Tag: faith

Darkness

Our mind is capable of so much. The depths of our darkness can open doors that feel both unreal and unreachable. But once you cross that threshold, it becomes harder to turn back. You see the shadows for what they are—the parts of our psyche capable of destruction equal to the pain we once endured.

What makes us let this darkness consume us?
It all comes down to love.

In one of my favorite book series, The Passage by Justin Cronin, a man loses the woman he loves. What he does next leads to the downfall of humanity. He lets grief mutate into vengeance—his love turning to ruin. It’s not so different from Darth Vader, who brought down an entire galaxy mourning for what he lost. These are men who chose vengeance when love was taken from them.

The Taj Mahal was built by an emperor who lost his wife in childbirth. A symbol of eternal love, yes, but one built by enslaved workers, their hands cut off so they could never replicate its beauty again. Why is it so hard to think of examples where love inspired creation without cruelty?

Are we wired to choose the dark side? Maybe. Darkness offers a certain ease. I’ve done things in pain that felt justified in the moment—words I shouldn’t have said, decisions I wish I could take back. With the amount of heartbreak I’ve had, it makes sense that I have the thirst for it in me. I’m not going to lie, it creeps up from time to time. It gets stronger, especially when I’m hurt. So I understand it, it’s the mind’s way of protecting itself, a survival instinct disguised as power. But there’s always a line. And maybe the difference between those who lose themselves to the dark and those who return from it lies in that one fragile act of resistance.

I once read this:

“The love force is focused through the two great spiritual Lords of the Hierarchy, the Buddha and the Christ—one embodies the twelve-petaled lotus in the head, the other its counterpart in the heart. Few grasp this truth.”

You got it right—it’s faith.

Our mind can do unspeakable things in the name of self-protection. But faith, whether in God, goodness, or simply love itself, pulls us back toward the heart. It’s not religion; it’s balance. When the mind (the Buddha in the head) and the heart (the Christ within) coexist, light returns. The darkness no longer consumes—it teaches.

Even in fiction, this holds true. Thanos wanted to restore balance by wiping out half the universe. His intentions seemed noble. There was too much chaos, but he let the darkness guide his hand. He mistook himself for God. The moment ego takes the throne, destruction follows. Because anyone trying to play God is already lost to their own shadow.

But the universe has its own ways of restoring order. Natural forces intervene, sometimes through people, sometimes through moments so serendipitous you can’t explain them. Call it fate, divine timing, or just life correcting itself. Light always finds its way back, just as the sun inevitably rises after the longest night.

So, if you’ve ever found yourself walking through darkness, remember this: the fact that you can still recognize the light means it never truly left you. The mind may wander into shadows, but faith—quiet, unwavering faith will always guide it home.

Bridges and Chains

I was recently reminded of a walking tour in Budapest from a few years ago. The city, divided by the Danube River, is made up of two distinct halves: Buda and Pest. For centuries, they remained separate, each with its own identity, until the construction of the Chain Bridge in 1849. This bridge not only physically connected the two sides but also symbolized the merging of their contrasting personalities. The guide pointed out how this connection transformed the city’s architectural landscape, creating Budapest’s iconic eclectic style—a blend of influences from different cultures and periods. Buda, with its peaceful, upscale vibe, and Pest, bustling and full of life, each brought something unique to the city. Back then, they were distinct worlds, but today, they continue to coexist as separate yet complementary halves, each preserving its essence while contributing to the city’s dynamic whole.

My brain obviously went into reflection mode. There’s a famous saying: “Don’t burn your bridges.” It’s a reminder to leave situations and relationships in a way that preserves future possibilities. After all, bridges connect us, allowing for movement, exchange, and opportunity.

The bridge in Budapest is called the Chain Bridge for a reason, I guess. Chains symbolize strength and unity, holding things together even under pressure. Fleetwood Mac’s song The Chain encourages us to do just that. The song is a dark and desperate unity that reflects the band’s resilience. But the metaphor “break the chain” brings a different image to mind—liberating ourselves from cycles, constraints, or patterns that no longer serve us. This duality made me reflect on the concept of involution.

American sociologist Clifford Geertz described involution as stagnation — a loop of repeated behaviours that leads nowhere. In many ways, it reminded me of the famous Pink Floyd lyrics: “We’re just two lost souls swimming in a fishbowl, year after year.” This feeling of being trapped in a cycle, unable to break free or evolve, encapsulates involution perfectly. It’s like being in a situation that feels like you’re going nowhere, no matter how much effort you put in. In contrast, evolution propels us forward, toward growth and improvement. In-volution, quite literally, is the opposite of e-volution. Where evolution is expansion, involution is regression.

It’s true chains can be seen as both connectors and constraints, a symbol of unity and of being trapped. I guess if you feel like you’re heading toward involution, remember, you have the power to break the chain or avoid building bridges altogether. But if evolution is truly at play, natural selection will unavoidably take over and stop you from breaking any chains and push you to evolve — to build bridges and not burn them.

Into the Unknown

When we’re young, the world is filled with thrilling mysteries and untold wonders, and we dive headfirst into the unknown. But as we age, something shifts. Suddenly, the familiar feels safe, and anything out of the ordinary seems downright terrifying. Funny how that works, right?

Take me, for example. I had this ambitious goal of visiting 33 countries before I turned 33. Now, with just six months left and three countries to go, I’ve realized it’s not a lack of money or time that’s holding me back. Nope—it’s fear. Somewhere along the way, I traded my adventurous spirit for the cozy comfort of predictability. After a series of chaotic or unpredictable experiences, it’s easy to crave the certainty of knowing exactly what’s ahead. I’ve even found myself avoiding new books, movies and TV shows, hesitant to dive into the emotional rollercoaster of not knowing what’s coming next. When did I become so cautious? I mean, seriously, I’d rather risk becoming a midnight snack for a known deep-sea predator like a shark than take a dip in Lake Lochmond, because…what if the mythical Loch Ness monster gets me?!

But recently, I decided I didn’t like the person I was becoming—the overly cautious, play-it-safe version of myself. I used to be the kind of person who did crazy, borderline reckless things, like trying snake meat in Indonesia while chasing it down with vodka mixed with its blood. Extreme? Impulsive? Sure. But at least I was living. So, in the spirit of Halloween and reclaiming that streak of madness, I decided to face the unknown in the most dramatic way possible: attending a Victorian séance.

A séance, for the uninitiated, is like stepping into a whispered conversation with the afterlife—cryptic, unsettling, and impossible to ignore. This one took place at Stanley Barracks in Toronto, a building steeped in enough eerie history to send shivers down your spine. The strange part? It’s right in the heart of the city, next to a gleaming 5-star hotel. Haunted places are usually tucked away in remote locations, where desolate roads, overgrown trees, and creaky gates set the stage for whatever horrors lie within. It’s as if the ghosts have settled into the city itself, refusing to be forgotten.

Stanley Barracks is a notorious hotspot for paranormal activity, uncovered in a 13-month investigation by expert Richard Palmisano. Among the spirits he discovered is Jenny, a young girl tragically killed in a scarf accident, still searching for her lost cat. Then there’s a ghostly clown, communicating with bells and maracas, believed to have once performed at the nearby Canadian National Exhibition. The barracks, which also served as a dumping ground/hospital during a typhoid outbreak, is a graveyard for restless souls. This eerie site blends history, heartbreak, and unsettling hauntings.

So, did anything unusual happen? Oh, absolutely. I saw things, heard things—things I can’t fully explain. But here’s the kicker: once I faced it, the unknown wasn’t nearly as scary as I’d built it up to be. Turns out, fear thrives on our imagination. The ghosts were unsettling, sure, but they also reminded me of something profound: the unknown only has power over us because we let it. Once we face it, it becomes… well, just a little less scary in the case of this séance. It definitely helped me bring back the brave me that I had let go during the ‘To be > Not to be > To be’ process (see previous post, more on this in the next one).

This experience also made me realize that the unknown is only scary because it’s unfamiliar—what’s on the other side doesn’t really matter. It could be something truly frightening, like a séance with actual ghosts, or something completely harmless. Either way, if it’s new, it feels unsettling. The fear comes from not knowing, not necessarily from the thing itself. Even a positive unknown can trigger a “WTF, WHY?” simply because it’s outside your frame of reference. And when fear takes over, it’s tempting to avoid it, no matter how irrational that avoidance might be.

So, here’s to being brave. To stepping into the unknown not because we’re fearless, but because staying stuck in the comforting familiar might be even worse. Maybe one day, even the ghosts of Stanley Barracks will take this advice and move on. Until then, I’ll try practising what I preach—snake blood vodka shot optional.

Meaning of life

During my travels, I met some pretty fascinating people. Take Egypt, for example. A friend and I were chatting and something absurd about favorite numbers came up, and he casually mentioned his was 42. Now, most people pick something simple like 7 (mine is 7 only cause it’s the magical number, duh!) or 10—rounded. But 42? That caught my attention.

At the time, I had no clue about The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, where 42 is famously the answer to the “Ultimate Question of Life, the Universe, and Everything.” Naturally, I was intrigued and had to dig deeper. Now, I’m not much of a math person, so most of the geeky stuff about 42 went way over my head. But beyond the numbers, 42 has found its way into philosophy, religion, history—it’s got layers. Some fans say it explains everything. Yet, the author himself claims he randomly picked 42. But can something truly be random if it holds so much meaning across so many areas? Is it everything or nothing? Maybe it’s both.

You can see why this idea has stuck with me for over a decade. I’m someone who craves answers, explanations, and logic. I want to know how everything fits together, and I usually can piece it all into a neat, scientific explanation. So when I stumbled on this concept—the meaning of life is everything and nothing—it threw me. It bothered me. I kept thinking, how can these two opposing ideas coexist? Sure, “everything” can be measured, mapped, understood. But “nothing”? It’s intangible, it’s just felt, not seen. And in my world, if you can’t see it, it doesn’t exist.

Yet here I am, 32 years later, realizing there’s more to life. And maybe that “more” isn’t meant to be understood. Maybe it’s a feeling, something I’ll have to learn to trust. I’m not there yet, but I’m trying. Trusting in the unknown is terrifying—it’s messy, it makes me feel vulnerable—but what if that’s the point? What if the magic of life is in its mystery, in the things we can’t explain?

I guess I’ll have to take that leap. Trust in the nothingness, because, well, why not? Isn’t that what makes life beautiful? The mystery, the parts we can’t pin down or rationalize? Maybe that’s where the true meaning lies—not in the answers, but in the journey. After all, some things are just meant to be felt, not explained. And maybe it’s better that way.

What’s crystal clear to me is this—life is what we make of it. We can choose to let our heart believe in the magic of the unknown, the nothing, or let our ego take control and try to manage everything. Sure, you might find some answers along your ego’s journey, but chances are, you won’t like what you discover. It’s like when that supercomputer gave “42” as the answer to the meaning of life and left everyone disappointed. And they waited 7.5 million years for it! Honestly, I no longer have the patience to spend all my time trying to figure everything out. It’s exhausting. But, that doesn’t mean we should be naive and let our heart lead us into delusion either. It’s all about balance—a dance between trusting the mystery and staying grounded in reality.