The Voluntary Descent

Today I sat down to read and something opened in me. It wasn’t an idea — it was a gesture: to descend. Not as a fall, but as a decision. It startled me how clear it feels when the ego stops pretending it rules and agrees to listen to something it cannot control. There’s a precise point where you say, “okay, I’m going in,” and in that instant everything shifts.

This isn’t theory. It’s something else. A threshold. The writing feels more like a ritual than an explanation. Images arrive and I can only remain there, looking at them, without claiming them. And I notice how hard it is not to appropriate — not to turn a vision into a concept, not to turn a symbol into a trophy.

What strikes me most is the honesty of the descent. No promises, no maps — only the courage to enter. And that courage isn’t epic; it’s intimate, almost quiet. The kind of bravery that doesn’t show but changes you from the inside. Today I understood that the descent isn’t punishment. It’s the condition for a truer life.

I’m left with this: every time I choose to descend, a new symbol is born. Every time I avoid the descent, my life stays on the surface.