The time is nearly 2:00 a.m., and my bedroom feels uncomfortably warm even with a slight breeze coming through the window. I can detect the faint, earthy aroma of wet pavement from a distant downpour. My lower back is tight and resistant. I keep moving, then stopping, then fidgeting once more, as if I still believe the "ideal" posture actually exists. It doesn’t. Or if such a position exists, I certainly haven't found a way to sustain it.
I find my thoughts constantly weighing one system against another, like a mental debate club that doesn't know when to quit. Mahasi. Goenka. Pa Auk. Noting. Breath. Samatha. Vipassana. I feel like I am toggling through different spiritual software, hoping one of them will finally crash the rest and leave me in peace. It is frustrating and, frankly, a little embarrassing. I tell myself that I have moved past this kind of "spiritual consumerism," and yet here I am, mentally ranking lineages instead of actually practicing.
Earlier this evening, I made an effort to stay with the simple sensation of breathing. It should have been straightforward. Suddenly, the internal critic jumped in, asking if I was following the Mahasi noting method or a more standard breath awareness. Is there a gap in your awareness? Are you becoming sleepy? Do you need to note that itch? That voice doesn't just whisper; it interrogates. My jaw clenched without me even realizing it. Once I recognized the tension, the "teacher" in my head had already won.
I think back to my time in the Goenka tradition, where the rigid environment provided such a strong container. The timetable held me together. There were no decisions to make and no questions to ask; I just had to follow the path. There was a profound security in that lack of autonomy. Then, sitting in my own room without that "safety net," the uncertainty rushed back with a vengeance. The technical depth of the Pa Auk method crossed my mind, making my own wandering mind feel like I was somehow failing. Like I was cheating, even though there was no one there to watch.
The irony is that when I am actually paying attention, even for a few brief seconds, all that comparison vanishes. It is a temporary but powerful silence. There is a flash of time where the knee pain is just heat and pressure. Heat in the knee. Pressure in the seat. The whine of a mosquito near my ear. Then the ego returns, frantically trying to categorize the sensation into a specific Buddhist framework. I almost laugh sometimes.
My phone buzzed earlier with a website random notification. I didn't check it immediately, which felt like a minor achievement, and then I felt ridiculous for feeling proud. The same egoic loop. Ranking. Measuring. I think about the sheer volume of energy I lose to the fear of practicing incorrectly.
I notice my breathing has become shallow again. I don't try to deepen it. I have learned that forcing a sense of "calm" only adds a new layer of tension. The fan clicks on, then off. That tiny sound triggers a surge of frustration. I note the "irritation," then realize I am just performing the Mahasi method for an invisible audience. Then I stop labeling out of spite. Then I forget what I was doing entirely.
The debate between these systems seems more like a distraction than a real question. If it keeps comparing, it doesn't have to sit still with the discomfort of uncertainty. Or the realization that no technique will magically eliminate the boredom and the doubt.
I can feel the blood returning to my feet—that stinging sensation. I attempt to just observe the sensation. The desire to shift my weight is a throbbing physical demand. I negotiate. Five more breaths. Then maybe I will shift. The negotiation fails before the third breath. It doesn't matter.
I have no sense of closure. The fog has not lifted. I feel human. Perplexed, exhausted, but still here. The internal debate continues, but it has faded into a dull hum in the background. I make no effort to find a winner. It isn't necessary. It is enough to just witness this mental theater, knowing that I am still here, breathing through it all.