The Worms Don’t Care About Your Flag - Monkey Mind, borrowed bodies, and the ancient joke of human hatred

 

You crawl out of your mother’s darkness with nothing.

Not a flag in your hand. Not a race in your fist. Not a border stamped across your soul. Not a title, a land deed, a holy uniform, a family grudge, a bank balance, a crown, or a passport signed by God.

You arrive with breath.

That is all.

A borrowed body. A wet little miracle. A spark wrapped in skin, screaming at the light, carried by hands you did not earn, fed by a world you did not build, blessed beyond comprehension before you even knew how to say thank you.

And then the great joke begins.

You grow teeth. You learn words. You learn “mine.” You learn “ours.” You learn “them.” You learn the shape of a flag before you learn the shape of your own soul. You learn which people your family mistrusts, which nation you are meant to worship, which stories you are supposed to repeat, and which dead arguments you are expected to inherit like sacred furniture.

You point at dirt and call it land.

You point at a line on a map and call it truth.

You point at another human being and call them enemy.

And all the while, the little monkey in the mind claps like it has discovered wisdom.

That Is the Monkey Mind

Not some cute little thought hopping around because you forgot to meditate. No. That is the polite version sold with incense and soft music.

The Monkey Mind is the frightened little animal inside the skull that needs a tribe to feel safe, an enemy to feel important, a story to feel righteous, and a flag to hide behind when the soul starts asking uncomfortable questions.

It does not want you awake.

Awake people are dangerous to the circus.

Awake people look at another human being and see the same strange miracle breathing through a different costume. Awake people do not fall so easily for uniforms, slogans, inherited hatred, and old men sending young bodies to die for land the worms will inherit anyway.

But the Monkey Mind loves a war.

It loves a border.

It loves a crowd shouting the same thing at the same time.

It loves being told that hatred is loyalty, that cruelty is strength, that murder becomes noble when enough people salute before doing it.

The Monkey Mind does not need truth.
It only needs a drumbeat, a uniform, and someone to blame.

The Sick Cosmic Joke

And there sits the sick cosmic joke: you may be hating a people you once belonged to.

You may be spitting at a face that could have been your own in another life, another skin, another century, another mother’s arms. You may be cheering for the same machine that once crushed you when you wore a different name.

Round and round the wheel turns.

Different body. Same blindness.

Different flag. Same bloodlust.

Different uniform. Same frightened monkey pretending it is holy.

And we call this civilization.

We build monuments to it. We write songs for it. We teach children to repeat it before they are old enough to question it. We tell them who they are, who they are not, who to fear, who to blame, who to fight, and what costume they must wear to be considered respectable.

Then we act shocked when the world catches fire.

But what did we expect?

You cannot feed the Monkey Mind fear for generations and then act surprised when it starts throwing stones through the windows of the soul.

The Mission Was Remembrance

The mission was never to become louder. The mission was never to collect more labels, more enemies, more applause, more territory, more proof that your little temporary identity was the correct one.

The mission was remembrance.

To return to Source while still breathing.

To look past the costume.

To find the quiet place behind the noise.

To realize that you came here empty-handed and you will leave empty-handed, and everything in between is either awakening or distraction.

But humans love distraction.

We love our shiny little cages. We love our righteous opinions. We love our inherited anger because it saves us from the terrifying work of knowing ourselves. It is easier to hate a stranger than to sit alone with the mirror. It is easier to worship a flag than to ask why the heart feels dead. It is easier to scream about enemies than to admit the war began inside.

Close the mirrors.
Not because the dead are coming back.
Close them because some of the living have become too drunk on their reflection.

Close them for the ones who stare at themselves and see nationality before humanity. Close them for the ones who see skin before soul. Close them for the ones who see land before life. Close them for the ones who think God needs a passport, a border fence, and a marching band.

Close them for every fool who arrived with nothing, received everything, and then spent the miracle of life defending the cage.

The Worms Are the Final Priests

Because the ending is not mysterious.

The body falls.

The mouth closes.

The noise stops.

The flesh softens.

The worms arrive like honest priests.

And they do not care what race you hated. They do not care what flag you waved. They do not care what land you claimed. They do not care how much money you stacked, how many people feared you, how many titles followed your name, or how many times you called your cruelty justice.

The worms eat kings and beggars with the same devotion.

They eat soldiers and preachers, racists and bankers, patriots and poets, saints and fools. They do not pause at your nationality. They do not salute your uniform. They do not ask which side you were on.

They simply collect what pride borrowed.

That should humble us.

That should shake something loose.

That should make a person sit down, breathe deeply, and ask:

What in the hell am I doing with this life?

Because you were not born to become a louder monkey.

You were not born to inherit hatred and call it identity.

You were not born to murder the face you may have once worn.

You were not born to defend the machine that profits from keeping souls asleep.

You were born into mystery.

You were born into breath.

You were born into a body that will not last, carrying a spark that might.

Wake Up

Wake up before the costume becomes your coffin.

Wake up before your whole life becomes one long argument with shadows.

Wake up before you spend your sacred breath defending borders that never existed in the Source you came from.

Wake up before the Monkey Mind convinces you that hatred is wisdom.

Because one day the mirrors will close anyway.

One day the noise will end.

One day the worms will preach the final sermon over the body you called “me.”

And by then, the only question left will be the one you avoided while you were alive:

Did you remember what you were?
Or did you die worshipping the monkey?

Run along now, sleeping one.

In your next life, you are the one you set traps for in this life.

Enjoy then.

I Will It So: The Ancient Fire of Human Will

This one walks into the room barefoot, eyes burning, hands clean but not innocent.

It does not ask permission.

It does not kneel before the trembling little gods of fear, guilt, shame, bloodline, government, priesthood, fashion, failure, or “what will people think?”

It walks straight up to the altar where humanity has been told to whisper, behave, wait, obey, shrink, repent, and accept its portion.

Then it kicks the candles sideways, looks the whole world dead in the eye, and says:

I will it so.

Not because the world is a toy.

Not because desire is a magic wand.

Not because the universe is some half-asleep servant waiting for your shopping list.

But because somewhere inside the human being there is a fire older than doctrine, older than empire, older than the polished sermons of men who built cages and called them temples.

That fire has had many names.

Free will.
True Will.
Intention.
Volition.
Dharma.
Choice.
Kamma.
Purpose.
The will of God.
The will to live.
The will to power.

Different robes. Same dangerous flame.

Human will is one of the oldest arguments on earth, because the moment a human being says, “I choose,” every throne in the room starts sweating.

The First Rebellion Was Not Violence. It Was Choice.

Before a sword is lifted, before a kingdom falls, before a saint leaves the village, before a woman refuses the name they gave her, before a slave runs, before a prophet speaks, before a sinner becomes honest, before an artist ruins their respectable life to follow the thing burning in their chest — there is a smaller, quieter, more terrifying moment.

The inward turn.

The human being stops.

Looks at the life handed to them.

And says, “No. Not like this.”

That is where will begins.

Not in noise.
Not in ego.
Not in stamping your foot like a spoiled little prince in a velvet jacket.

Will begins when the inner witness wakes up and realizes the cage has a door.

History is full of people trying to explain this fire. Philosophers called it control over one’s actions. Theologians called it the problem of grace and sin. Mystics called it alignment. Buddhists called it intention. Occultists called it True Will. Psychologists would later drag it into laboratories and call it self-regulation, but the old world already knew what was going on.

There is something inside the human being that can choose direction.

And that makes the human creature terrifying.

The Stoics Drew the First Line in the Sand

Long before modern motivational posters started screaming “control your mindset” over fake mountain backgrounds, the Stoics had already sharpened the blade.

Epictetus, born into slavery and later remembered as one of the great Stoic teachers, began his famous little handbook with a brutal separation: some things are in our control, and some things are not.

Your body? Not fully yours. It can age, break, betray you.

Your reputation? In the mouths of others.

Your wealth? Can vanish.

Your position? Can be taken.

Your death? Waiting in the wings like a patient old creditor.

But your judgment, your intention, your desire, your refusal, your response — that was the inner kingdom.

That was the place no tyrant could reach unless you opened the gate from the inside.

This is not soft wisdom. This is battlefield wisdom.

The Stoic does not say, “I control everything.”

The Stoic says, “I know exactly what I do not control, and that is why I will not hand over the one thing that is mine.”

That is will with a spine.

Not fantasy. Not denial. Not pretending storms do not exist.

It is standing in the storm and saying, “You may take the roof, but you will not take the captain.”

Religion Feared the Will Because It Knew the Will Had Teeth

Religion has always had a complicated relationship with human will.

It blesses the obedient will.
It fears the rebellious will.
It praises surrender.
It warns against pride.
It calls choice sacred, then sometimes panics when people actually use it.

Christianity wrestled with this from the beginning. Paul wrote about the strange war inside the human being — wanting to do good, yet doing the thing one hates. Anyone honest knows that battlefield. It is not ancient poetry. It is Tuesday morning with a bad temper, a secret habit, and a conscience trying to climb out of the mud.

Augustine later wrestled with the same monster: if God’s grace saves, what does human will do? If human will matters, where does grace begin? If a person chooses the good, is that God moving in them or the person moving toward God?

The answer was never simple, because human beings are not simple.

Christianity looked at the will and saw both royalty and ruin. The same will that can pray, forgive, build, protect, and love can also dominate, lie, betray, and burn a village while singing hymns.

That is why the old prayer says, “Thy will be done.”

Not because human will is worthless.

Because human will without alignment can become a little god with dirty hands.

The East Did Not Kill the Will. It Disciplined It.

In the Bhagavad Gita, Arjuna stands on the battlefield, horrified by the war before him. He does not want slogans. He does not want a cute affirmation. He wants to know how to act when every direction is soaked in consequence.

Krishna does not tell him to sit down and manifest a nicer battlefield.

Krishna tells him to act.

But not to cling to the fruit of action.

There it is, Captain — one of the sharpest teachings on will ever given.

You have the right to action.
You do not own the result.

That teaching cuts the ego in half.

Because the immature will says, “I will act only if I can guarantee the outcome.”

The disciplined will says, “I will act because the action is mine to take.”

That is a different kind of power.

It does not beg reality for certainty. It moves in devotion, duty, courage, and clarity. It does not collapse when the fruit comes late, strange, bitter, or not at all.

This is not passive. This is ferocious.

The Gita does not teach helplessness. It teaches action without addiction.

Do the work.
Release the grip.
Stand in the fire.
Let the outcome answer to laws bigger than your mood.

Buddhism Put the Knife Even Deeper

Buddhism does something even more uncomfortable.

It says intention is not decoration.

Intention is the seed.

In Buddhist teaching, kamma is not merely what happens outside. It begins in volition — in the movement of the mind before the hand acts, before the mouth speaks, before the world sees anything.

That is terrifying if you are honest.

Because it means the invisible life matters.

The hidden motive matters.

The smile with poison behind it matters.

The generous act performed for applause is not the same as the generous act born from compassion.

Buddhism drags the will out from behind the curtain and says, “There. That. That little movement before the action. That is where the path begins.”

So when a person says, “I will it so,” Buddhism would ask:

From where?

From greed?
From hatred?
From delusion?
From compassion?
From clarity?
From awakening?

Because the will is not automatically holy just because it is strong.

A strong poison is still poison.

Islam Places the Human Will Beneath the Vast Sky of Divine Will

In Islam, the human being is not treated as a puppet, but neither is the human being treated as the king of existence.

The Qur’anic vision holds a tension: God’s will is vast, sovereign, ultimate — yet the human being must still choose, strive, repent, purify, and change what is within.

One of the most powerful Qur’anic ideas is that a people’s outward condition does not change until what is within them changes.

That is not fluffy self-help. That is spiritual dynamite.

It says the battlefield outside is connected to the battlefield inside.

A nation can change laws and still remain inwardly corrupt. A person can change clothes, jobs, lovers, houses, names, and passwords, and still carry the same old prison inside their ribs.

The will must turn inward first.

Not to worship itself.

To be purified.

To stop blaming the weather for the rot in the foundation.

Then Came the Dark Philosophers

Schopenhauer looked at existence and said, more or less: beneath all this polite human reasoning, there is Will.

Not your cute little personal goal list.

A blind, hungry, restless force pushing life forward. Wanting, striving, consuming, reproducing, reaching, suffering. The will to live.

For Schopenhauer, the will was not a motivational quote. It was the engine of suffering.

You want, therefore you ache.

You achieve, then want again.

You desire the thing, get the thing, fear losing the thing, become bored with the thing, and go hunting for another thing.

Human beings call this ambition.

Schopenhauer called it bondage.

Then Nietzsche came later like thunder in a tailored coat and turned the blade another way. He saw in life not only suffering but force, growth, overcoming, creation. The will to power was not merely about ruling others, though plenty of fools have read it that way. At its highest, it is the power to overcome oneself. To create values. To stop living as a pale copy of inherited fear.

Nietzsche did not want tame souls.

He wanted creators.

But even here the danger remains. Every teaching of will attracts two kinds of people: the ones who hear “become yourself,” and the ones who hear “become a tyrant.”

That is why will must be married to awareness.

Otherwise the sacred fire becomes arson.

And Then the Occultists Lit the Black Candle

Then we come to the phrase that has been misunderstood, abused, feared, tattooed, whispered, and dragged through every shadowy corridor of modern occultism:

Do what thou wilt.

Aleister Crowley’s Thelema placed Will at the center of the spiritual path. But serious Thelemic teaching does not reduce this to “do whatever you feel like.” That is the reading of a teenager with a candle and no discipline.

True Will is not whim.

True Will is not appetite.

True Will is not “I want the thing, so the cosmos must fetch it.”

True Will is the deep current of the being. The path beneath the noise. The orbit of the star. The thing you are when you are no longer performing for fear, family, tribe, trauma, fashion, or applause.

That is why it is dangerous.

Because once a person even suspects their True Will, half their false life starts to rot.

The fake friendships begin to smell.

The inherited beliefs crack at the edges.

The polite little dreams lose their shine.

The job that fed the body but starved the soul becomes unbearable.

The mask gets heavy.

The cage gets loud.

And the person who once begged for permission begins to hear something underneath all the noise:

Walk.

“I Will It So” Is Not a Spell for Children

Let us be very clear.

“I will it so” is not a cosmic shopping order.

It is not snapping your fingers at God.

It is not sitting in bed doing nothing while calling laziness surrender.

It is not writing “abundance” in a notebook while refusing to become the kind of person who can carry abundance without spilling it all over the floor.

No.

“I will it so” is a vow.

It means: I choose this direction with my whole being.

It means: I will stop feeding the version of myself that keeps betraying this path.

It means: I accept that my will must become action, and my action must become discipline, and my discipline must survive the days when the fire feels like ash.

It means: I understand that reality has laws. I am not here to escape them. I am here to work with them like a blacksmith works with heat.

It means: I will not confuse fantasy with faith.

It means: I will no longer call fear “wisdom.”

It means: I will stop asking small people to approve a life they were never brave enough to enter.

The Will Is the Altar Inside the Human Being

Every tradition worth listening to knew this.

The will can save you.

The will can destroy you.

The will can build a cathedral, betray a friend, write a scripture, start a war, forgive an enemy, leave an addiction, paint a masterpiece, lie under oath, raise a child, burn a bridge, or resurrect a life everybody thought was finished.

That is why the will must be watched.

Not suppressed.

Watched.

Not shamed.

Refined.

Not handed over to every passing hunger.

Consecrated.

A human being without will becomes a leaf in other people’s weather.

A human being with chaotic will becomes a danger to themselves and everyone around them.

But a human being with aligned will?

That is when the room changes.

That is when history leans forward.

That is when the old gods of fear start packing their bags.

Because aligned will does not shout for attention. It moves.

It does not need applause. It acts.

It does not beg the universe to prove itself. It becomes proof.

The Final Secret

The old world never agreed on everything.

The Stoic said, master your response.

The Christian said, align with God.

The Buddhist said, purify intention.

The Hindu said, act without attachment.

The Muslim said, change what is within.

The philosopher said, beware the blind hunger underneath desire.

The occultist said, discover your True Will and do nothing else.

Different languages.

Same doorway.

The human will is not a toy. It is not a mood. It is not a decorative little flame to be waved around when life feels dull.

It is the inner command center of a soul.

And the question is not whether you have a will.

You do.

The question is who trained it.

Fear?
Shame?
Desire?
Habit?
God?
Truth?
Wound?
Purpose?
The crowd?
The cage?
The quiet fire?

Because every human life eventually becomes a monument to the will that ruled it.

So choose carefully.

And when you finally speak the words, do not speak them like a child demanding sweets from the sky.

Speak them like a vow made in the oldest temple there is — the one behind your ribs.

Stand still.

Look inward.

Feel the false self tremble.

Then say it, not as a wish, not as a tantrum, not as a performance, but as a sacred command aligned with action, consequence, discipline, and truth:

I will it so.

Continue the Journey: The Essence of Existence

If this piece stirred something in you — that quiet fire behind the ribs, that old inner command that refuses to stay asleep — then the next doorway is not outside you.

It never was.

The will is powerful, yes. But will without awareness can become another cage. It can become ambition with a beautiful mask. It can become hunger dressed as destiny. It can become the ego standing on a rooftop shouting, “I will it so,” while the deeper self waits below, covered in dust, building the city brick by brick.

That is where the real question begins.

Who is the “I” that wills?

Is it fear?
Is it wound?
Is it conditioning?
Is it the voice you inherited?
Is it the world speaking through your mouth?
Or is it something older, quieter, and truer?

The Essence of Existence: The Obvious Truth Hidden in Plain Sight was written for that exact inward turn.

It is not a quick motivational read, and it is not spiritual decoration. It is a deeper journey into consciousness, identity, thought, perception, attention, healing, inner truth, and the strange machinery that shapes the human experience.

Because before a person can truly say, “I will it so,” they must first ask:

What am I before the thoughts begin speaking?

And that question, Captain, is where the walls start cracking.

If this blog was the spark, The Essence of Existence is the walk into the fire — a serious, contemplative book for readers who are ready to stop searching outward and begin facing the obvious truth hidden in plain sight.

You will not find this book.

It will find you.

Explore The Essence of Existence here

Looking at Life with New Eyes - When Ordinary Blessings Become the Richest Things We Own

 

There is a strange poverty that can live inside a person who has almost everything.

A roof over their head. Food on the table. Clean water. A working body. A pair of eyes that still open in the morning. Hands that can touch, hold, build, write, work, and embrace. Legs that can carry them from one room to another without a second thought. Breath moving in and out of the body without needing permission.

And yet, somehow, the heart still says, “It is not enough.”

That is where the hamster wheel begins.

Not with ambition. Ambition is not the enemy. Wanting a better life is not the enemy. There is nothing wrong with wanting a safer home, better food, a reliable car, a softer life, or beautiful things around you. There is nothing holy about suffering unnecessarily. There is nothing wise about pretending your needs do not matter.

The problem begins when a person starts from emptiness.

When the starting point is not gratitude, but lack.

When the soul looks at life and says, “I will only be happy when I get there.”

There is the trap.

Because “there” keeps moving.

First you need a roof over your head. Then you need the roof you want. Then you need the roof that impresses others. Then you enter a room where everyone has a bigger roof, a better view, a cleaner driveway, a shinier car, a more expensive watch, a more impressive life. Suddenly the thing you once prayed for becomes ordinary. The blessing becomes invisible. The miracle becomes background noise.

People who own ten Ferraris will not gather around to praise your Mercedes-Benz.

And so, back onto the wheel you go.

Running. Chasing. Comparing. Upgrading. Proving. Performing.

But the question is never asked deeply enough.

What are you actually trying to fix?

Because if the hollow feeling is inside you, no object outside you will ever completely fill it. It may distract you for a while. It may excite you for a season. It may give you a new identity to wear in public. But once the shine fades, the same old hunger returns.

This is why the starting point matters.

Children should not first be taught to chase things. They should first be taught to see.

To see the blessing of eyesight before they complain about the brand of the glasses.

To see the blessing of walking before they complain about the shoes.

To see the blessing of hands before they complain about the phone they hold.

To see the blessing of breath, health, family, food, shelter, warmth, and ordinary safety before life has to remove something to make them notice it.

Because gratitude is not weakness.

Gratitude is vision.

It is looking at life with new eyes.

It is the ability to stand in the middle of an ordinary day and realize that ordinary is only ordinary because you still have it.

Your eyesight is ordinary until darkness comes.

Your legs are ordinary until walking becomes difficult.

Your health is ordinary until the doctor’s office becomes your second home.

Your home is ordinary until you have nowhere to go.

Your meal is ordinary until hunger humbles you.

Your peace is ordinary until chaos enters the room.

So what is really important?

That is the question we are afraid to sit with.

Not what looks important on social media. Not what sounds impressive in conversation. Not what makes strangers clap. What is really important when the noise quiets down?

This is where the old words return with power:

“Seek ye first the Kingdom of God, and His righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you.”

Most people hear that and think it means life will magically hand them all the things they want if they behave well enough. But perhaps the meaning runs much deeper than that.

Perhaps it is saying: get your foundation right first.

Seek the Kingdom first.

Not the car first.
Not the house first.
Not the applause first.
Not the status first.
Not the next upgrade first.

The Kingdom first.

And where is the Kingdom?

“The Kingdom of God is within you.”

That changes everything.

Because if the Kingdom is within you, then your starting point is not out there somewhere. It is not hiding inside a bank account. It is not parked in a driveway. It is not hanging in a wardrobe. It is not sitting in a shopping cart waiting for checkout.

It is within.

The foundation is within.

The place you are trying to reach has to begin inside you, or every outer achievement will feel strangely unfinished.

That is why so many people reach success and still feel hollow. They climbed the ladder, but the ladder was leaning against the wrong wall. They collected the things, but never healed the hunger. They upgraded the outside, but never entered the Kingdom within.

And without that inner foundation, life becomes one long negotiation with emptiness.

You buy something. You feel better.

For a moment.

Then the feeling fades.

So you buy again. Chase again. Prove again. Compare again.

The wheel keeps turning because the soul was never taught to stop and say, “I already have blessings here. I already have life here. I already have something sacred here.”

That does not mean you stop building.

It means you build from peace instead of panic.

There is a massive difference between a person who wants a better life because they love life, and a person who wants a better life because they hate where they are.

One is creating.

The other is escaping.

One is grateful and growing.

The other is wounded and running.

When you start from the Kingdom within, you can still work hard. You can still dream. You can still improve your home, your finances, your body, your skills, your future. But you are no longer trying to prove that you are enough. You are no longer begging the world to validate your existence through possessions.

You are not chasing things to become whole.

You are whole, and then you choose what is worth building.

That is a completely different life.

A person who sees with old eyes says, “I will be grateful once I have more.”

A person who sees with new eyes says, “I am grateful now, and from this place, I will grow.”

That is the shift.

That is the Kingdom.

That is the exit door from the hamster wheel.

Because the wheel feeds on forgetfulness. It survives by making you ignore the blessings already standing beside you. It whispers, “You are behind. You are less. You are nothing until you have more.”

But new eyes see differently.

New eyes look at the body and say, “Thank you.”

New eyes look at the morning and say, “I have another day.”

New eyes look at simple food and say, “I am being sustained.”

New eyes look at a safe room, a working hand, a clear breath, a loved one nearby, and understand that life has already given something priceless.

And from there, yes, build.

Build the better roof.

Cook the better meal.

Buy the better car if it serves your life.

Create beauty.

Earn money.

Improve your world.

But never let things become your god.

Never let comparison become your scripture.

Never let the hunger of others tell you that your blessings are small.

Because the greatest poverty is not having little.

The greatest poverty is having much and seeing nothing.

Looking at life with new eyes means returning to the foundation. It means remembering what matters before loss becomes the teacher. It means understanding that gratitude is not the end of ambition. It is the only safe beginning for it.

Seek first the Kingdom within.

Start there.

Then let the things be added from a place of peace, not from a place of emptiness.

Because when you begin from lack, nothing is ever enough.

But when you begin from the Kingdom within, even the ordinary starts to shine.

A Deeper Doorway

If this reflection stirred something in you, then perhaps the real question is not only what you are grateful for — but who you are beneath the noise that keeps asking for more.

Because the hamster wheel does not only live in money, houses, cars, and possessions.

It also lives in identity.

It lives in the mind that never rests.
The self that keeps trying to become something.
The inner voice that says, “Not yet. Not enough. Keep searching.”

But what if the thing you are searching for has never been outside you?

What if peace is not something you eventually earn, but something you return to when the false noise quiets down?

That is the deeper road explored in The Essence of Existence: The Obvious Truth Hidden in Plain Sight — a contemplative book about consciousness, identity, thought, awareness, inner truth, and the quiet mystery of what we really are beneath the stories we carry.

Equilibrium and Consciousness - Awareness Learning to Stand Still

Why Inner Balance Is Not Weakness — It Is Awareness Learning to Stand Still

There is a strange thing that happens when a person begins to wake up.

At first, they think consciousness is going to feel like fireworks. They imagine some grand lightning strike of understanding, some holy spotlight falling from the ceiling, some dramatic moment where the clouds part and the universe finally explains itself.

But more often than not, consciousness arrives much quieter than that.

It arrives as a pause.

It arrives as the moment you almost reacted, but didn’t.
The moment you almost believed the panic, but questioned it.
The moment the old anger walked into the room, wearing its familiar boots, and you noticed it before it owned you.

That is where equilibrium begins.

Not in perfection.
Not in pretending life no longer shakes you.
But in the growing space between what happens to you and what you become because of it.

Equilibrium is not being untouched by life. That would make you a stone. Equilibrium is being touched by life without being dragged around by every hand that reaches for you.

A person without inner equilibrium is like a little boat in a dramatic ocean. Every opinion becomes a wave. Every insult becomes a storm. Every fear becomes weather. Every memory becomes a tide pulling them back into a version of themselves they thought they had outgrown.

And the wild thing is, many people call this “being real.”

They say, “This is just who I am.”
But often, it is not who they are.
It is only what they have practiced becoming.

Consciousness changes that.

Consciousness is the lamp in the room. It does not need to shout. It simply allows you to see what is actually happening.

You begin to see that your anger is not always truth. Sometimes it is old pain wearing armor.

You begin to see that your anxiety is not always prophecy. Sometimes it is the nervous system reading yesterday’s danger into today’s silence.

You begin to see that your thoughts are not kings. Many of them are just visitors, loud ones, badly dressed ones, dramatic ones, arriving without invitation and acting like they own the house.

And then something beautiful begins.

You stop bowing to every thought.

That is consciousness.

Not escaping the mind, but no longer being hypnotized by it.

Equilibrium is what happens when consciousness becomes strong enough to keep you centered while life continues to move.

Because life will move. That part is guaranteed. People will disappoint you. Plans will collapse. A message will not come. A door will close. Someone will misunderstand you so badly you may wonder whether they were even in the same conversation.

But when equilibrium is alive in you, these things no longer have the same power to throw you out of yourself.

You may still feel the sting. You may still need a moment. You may still swear under your breath and stare at the ceiling like the ancestors owe you an explanation.

But beneath all of that, something remains.

A deeper seat.
A quieter knowing.
A place inside you that says, “This is happening, but it is not all of me.”

That is the beginning of freedom.

Most people are not exhausted because life is too hard. They are exhausted because they have no inner center. Everything gets in. Everything gets a vote. Every mood becomes a government. Every fear becomes a priest. Every passing thought climbs onto the throne and starts issuing commandments.

Equilibrium removes the throne.

It does not make you cold. It makes you clear.

There is a difference.

A cold person shuts life out.
A clear person lets life in, but does not let it take over the house.

This is why consciousness and equilibrium belong together. Consciousness without equilibrium can become overwhelming. You see too much, feel too much, question too much, and suddenly awareness becomes another storm. Equilibrium without consciousness can become numbness, a false peace, a painted smile over a locked basement.

But together, they create something powerful.

Awareness with steadiness.
Feeling with wisdom.
Presence with backbone.

And this is where the old version of you begins to lose its grip.

The version that reacted to everything.
The version that chased approval like oxygen.
The version that mistook chaos for passion.
The version that thought peace was boring because drama was familiar.

That version does not disappear overnight. It fades as you stop feeding it.

Each time you pause before reacting, equilibrium grows.

Each time you observe a thought instead of obeying it, consciousness deepens.

Each time you return to your breath, your body, your present moment, you teach yourself a new law:

“I can feel this without becoming it.”

There is power in that sentence.

You can feel sadness without building a home inside it.
You can feel anger without handing it the steering wheel.
You can feel fear without allowing it to write your future.
You can feel uncertainty without crawling back into old cages just because they are familiar.

This is not weakness.

This is mastery in its early form.

The world loves to celebrate loud power. The comeback. The clapback. The dramatic exit. The public victory. The performance of strength.

But there is another kind of power, quieter and far more dangerous to everything that once controlled you.

The power to remain inwardly seated.

To look at the storm and say, “I see you.”

Not “I deny you.”
Not “I am better than this.”
Not “I am spiritual, so I feel nothing.”

Just: “I see you.”

And because you see it, you are no longer completely inside it.

That is the doorway.

Consciousness is the seeing.
Equilibrium is the staying.

Together, they return you to yourself.

Not the self built from wounds, labels, roles, fears, and other people’s expectations. The deeper self. The witnessing self. The one who has been quietly present through every version of your life.

The one who watched you survive things you once thought would end you.

The one who knows that peace is not found by controlling the whole world, but by no longer giving the whole world permission to control you.

So perhaps equilibrium is not some distant spiritual achievement.

Perhaps it begins today, in the smallest ordinary moment.

When the phone buzzes and you breathe before answering.
When the thought attacks and you refuse to become its prisoner.
When the old wound opens and you place awareness there instead of shame.
When life shakes the table, but you do not immediately spill yourself across the floor.

That is not nothing.

That is consciousness learning balance.

That is the soul remembering its seat.

That is the quiet revolution most people overlook because it does not make enough noise.

But make no mistake, Captain — this one is powerful.

Because the person who can return to equilibrium has found something the world cannot easily steal.

They have found the center.

And once a person finds the center, they are no longer so easy to drag into every storm.

Also Read:

The Devil Was Never Outside You — It Was the Voice That Made You Small

 

The Devil Was Never Outside You — It Was the Voice That Made You Small

How the monkey mind became humanity’s oldest prison

The devil has always been painted as something outside the human being.

A horned creature.
A shadow in the corner.
A whisper from the dark.
A tempter standing at the edge of the soul, waiting for one weak moment to slip through the door.

It is a powerful image. It has filled paintings, sermons, old books, frightened childhoods, and many sleepless nights. For centuries, people were taught to look outward for the enemy. To watch the world. To fear the stranger. To suspect the body. To mistrust desire. To imagine evil as a thing with a face, a tail, a flame, and a destination.

But what if the most dangerous devil never needed a costume?

What if it learned a far better disguise?

What if it arrived wearing your own voice?

Not shouting. Not roaring. Not turning the room cold. Just speaking quietly from inside the mind, sounding reasonable, familiar, and almost protective.

That voice is not always dramatic. In fact, it is often painfully ordinary. It begins as a small doubt. A little tightening in the chest. A sentence you barely notice. It tells you to wait until you are better. It tells you not to risk embarrassment. It tells you your dream is too foolish, your voice too strange, your path too uncertain. It does not have to destroy you in one grand attack. It only has to convince you to fold yourself away, piece by piece, until the prison feels like personality.

This is where the old idea of the devil becomes far more interesting.

Because perhaps the devil was never only a monster outside the gate.

Perhaps the devil is also the voice inside the gatekeeper.

In meditation circles, there is an old phrase people often use: the monkey mind. It is the restless mind that jumps from thought to thought, branch to branch, fear to fear, memory to memory. One moment it is worrying about tomorrow. The next it is replaying something from ten years ago. Then it is judging your body, your work, your past, your family, your choices, your failures, your future, and the tone of a message someone sent three days earlier.

The monkey mind is not evil in the simple storybook sense. It is not a demon sitting in the skull with a pitchfork. It is the untamed noise of the mind when it has never learned to sit still. It chatters. It warns. It compares. It invents problems before they arrive and resurrects old wounds long after they have left the room.

And because it speaks from inside us, we often mistake it for truth.

That is the dangerous part.

A stranger can insult you, and you may resist. A critic can judge you, and you may walk away. But when the voice comes from your own mind, wearing your own language and carrying pieces of your own history, it becomes much harder to question. It feels intimate. It feels official. It feels like the final word.

That is how the monkey mind becomes a kind of devil.

Not because thought itself is wicked, but because an unconscious thought can become a master. A fear repeated often enough can become a belief. A belief carried long enough can become an identity. And an identity built from fear can make a living soul behave like a servant in its own house.

The old religious paintings showed the devil tempting people into sin. But the modern devil is often more subtle. It does not always tempt a person into wildness. Sometimes it tempts them into shrinking. It persuades them to delay their life until conditions are perfect. It makes them suspicious of their own light. It teaches them to call obedience “peace” and self-betrayal “being realistic.”

This is why so many people feel exhausted before they have even begun.

They are not only fighting the world. They are fighting a courtroom inside their own head.

Every idea is cross-examined. Every hope is treated as suspicious. Every dream must prove itself to an inner judge who never sleeps. The person may appear free from the outside, walking through ordinary streets, answering emails, buying bread, paying bills, smiling politely. But inwardly there is a little tyrant at the desk, stamping papers, rejecting applications, and keeping the soul waiting in a corridor.

That little tyrant is not wisdom.

It is fear dressed as authority.

And this is where awareness becomes dangerous in the best possible way.

Because the moment you begin to observe the voice, you are no longer completely ruled by it. The moment you can say, “There is the thought again,” something ancient begins to loosen. The spell depends on your total identification with the noise. It needs you to believe that every thought is you, every fear is prophecy, every doubt is guidance, every old wound is a law carved into stone.

But sit quietly for long enough and you may notice something strange.

The thoughts arrive, but you are the one noticing them.

The fear speaks, but you are the one hearing it.

The monkey jumps, but you are not the branch.

This is the beginning of freedom.

Not because the mind suddenly becomes silent forever. That is not how most human beings work. The mind will still wander. It will still chatter. It will still drag old furniture into new rooms. But once you have seen the machinery, you are not so easily fooled by it.

The devil loses power when it is recognized as a voice and not a king.

That is why stillness has always frightened systems that depend on unconscious people. A person who never questions their thoughts can be led by fear. A person who never sits with themselves can be sold almost anything. A person who believes every inner accusation will keep apologizing for existing. But a person who begins to notice the voice behind the curtain becomes harder to control.

There is a sacred rebellion in sitting still.

It looks harmless from the outside. No banners. No shouting. No grand performance. Just a human being breathing, watching, returning, listening. Yet inside, something immense may be happening. The false ruler is being studied. The old fear is being interrupted. The voice that once seemed like destiny is being revealed as a pattern.

And once a pattern is seen, it is no longer invisible.

This does not mean every difficult thought is bad. The mind can warn us, guide us, remember for us, help us plan, and protect us from real danger. The problem begins when the mind becomes a runaway priest of fear, turning every doorway into a threat and every dream into a trial.

That is when the monkey mind becomes the inner devil: not a supernatural monster, but a restless force that keeps the human being divided from their own deeper nature.

It tells the infinite creature to behave like a frightened clerk.

It tells the soul to wait outside its own temple.

It turns life into a room full of imagined punishments.

And yet, the cure is almost insultingly simple.

Notice it.

Not obey it.
Not fight it like a dragon.
Not worship it as truth.

Notice it.

See the voice. Hear the tone. Feel the old fear trying to dress itself as wisdom. Watch how quickly it builds a prison out of one sentence. Watch how it reaches into the past for evidence and into the future for disaster. Watch it leap from branch to branch, demanding your attention like a monkey that believes noise is survival.

Then breathe.

In that breath, a small gap appears.

And in that gap, the old world trembles.

Because you are no longer fully asleep inside the performance. You are no longer just the character being shouted at from within. You are the witness. You are the one behind the thought. You are the one who can hear the courtroom and still refuse the sentence.

Maybe that is why the old spiritual traditions cared so much about silence.

Not because silence is empty.

Because silence exposes the impostor.

When the noise settles, even for a moment, something deeper remains. Not the frightened voice. Not the old accusation. Not the monkey swinging through the rafters of the mind. Something quieter. Something older. Something that does not need to prove its right to exist.

And perhaps that is what the devil fears most.

Not your perfection.
Not your performance.
Not your public image.

Your remembrance.

The moment you remember that you are not every thought that passes through you, the chain begins to weaken. The moment you stop bowing to every inner voice that makes you small, the old throne cracks. The moment you become still enough to witness the monkey mind instead of being dragged by it, the devil is no longer outside you, and it is no longer ruling inside you either.

It becomes what it may always have been.

A voice.

A pattern.

A shadow with borrowed authority.

And once you see that, you do not have to burn the whole forest down.

You simply stop calling the monkey king.

Also Read: 

A Book for Seekers Who Feel Reality Is Not What They Were Told

The Old Ways : Herbal Remedies and the Wisdom That Carried Us Here

Before health had labels, shelves, brands, subscriptions, and complicated packaging, people had the land.

They had leaves, roots, bark, seeds, honey, smoke, steam, clay, fire, water, sunlight, rest, prayer, and memory.

And that memory mattered.

It was not written in glossy language or sold as a trend. It was passed from hand to hand, kitchen to kitchen, grandmother to child, healer to apprentice, and village to village.

There was a tea for the stomach, a poultice for swelling, a bitter root for cleansing, a steam for the chest, a broth for weakness, a plant for sleep, a ritual for grief, a fast for the body, and a prayer for the spirit.

This was not stupidity.

This was survival.

Civilization did not arrive here by accident. Our ancestors crossed winters, droughts, plagues, births, wounds, hunger, fevers, and hard seasons with what they knew, what they grew, what they observed, and what they remembered.

They watched the body. They watched the seasons. They watched animals, plants, weather, wounds, hunger, recovery, and the quiet difference between what helped and what harmed.

That is a kind of science too — not the polished laboratory kind, but the patient kind. The old kind. The kind born from living close enough to nature to understand she was not just scenery.

The Wisdom That Never Left

Across the world, this wisdom still breathes.

In Peru, plants from the mountains and forests are still treated with deep respect. The old relationship between healer, plant, spirit, and body has not vanished. It still speaks through teas, tonics, cleansing rituals, and plant knowledge that reaches back further than most written records.

In China, herbal traditions have been refined for thousands of years, built around balance, energy, heat, cold, dampness, dryness, and the understanding that the body is not a machine made of isolated parts, but a living system.

Across Africa, healing has always been more than swallowing something and hoping for the best. It includes plants, food, community, ancestors, prayer, touch, rhythm, smoke, water, and the deep understanding that the body, mind, family, land, and spirit are connected.

These traditions are not “primitive.” They are old because they lasted. And things do not last for generations without carrying something valuable inside them.

Old Does Not Mean Foolish

Of course, not every old remedy was perfect. Our ancestors were human. They got things wrong. They learned through trial, error, observation, and sometimes painful lessons.

But they also got a lot right.

They understood that food is not just fuel. They understood that plants have power, that rest heals, that sunlight matters, that the gut affects the whole person, and that bitterness often has a cleansing purpose.

They knew warmth, steam, and sweat could shift the body. They knew grief could make a person sick. They knew fear could weaken the spirit. They knew that a body ignored for too long would eventually demand attention.

Today, many of these ideas are being rediscovered with new names: gut health, nervous system regulation, anti-inflammatory foods, plant compounds, breathwork, circadian rhythm, stress response, and the mind-body connection.

The old people may not have used those terms, but many of them understood the pattern.

They knew health was not only about treating sickness. It was about staying in rhythm — with the land, with food, with sleep, with work, with rest, with the seasons, and with the unseen parts of being human.

Herbal Remedies Are a Relationship

That is what herbal remedies represent at their best.

They are not just “plants.” They are a relationship.

A relationship with the earth. A relationship with the body. A relationship with time, patience, memory, and the people who came before us.

When someone makes ginger tea, garlic honey, bitter leaf tonic, mint infusion, turmeric milk, rooibos, moringa, aloe, sage steam, or a simple healing broth, they are not just making a home remedy.

They are continuing a chain.

A chain that says: we have seen this before. We know what to try first. We know how to support the body. We know healing is not always instant. We know nature still has a voice.

There is something powerful about that.

The Pause Is Part of the Medicine

The old ways ask something from us that modern life often does not.

They ask us to slow down, to notice, to prepare, to participate, to listen to the body before it collapses, and to respect discomfort as a message instead of treating it only as an inconvenience.

A cup of herbal tea is not only about the herb.

It is about the pause.

It is the boiling water, the smell rising, the hands around the cup, and the quiet moment where the body is finally being heard.

That alone is medicine in the oldest sense of the word.

We have become very good at rushing past the simple things. We want the quick fix, the instant result, the overnight solution, the magic pill, and the shortcut back to normal.

But the old ways were not built on shortcuts.

They were built on relationship, prevention, nourishment, cleansing, strengthening, and balance. They were built on the belief that the body is not an enemy to be silenced, but a companion to be understood.

Coming Home to the Old Ways

That is the wisdom worth returning to.

Not recklessly. Not blindly. Not by pretending every plant is safe for every person. And not by ignoring serious illness when proper medical help is needed.

But by remembering that the first layer of care has always been close to home.

It lived in the kitchen, the garden, the forest, the field, the hands of elders, and the small daily choices that kept a person strong before sickness arrived.

Our forefathers and foremothers were not waiting for permission to understand life.

They lived it.

They knew which leaves cooled, which roots warmed, which foods strengthened, which smells calmed, which teas moved the chest, and which broths brought people back after weakness.

They also knew which plants deserved caution, which remedies belonged to the body, and which ones belonged more to the spirit.

That knowledge is not something to laugh at.

It is an inheritance.

And maybe part of our modern sickness is that we have become disconnected from inheritance itself.

Disconnected from land, elders, seasons, food, silence, and the slow intelligence of nature.

So perhaps returning to herbal remedies is not about going backwards.

Perhaps it is about coming home.

Coming home to the idea that nature is not outdated. Coming home to the idea that simple does not mean weak. Coming home to the idea that ancient does not mean foolish. Coming home to the idea that our bodies were never meant to live completely separated from the earth that made them.

The old ways carried us here.

They fed us, soothed us, strengthened us, cleansed us, comforted us, buried our dead, delivered our children, and held our families through storms.

That deserves respect.

Not worship. Not blind obedience. Respect.

Because somewhere between the old clay pot and the modern shelf, between the bitter herb and the expensive wellness trend, between the grandmother’s kitchen and the influencer’s glass jar, something obvious got lost:

The earth was helping us long before we learned how to brand it.

And she still is.

Keep walking with the old ways

Green Medicine: Nature’s Pharmacy Revealed

For readers who want to keep exploring herbs, spices, simple remedies, and plant wisdom in one natural guide.

Step inside the green room

The Woman Carved Into the Church Wall

Why medieval churches had naked female figures in the stonework.

Somewhere on an old church wall, above a doorway, beside a window, or tucked into weathered stone like a secret nobody wanted to explain too loudly, there is a strange little figure staring back at history.

She is not dressed like a saint.

She is not floating on a cloud.

She is not holding a baby, a candle, a scroll, or a polite little lily.

Nope.

She is usually carved as a naked female figure, often with exaggerated features, openly displaying her body in a way that makes modern visitors stop mid-step and say:

“Wait… is that really on a church?”

Yes, dear reader.

It is.

And her name is commonly known as the Sheela-na-gig.

Sheela-na-gigs are medieval stone carvings found mostly on or near churches, but also on castles and other old buildings. Their meaning is still debated, which is academic language for:

“We found her on holy buildings, and nobody can fully agree what she was doing there.”

And that is where the delicious mystery begins.

Because once you notice her, the question becomes impossible to ignore:

Why would a medieval church put this woman in stone?

Not hidden in a pagan forest.

Not painted inside some forbidden cave.

On a church.

On the building people walked into for salvation.

Now we are cooking.

The Stone Woman Nobody Can Fully Explain

The first thing to know is this: nobody can honestly say with total certainty what the Sheela-na-gig meant.

That is part of her power.

Academics have theories. Folklorists have theories. Artists have theories. Modern spiritual seekers definitely have theories, and some of them arrived wearing velvet and carrying incense.

But the woman herself remains stubborn.

She does not explain.

She displays.

“You tell me why I am here. I have been waiting 800 years.”

Examples of Sheela-na-gigs have been found in Ireland, England, Wales, Scotland, France, Spain, and other parts of Europe. Ireland has one of the strongest concentrations, which is probably why the name itself feels like it belongs in a misty field beside a ruined chapel while a crow judges your life choices from a stone wall.

In plain human language:

We found her on holy buildings. We know she mattered. We just cannot fully prove what she was doing there.

And honestly, that makes her even better.

Theory One: A Warning Against Lust

One common interpretation is that Sheela-na-gigs were moral warnings.

Medieval churches were not shy about using frightening, grotesque, or exaggerated imagery. Gargoyles, demons, monsters, tortured bodies, open mouths, strange beasts — church stonework was often a full horror movie before horror movies existed.

So one theory says the Sheela-na-gig was meant to warn people against lust. Her body was carved in an exaggerated, shocking way to say:

“Look what sin does. Keep your soul clean. Behave yourself.”

Very medieval.

Very dramatic.

Very “don’t even think about enjoying that thought, Brian.”

But here is where it gets interesting.

If she was only a warning, why place her near doors and windows?

Why at thresholds?

Why at the very places where people cross from outside to inside?

That leads us to the second theory — and this one has teeth.

Theory Two: Protection Magic in Plain Sight

Another major idea is that Sheela-na-gigs were apotropaic figures.

That is the fancy word for something meant to ward off evil.

Basically: spiritual security system.

Before motion sensors and alarm codes, people carved strange, shocking, or monstrous figures onto buildings to scare away evil, bad luck, harmful spirits, and whatever else was lurking around the medieval parking lot.

In that view, the Sheela-na-gig was not shameful at all.

She was a guardian.

A stone bouncer.

A sacred “not today, demon” carved directly into the wall.

The very image later people might call rude or embarrassing may once have been seen as powerful enough to protect a church.

Now that is a plot twist.

Not the soft candle version of sacred.

The raw version.

The ancient version.

The version that says life enters through the body, and death had better keep walking.

Theory Three: Fertility, Birth, and the Old Sacred Body

Another interpretation sees the Sheela-na-gig as a fertility figure.

This is where the conversation gets deeper than simple scandal.

Before modern shame wrapped the human body in panic, many older cultures saw fertility, birth, sex, death, and renewal as part of the same sacred cycle. The body was not always treated as the enemy of the soul.

The body was the doorway.

The wound.

The gate.

The beginning.

The return.

Now, we should be careful here. It is easy to romanticize everything old as “ancient goddess worship” and then gallop into the mist on a Pinterest horse.

The honest answer is more interesting:

Maybe she was warning. Maybe she was protection. Maybe she was fertility. Maybe she was all of these things at once.

Because human symbols are rarely tidy.

Especially the powerful ones.

Why She Still Makes People Nervous

Here is the real reason the Sheela-na-gig still works as a forbidden fruit topic:

She touches the bruise.

She forces the question:

When did the body become dirty?

Not harmful.

Not reckless.

Not without boundaries.

But dirty.

When did the female body become something to hide, fear, control, explain, cover, shame, or turn into a sermon?

The Sheela-na-gig sits there in stone like a little medieval grenade.

She refuses to be cute.

She refuses to be obedient.

She refuses to be polished into a porcelain saint with perfect lighting and no uncomfortable questions.

She is not trying to be pretty.

She is trying to be impossible to ignore.

And that is why she is dangerous.

Not because she is obscene.

Because she remembers something people were taught to forget.

The Church Wall Has a Memory

What makes this topic so powerful is the contradiction.

A figure that looks forbidden appears on a holy wall.

A body people might call shameful appears near sacred architecture.

A woman carved in stone refuses to separate flesh from spirit.

That is the part that belongs in the same family as The Whore and the Holy One.

Because again we are dealing with the ancient split:

Holy versus bodily. Pure versus sexual. Saint versus woman. Spirit versus flesh. Good girl versus dangerous woman.

And the Sheela-na-gig laughs at that split.

Not politely.

Not softly.

Not with a scented candle and a calm playlist.

She laughs with stone teeth.

“You made the body your enemy. I was here before your fear.”

Maybe She Was Never the Problem

Maybe the Sheela-na-gig was not carved to corrupt anyone.

Maybe she was carved because people once understood that what shocks us can also protect us.

Maybe she was warning against lust.

Maybe she was guarding the doorway.

Maybe she was fertility magic.

Maybe she was a leftover memory of something older, placed into a Christian world that never fully erased what came before.

Or maybe she is simply proof that medieval people were far less boring than we pretend.

Because we love to imagine the past as stiff, grey, obedient, and deeply allergic to fun.

Then a little stone woman on a church wall appears and says:

“Actually, no. Sit down. We were complicated.”

And that may be the most honest answer of all.

The Sheela-na-gig is complicated.

Like faith.

Like shame.

Like womanhood.

Like the body.

Like everything humans try to control once it becomes too powerful.

Final Thought

The Sheela-na-gig survives because she cannot be comfortably filed away.

Call her grotesque.

Call her guardian.

Call her fertility symbol.

Call her warning.

Call her ancient scandal.

She remains there in the stone, staring through centuries of sermons, shame, weather, silence, and academic arguments.

And maybe that is why she still matters.

Because every age tries to decide what parts of the human body are holy and what parts must be hidden.

But this strange woman on the church wall has a different message:

The doorway was never dirty.
The body was never separate from the mystery.
And the sacred has never been as well-behaved as people pretend.

Further reading: 

I Am the Whore and the Holy One: The Ancient Poem That Refused to Behave

The 7 Hermetic Laws: The Hidden Patterns Running Beneath Your Life