It is 1:56 a.m., and the atmosphere in my room is slightly too stagnant despite the window being cracked open. The air carries that humid, midnight smell, like the ghost of a rain that fell in another neighborhood. There is a dull, persistent ache in my lower spine. 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.
My consciousness keeps running these technical comparisons like an internal debate society that refuses to adjourn. Mahasi. Goenka. Pa Auk. Noting. Breath. Samatha. Vipassana. It is like having too many mental tabs open, switching between them in the hope that one will finally offer the "correct" answer. It is frustrating and, frankly, a little embarrassing. I pretend to be above the "search," but in reality, I am still comparing "products" in the middle of the night instead of doing the work.
A few hours ago, I tried to focus solely on anapanasati. 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. Are you overlooking something vital? Is there a subtle torpor? Should you be labeling this thought? That voice doesn't just whisper; it interrogates. I found my teeth grinding together before I was even aware of the stress. By the time I became aware, the internal narrative had taken over completely.
I remember a Goenka retreat where the structure felt so incredibly contained. The timetable held me together. No choices. No questions. Just follow the instructions. That felt secure. And then I recall sitting alone months later, without the retreat's support, and suddenly all the doubts arrived like they had been waiting in the shadows. The technical depth of the Pa Auk method crossed my mind, making my own wandering mind feel like I was somehow failing. It felt like I was being insincere, even though I was the only witness.
The funny thing is that in those moments of genuine awareness, the debate disappears instantly. Not permanently, but briefly. There is a moment where sensation is just sensation. Heat in the knee. Pressure in the seat. The whine of a mosquito near my ear. Then the mind rushes back in, asking: "Wait, which system does this experience belong to?" It would be funny if it weren't so frustrating.
A notification light flashed on my phone a while ago. I stayed on the cushion, but then my mind immediately started congratulating itself, which felt pathetic. See? The same get more info pattern. Always comparing. Always grading. I wonder how much mental energy I squander just trying to ensure I am doing it "correctly," whatever that even means anymore.
I notice my breathing has become shallow again. I refrain from forcing a deeper breath. I have learned that forcing a sense of "calm" only adds a new layer of tension. The fan makes its rhythmic clicking sound. That tiny sound triggers a surge of frustration. I apply a label to the feeling, then catch myself doing it out of a sense of obligation. Then I quit the noting process out of pure stubbornness. Then I simply drift away into thought.
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 with the possibility that none of these systems will save me from the slow, daily grind of actually being here.
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 just feel like myself. Perplexed, exhausted, but still here. The "Mahasi vs. Goenka" thoughts are still there, but they no longer have the power to derail the sit. I make no effort to find a winner. That isn't the point. Currently, it is sufficient to observe that this is the mind's natural reaction to silence.