nowadays, when I talk about Consciousness* in lectures, many of them even to the organisational, leadership and results world, I use the image of clouds and the sky to explain non-duality. The clouds that pass quickly and change shape become a symbol of the thoughts that appear and disappear in the vast and definitive sky of Consciousness, which observes everything calmly, without judgement. This metaphor, born of that moment on the farm, becomes a powerful tool to help others understand this deep (?) truth.

As I explore this idea more over the years, I begin to see how it applies to all aspects of life. The ups and downs of emotions, successes and failures, joys and sorrows - especially fleeting and inconsistent thoughts - all these are like clouds passing through the unchanging sky of consciousness. This realisation brings a deep peace, a silence, an acceptance of the flow of life that previously seemed impossible to me.

Now, sitting here in 2025, writing this text, I realise that that autumn afternoon was much more than a simple escape from routine. It was a doorway to a deeper understanding, a glimpse of a truth that continues to shape how I see the world and myself. Although I couldn't have imagined it at the time, that experience of unity planted a seed that would grow and bear fruit in the years that followed. It led me to explore meditative practices, to study Eastern and Western philosophies and to constantly seek a deeper understanding of the nature of reality and Consciousness.

This search wasn't always easy. There were moments of doubt, periods when the illusion of separation seemed more real than ever (this still happens, but less often).

My relationship eventually came to an end, bringing its own dose of pain and questioning. But even in the most difficult times, that memory of the farm remained a silent reminder of a deeper truth.

As I deepened my studies and practices over the years, I began to understand that that moment of clarity on the farm was not something to be sought or recreated, but rather a glimpse of the reality that is always there, waiting to be recognised. I learnt that the practice wasn't about seeking and achieving higher states of Consciousness, but about removing the veils and layers (usually linked to the ego and constant thoughts) that prevent us from seeing what is already there.

Inner Frontier" is a transformative journey that invites curious leaders, entrepreneurs and professionals to explore the depths of human consciousness and discover the unity that permeates all experiences. Readers are guided along a path of self-discovery, where the separation between the self and the world dissolves, revealing the essence of non-duality.

Compartilhar

In these first days of the new year, I'm officially starting the challenge I've set myself, to create some essays as the basis for a book and also as a guide for my talks and workshops on the state of flow and Consciousness.

This material will be published here as it is created, so without a set regularity and interspersed with my other articles and videos that also feed my podcast. As a curiosity, all the initial writings come from a typewriter, an analog instrument that guarantees the reduction of distractions, the construction and maintenance of focus and the very present possibility of activating the state of flow, resulting in writing that is more intuitive than mentalized. The subsequent editing and proofreading is done digitally.

INTRODUCTION

The feeling of relief was indescribable, mixed with a deep perplexity that filled the whole room. ‘Damn, that explains everything,’ I mutter into the silence of the small office - actually a wardrobe adapted to be my personal refuge. Or at least it explains a large part of what I've been trying to understand since the end of my childhood.

What now? The question echoes as I circle restlessly around the stool, alone with this revelation. No-one at home. No-one to share it with. But who could really understand?

What had happened transcends words. It hadn't exactly been a vision, but a glimpse - a glimpse as brief as it was eternal, something that etched itself into my consciousness with a clarity that defies the ephemeral nature of memory itself.

It was like looking at my own reflection in a shop window and simultaneously seeing through it - but the reflection wasn't just an image, it was the very nature of consciousness revealing itself.

I laugh softly as I realise the naked, pure simplicity of that experience. The instructions on my headset echoed:

‘Drop everything before entering. Your history, your name, your age, your knowledge, your profession, your relationships, your parenthood, your plans, your imagined future. Empty yourself completely. Leave everything behind.

Come in.

What's left? Who is watching? What is perceived when you enter this space without identification, without the weight of a story or a character? What or who perceives? What remains when your mind isn't trying to understand or solve something?’

And then it happened: the perspective changed radically. No longer limited to the bodily senses, consciousness expanded as if observing everything from an impossible point, simultaneously inside and outside, above and everywhere. The physical body dissolved into an infinite vastness bathed in a soft light.

There was no longer a separate observer - only a conscious presence that embraced everything in a complete, total vision. Separation proved to be illusory: there was no longer an ‘I’ observing ‘something’, just the self-aware totality.

I realised a truth as obvious as it was profound: there is no boundary, no frontier between the observer and the observed. There never was.

They are one and the same.

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Inner Frontier" is a transformative journey that invites curious leaders, entrepreneurs and professionals to explore the depths of human consciousness and discover the unity that permeates all experiences. Readers are guided along a path of self-discovery, where the separation between the self and the world dissolves, revealing the essence of non-duality.

Since the dawn of humanity, philosophers, sages and thinkers have tried to decipher the nature of human existence and the universe around us.

Among the many theories and conjectures, one fascinating idea emerges: the hypothesis that we are constantly immersed in a state of flow, interconnected to the cosmos in ways that transcend our conventional understanding.

This hypothesis challenges the common notion that we are separate beings, limited to our mind and body, and proposes that restlessness and intermittent thoughts are merely veils that obscure our true nature.

The Flow State: A Constant Journey

To understand this hypothesis that I'm presenting here for the first time (those of you who follow me know that the state of flow has been my main topic in texts, courses, workshops and experiences for some years now), it's crucial to understand the concept of "flow".

Studied and made better known in the 1970s by Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi (PhD in Psychology, University of Chicago), #flow is a mental state in which a person is totally immersed in an activity, losing track of time and space, and experiencing deep involvement and satisfaction.

Traditionally, flow has been associated with moments of intense concentration and focus, such as during the practice of a sport or hobby, an engaging read, the execution of a creative task or the challenge of solving a complex problem (read my article "Flow is good business", here).

It can even occur in repetitive activities, as Professor Csikszentmihalyi (pronounced: tik cent mirrai) details in his book released in Brazil at the end of 2020 (see here).

However, the bold hypothesis we propose goes beyond this conventional conception of flow. Instead of considering the state of fluidity as a transitory and occasional state, glimpses of which are made possible by some activation practices, we suggest that it is the fundamental condition of human existence.

From the moment we are born until our last exhale, we are immersed in a constant flow of experiences, thoughts and sensations. Every moment of our life is a continuous dance between the individual self (the false 'I') and the infinite universe - see the Flow & Non-duality series of videos and articles here and here).

The Illusion of Separation: Limitations of Body and Mind

What prevents us from realizing this intrinsic connection with the universal flow? We argue that it is the illusion of separation - the deep-rooted belief that we are isolated beings, distinct from the world around us. This illusion manifests itself in various ways, from over-identification with the ego to a limited perception of time and space.

Our mind and body, although essential vehicles for our experience on this earthly plane, can also be sources of limitation. The mind, with its repetitive and self-limiting thought patterns, often keeps us trapped in a cage of worries, anxieties and suffering. The body, subject to the adversities of illness, pain and decay and finitude, can delude us into believing that we are fragile and transitory.

However, we suggest that these limitations are only superficial. Below the surface, we are beings of energy, interconnected in a vast cosmic fabric, through a single consciousness, which gives life to the body and mind apparatus we use to be able to live this experience in which we have been involved since birth.

The Intermittent Nature of Thoughts: The Veil of Restlessness

If we are constantly immersed in a state of flow, why then do we often feel disconnected and distracted?

We argue that the intermittence of thoughts is one of the main obstacles to realizing our inherent connection with the whole. Our minds are often agitated, jumping from one thought to another, like restless monkeys jumping from branch to branch.

As someone once said, we can't stop the flow of the waves, but we can learn to surf, that is, we can create space between one thought and another by observing them. It is this space that we are looking for when we talk about what remains, what stays, what is perceived when the mind stops working, thinking, anticipating, solving, etc.

This is the one, or the thing, that perceives, that is aware.

This mental restlessness creates a veil that obscures our perception of the reality of our nature. Instead of experiencing the present moment in its fullness, we get stuck in a maze of past and future worries, in a time shift that robs us of attention for an average of 47 to 60% of our time - every day (see more about this research here).

Instead of feeling like an integral part of the universe, we feel isolated and alienated, ruminating on the past or suffering for a future that hasn't arrived yet - and will certainly be different from what we imagine...

However, the idea that we can transcend this restlessness through the practice of self-inquiry and deep contemplation is thought-provoking. By cultivating the ability to quieten the mind and attune our consciousness to the constant flow of life, we can begin to glimpse the true nature of our existence, to take an interest in who is aware of our experience, who or what has been watching all along, what our body/mind "apparatus" is doing, thinking, feeling.

The Connection with the Whole: Beyond the Limits of Mind and Body

Once we recognize the illusion of separation and overcome the restlessness of thoughts, we can begin to experience the deep connection we share with the whole. We are not just isolated individuals wandering in this world; we are unique expressions of a cosmic and awakened consciousness in constant evolution, manifestations of that consciousness, like waves that are born, break on the beach and return to the ocean, or an everlasting firmament that observes the passage of clouds (thoughts, emotions, experiences).

This connection manifests itself in many ways, from the feeling of oneness with nature to compassionate empathy for other sentient beings and for those who are still searching for this external and internal observer, but still living on autopilot.

Implications for Everyday Life: Living in Harmony with the Universal Flow

If we accept the hypothesis that we are constantly immersed in a state of continuous, infinite flow, this has profound implications for the way we live our lives. Instead of fighting against the current of existence, we can learn to flow with it, embracing impermanence and change as inevitable aspects of life.

This means abandoning the need for control and security, and embracing the uncertainty and adventure that life has to offer. It means living with an open heart and a receptive mind, ready to receive the blessings and challenges that each moment brings. Doing what you know and what you set out to do, but without forcing a desired result to emerge.

Let whatever has to happen be what was necessary.

This is one of the most interesting concepts of the Chinese Tao, Wu Wei (see more here and here).

Moreover, this attitude means cultivating a deep gratitude for the wonder of existence and a profound reverence for the interconnectedness of all things.

Every encounter, every experience, every breath is an opportunity to dive deeper into the mystery of life.

In our busy day-to-day lives, it's easy to forget our true nature and get lost in the labyrinths of the mind and ego and that there is an 'I' separate from everything else.

However, by embracing the bold hypothesis that we are constantly immersed in a state of infinite flow, we can begin to awaken to the wider reality of our existence.

What or who is aware of your life? Aware of experiences, thoughts and emotions?

The answer to this question is the aim of much of my work.

About the newsletter

"Psychonaut" is a word based on Greek roots that translates into "explorer of the mind". It's a mixture of "psycho", a prefix used to describe mental processes or practices such as psychology, and terms like argonaut and astronaut, whose "voyages and explorations of the seas and space" evoke a high or spiritual transcendence. The idea is to provoke, reflect and act on themes of the mind and spirit on a monthly basis.

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In the quest for authentic and effective leadership in modern organizations, exploring concepts such as the #flowstate, #nonduality and awakened consciousness can offer a unique and transformative perspective.

In this issue of THE PSYCHONAUT, I want to delve into the synergy of these concepts, examining how a deep understanding of these approaches can awaken, inform and shape conscious leadership.

By recognizing the intimate relationship between flow, non-duality and conscious leadership, we have the opportunity to explore new ways of working, break away from harmful 'command and control' and create healthier organizations.

The Flow State and the Nature of Consciousness

Flow, popularized by psychologist PhD. Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi, is characterized by a deep involvement in an activity, where time seems to disappear and fulfillment reaches its peak. There are countless methods and practices for accessing this desired and long-cherished state.

Right here at ProjetoFlow, we have some programs dedicated to activating flow, especially TFT (The Flow Training) immersion and mentoring.

Recently, I made a provocation here on LinkedIn and on other channels and I notice that this provocation continues to recur with increasing frequency:

Consciousness, that pulsating energy that defines us, is inherently fluid. Every breath, every heartbeat, every digestion, every thought, is a unique expression of this consciousness in constant movement.

Uncovering Non-duality in the Flow Experience

Non-duality, which challenges the separation between subject and object, observer and observed, emerges as a vital link in understanding the flow experience. By recognizing that we are essentially the consciousness that observes, we abandon the idea of separation (one of the 6 illusions of the human being, as well defined by the author Katrijn van Oudheusden see here).

Each individual, in their state of flow, becomes a unique point of view of this unified

consciousness.

Non-duality invites us to abandon the illusion of separation and embrace the realization that the true essence of the flow state is what we have always been.

Instead of practicing and seeking to activate flow, we can understand that we are always navigating the currents of the present moment, the only possible reality.

In fact, when we are displaced in time (ruminating on the past or anxious about the future), we are doing so in the present, in the here, now. There is no other time.

This change in perspective leads us to question how we can integrate these principles into the sphere of leadership in organizations.

We often associate access to the state of flow with specific practices, such as meditation, exercise or time and energy management techniques. However, what would happen if we considered that these practices are just reminders, anchor points that help us reconnect with something that is already intrinsically present?

Instead of seeing these practices as means to achieve a desired state, we can understand them as portals to reconnect with the consciousness that already permeates our existence.

This has profound implications for leadership, as it suggests that authenticity and genuine connection with the team can be more powerful than any technique or method.

Connecting Non-duality to Conscious Leadership

By considering non-duality in leadership, we break away from the conventional idea of rigid hierarchy and take on a more holistic perspective. Each team member is a unique expression of the collective consciousness, making a valuable contribution to the whole.

Conscious leadership, inspired by non-duality, recognizes that true strength lies in collaboration and in understanding unexplained or even veiled unity.

Realizing non-duality in leadership also implies breaking with the traditional polarity between individual and collective success. Instead of focusing only on tangible results, conscious leadership seeks a balance between organizational goals and individual well-being. This not only strengthens the cultural fabric of the organization, but also increases the resilience and satisfaction of team members, something that has been widely discussed but is rarely applied.

Authenticity as a Fundamental Pillar

Non-duality in leadership highlights the importance of authenticity. By understanding that each individual is a unique expression of the awakened consciousness of the whole, conscious leaders encourage authenticity in their teams. This creates an environment where members feel valued for being who they are, encouraging the innovation and creativity that come naturally when people feel free to be authentic.

Awakening Consciousness in Everyday Leadership

Conscious leadership in the context of non-duality is not just an abstract concept, but a daily practice. It involves being present in the moment, cultivating empathy (and especially compassion) and recognizing the uniqueness of each person.

Rather than imposing a one-sided view, mindful leaders create space for diversity of thought, fostering an environment that values the unique contribution of each team member.

By recognizing that consciousness manifests itself through every interaction, conscious leaders constantly seek to evolve and adapt their approaches. This not only fosters a dynamic working environment, but also inspires a collective sense of purpose and growth.

Reflecting on the Journey:

Non-duality in Organizational Culture

When walking the journey of non-duality in leadership, organizational culture emerges as the terrain where these principles can flourish or wither. A culture that embraces non-duality recognizes the interdependence of all members and teams and forges an environment where individual contributions are valued and there is no fear in exposing oneself personally and professionally (another point discussed at length since the pandemic: psychological safety).

In conscious leadership, this understanding translates into daily practices that recognize and celebrate the interconnectedness between all team members. Rather than perpetuating rigid hierarchies, conscious leaders cultivate a culture where diversity is valued and collaboration is genuinely encouraged.

Ultimately, the journey into non-duality in leadership is an invitation to transcend perceived boundaries and embrace the true nature of being. In doing so, we not only improve our impact as leaders, but also contribute to building healthier, more inspiring and resilient organizations, where perhaps the greatest possibilities for transforming society lie.

Cardiac coherence or HRV (Heart Rate Variability) is the variability of the intervals between our heartbeats.

Surprisingly, this metric not only reflects the physical health of the heart, but is also intrinsically linked to our mental and emotional health.

What's more, heart coherence has been shown to be a powerful means of achieving a state of flow and enhancing our meditation practice.

The #flowstate is that moment of intense concentration, focus and total involvement with an activity where time seems to fly, distractions disappear, and our performance reaches its peak.

It is an expanded state of consciousness and is sought after in various fields and activities, including medicine (surgeons report sometimes not feeling it more than 8 hours into an operation) sports, art, music and business (see videos on my YouTube channel).

Cardiac coherence, in turn, is a valuable tool for achieving a state of flow and deepening meditation. How? When our nervous system is balanced, our heartbeats vary coherently in response to our emotions and thoughts.

By practicing breath control techniques and meditation, we can synchronize our heart rates with our intentions, reducing stress and increasing mental clarity.

Here are some tips for using HRV as a meditative and flow-inducing tool:

Train Conscious Breathing: Deepen your meditation by focusing on your breathing. Breathe slowly and in a controlled manner, maintaining a regular cadence. This helps to synchronize your heartbeat with your breathing, inducing cardiac coherence.

Biofeedback techniques: Use biofeedback devices that monitor your HRV in real time. This allows you to adjust your breathing and meditation according to your body's response, helping to create cardiac coherence. There are several apps available in the Apple and Android stores (several free).

I recommend this one:

Heartrate + Coherence Pro

Practice regularly: Heart coherence and a state of flow are the results of constant practice. Dedicate time every day to meditate and improve your mind-body connection. Ten minutes is enough.

Be Present: In the flow state, being completely present in the moment is crucial. Let go of worries and external distractions to go deeper into your task or meditation.

Heart coherence and the flow state are intrinsically linked.

As we improve our ability to create heart coherence, we increase our ability to enter flow states more easily.

Want to read more about this topic?

Visit: https://lnkd.in/d7BwJrny

or book an appointment with me.

My mentoring sessions for conscious leaders are open to groups or individuals.

May #flow be with you.

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