alreadyalwaysthis

[alreadyalwaysthis]

Breath of Becoming

Transformation is a fire that does not tolerate the lukewarm. It is the pulse beneath your ribs, the quiet insistence of the heart beating itself free from inertia. You cannot sleepwalk through existence and stumble into awakening. Automatic pilot is the refuge of fear, the illusion of comfort while the ground beneath you crumbles. Commitment—what is it but the intensity of your own aliveness?…

[alreadyalwaysthis]

The Currency of Being

We chase the shimmering symbols, gilded and promised—money, marriage, cars—each like a mirage, painted with the hues of freedom and love. We run hard, feet blistered with the weight of striving, hearts beating to the rhythm of someday. Someday, the vault will open, the hands will clasp, the engine will roar, and there, in that arrival, the soul will finally rest. But symbols are fickle things.…

[alreadyalwaysthis]

Standing in the Unthinkable Future

I declare a future born of no evidence, an uncharted expanse stretched across the canvas of now. The world clamors for proof, addicted to the weight of what has already been, shackled to the seen. But I, a voyager of declarations, walk barefoot into the unthinkable, daring to inhabit what cannot yet be touched. The future, no thing of substance, rises in the fragile architecture of my words.…

[alreadyalwaysthis]

The Awful Truth

To face the awful truth is to meet yourself unguarded, stripped of clever excuses and polished masks. It is to stand naked before the brittle scaffolding of broken promises and admit: this is what I have built. The house of my self-esteem is a splintered frame, leaning against the howling wind of my own neglect. Each word, flung carelessly into the world, carries the weight of my integrity—or…

[alreadyalwaysthis]

The Fold Between A and B

Point A is not a place, but a story—a cradle of certainty, spun with silken threads of habit.Point B shimmers like a horizon, an abstraction of “what if,”a promise untested by the weight of steps. To move is to unfold.Not in a straight line, but in spirals and ruptures,where each breakdown tears the veilbetween who you are and who you must become. Speak it: Point B.Not as a wish, but as a vow—a…

[alreadyalwaysthis]

The Rearview and the Field

We drive through the world with eyes fixed backward, painting the past onto the windshield and mistaking it for the road ahead. Every mile becomes a story: what it meant, who was right, why it hurt, and whether it was fair. We chart the injustices like constellations, naming the stars of what we think we deserve. But who promised us the cosmos? Who said the universe owes us its light? The mirror…

[alreadyalwaysthis]

The Absurd Stand

To live as if I don’t matter is to surrender to a gravity that is not my own. A pull of sameness, where the past drips its stale ink into every unwritten tomorrow, smudging what could be with what has been. The world whispers: stay small, stay powerless, stay safe. It sings the hymn of blame and rehearses the chorus of “what’s wrong.” The victim folds into the shape of the question mark, hunched…

[alreadyalwaysthis]

So What, Now What?

Responsibility is not a weight but a wind—an invisible current holding you up, not dragging you down. It is not the aftermath of events, littered with blame or medals, but the hum of existence itself, whispering, I am. In this moment, the rain falls. The rain does not ask who summoned it. It does not petition the clouds for origin stories or quarrel with the sky about intention. The rain simply…

[alreadyalwaysthis]

The Choice That Was Already Made

You were born into a story—woven before your first breath, its plot already binding your steps. The script reads, life is a struggle, and we enter, stage left, rehearsing lines we never wrote. A chorus of ancestors sings, “Survive! Compete! Endure!”—and we obey. We learn to wear resentment like a second skin, to bristle at traffic, to rehearse strategies for staying afloat in a sea we didn’t…

[alreadyalwaysthis]

The Desert We Call Ourselves

We are a mirage of commitment, shimmering beneath the desert sun of who we think we are. Life, this vast expanse of shifting sands, moves to the rhythm of survival’s winds. It whispers, Keep walking; keep holding on.But the landscape holds no water, only the shape of thirst. We cannot see the desert for what it is. We see its contents—cacti and lizards, wars and divorces, fear etched in the fine…

[alreadyalwaysthis]

The Shape of Nothingness

There is no I here, not really—just the weather of thought passing through the sky of being. It thinks, and I become the witness of these thoughts, a transient mirror reflecting clouds that don’t belong to me. I am not fixed, not solid, not the protagonist of some cosmic narrative. This is the bad news they speak of, isn’t it? That the fortress of self is a paper house, dissolving in the…

[alreadyalwaysthis]

How?

The “How” is not a process or mechanism but an invitation to see directly. Non-duality asks, “How does Awareness arise?” and responds: Awareness simply is. There is no “How” to being—it’s immediate, spontaneous, and self-evident. The Question that Dissolves Itself How does the sun rise without a staircase to the sky?How does the wind move, owning nothing but its directionless grace?The “How” is…

[alreadyalwaysthis]

The Occurring World

We arrive, not naked but clothed in the fabric of centuries, draped in stories we did not choose. A world is already humming when we first open our eyes, a choreography of rules and rites whispering this is how it’s done. A cry means hunger. A smile means approval. A name wraps itself around the soft edges of our being, a net woven from history, language, and expectation. They say we are born…

[alreadyalwaysthis]

Why?

Non-duality often bypasses the “Why” by pointing out that causality is a conceptual framework of the mind. In the non-dual understanding, things simply are—without needing a reason or cause. The “Why” disappears into the immediacy of what is. The Death of “Why” The “Why” once wore a crown, draped in the robes of reason, demanding allegiance to its endless court of causes. It built its kingdom…

[alreadyalwaysthis]

In the Batter’s Box of Being

The batter’s box waits—always waiting, like the silence between heartbeats. It doesn’t ask for skill or confidence, only that you step in. The pitcher stands, indifferent, ready to hurl what the moment holds: a fastball, a curve, a changeup of fate. The crowd watches, faceless, their murmurs echoing your doubts. But the box, the sacred rectangle of now, cares not for the story you spin in your…

[alreadyalwaysthis]

The Myth of What Is

Honesty bends at the edge of language, where “what is” dissolves like mist in morning light. We are trained sculptors of reality, chipping away at the infinite until only a statue remains, lifeless and polished, something to point at and call “truth.” But truth is a river, not a stone. It cannot be described; it can only be met. What if the world is not waiting to be explained? What if it’s…

[alreadyalwaysthis]

Where?

The “Where” is here, but in non-duality, here is not a fixed point in space. Instead, all locations are perceived within Awareness. “Where” is no longer about place but about the realization that all places are Source. The Eternal Here Here is not a pin on a map, nor the flicker of a GPS dot breathing in and out of the grid. Here is the sky that holds every map, the unseen canvas on which…