It is 1:56 a.m., and the atmosphere in my room is slightly too stagnant despite the window being cracked open. I can detect the faint, earthy aroma of wet pavement from a distant downpour. There is a dull, persistent ache in my lower spine. I find myself repeatedly shifting my posture, then forcing myself to be still, only to adjust again because I am still chasing the illusion of a perfect sitting position. It is a myth. And even if it did exist, I suspect I would only find it for a second before it vanished again.
My consciousness keeps running these technical comparisons like an internal debate society that refuses to adjourn. The labels keep swirling: Mahasi, Goenka, Pa Auk; noting versus scanning; Samatha versus 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 claim to be finished with technique-shopping, yet I am still here, assigning grades to different methods instead of just sitting.
A few hours ago, I tried to focus solely on anapanasati. It should have been straightforward. Then my mind intervened with an interrogation: are you watching it Mahasi-style or more like traditional anapanasati? 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. I didn't even notice the tension building in my jaw. By the time I noticed, the mental commentary had already seized control.
I remember a Goenka retreat where the structure felt so incredibly contained. The routine was my anchor. No choices. No questions. Just follow the instructions. It provided a sense of safety. 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. I felt like I was being lazy, even in the privacy of my own room.
The funny thing is that in those moments of genuine awareness, the debate disappears instantly. It is a temporary but powerful silence. For a second, there is only the raw data of experience. 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.
I felt the vibration of a random alert on my device earlier. I stayed on the cushion, but then my mind immediately started congratulating itself, which felt pathetic. It click here is the same cycle. Always comparing. Always grading. I speculate on the amount of effort I waste on the anxiety of "getting it right."
I become aware of a constriction in my breath. I don't try to deepen it. I've realized that the act of "trying to relax" is itself a form of agitation. I hear the fan cycle through its mechanical clicks. The noise irritates me more than it should. I apply a label to the feeling, then catch myself doing it out of a sense of obligation. Then I stop labeling out of spite. Then I lose my focus completely.
Mahasi versus Goenka versus Pa Auk feels less like a genuine inquiry and more like a way for my mind to stay busy. As long as it's "method-shopping," it doesn't have to face the raw reality of the moment. Or the realization that no technique will magically eliminate the boredom and the doubt.
My lower limbs have gone numb and are now prickling. I attempt to just observe the sensation. The urge to move pulses underneath the surface. I enter into an internal treaty. "Just five more inhalations, and then I'll move." The negotiation fails before the third breath. Whatever.
There is no final answer. I don't feel clear. I feel human. A bit lost, a little fatigued, yet still present on the cushion. The internal debate continues, but it has faded into a dull hum in the background. I don’t settle them. It isn't necessary. It is enough to just witness this mental theater, knowing that I am still here, breathing through it all.