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. The perfect posture remains elusive. And even if it did exist, I suspect I would only find it for a second before it vanished again.
I find my thoughts constantly weighing one system against another, like a mental debate club that doesn't know when to quit. The labels keep swirling: Mahasi, Goenka, Pa Auk; noting versus scanning; Samatha versus Vipassana. It feels as though I am scrolling through a series of invisible browser tabs, clicking back and forth, desperate for one of them to provide enough certainty to silence the others. This habit is both annoying and somewhat humiliating to admit. I claim to be finished with technique-shopping, yet I am still here, assigning grades to different methods instead of just sitting.
Earlier this evening, I made an effort to stay with the simple sensation of breathing. 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. My jaw clenched without me even realizing it. Once I recognized the tension, the "teacher" in my head had already won.
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. 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. I thought of the rigorous standards of Pa Auk, and suddenly my own restless sitting felt like "cutting corners." Like I was cheating, even though there was no one there to watch.
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. Warmth in the joint. The weight of the body on the cushion. The high-pitched sound of a bug nearby. Then the mind rushes back in, asking: "Wait, which system does this experience belong to?" It is almost comical.
I felt the vibration of a random alert on my device earlier. I resisted the urge to look, which felt like progress, but then I felt stupid for needing that small win. The same egoic loop. Ranking. Measuring. 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 don't try to deepen it. I have learned that forcing a sense of "calm" only adds a new layer of tension. The fan clicks on, then off. 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 give up on the more info technique entirely just to be defiant. Then I forget what I was doing entirely.
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 the realization that no technique will magically eliminate the boredom and the doubt.
I can feel the blood returning to my feet—that stinging sensation. I let it happen. Or I try to. The urge to move pulses underneath the surface. I negotiate. Five more breaths. Then maybe I will shift. That deal falls apart almost immediately. It doesn't matter.
I don't feel resolved. I don't feel clear. I just feel like myself. A bit lost, a little fatigued, yet still present on the cushion. The technical comparisons keep looping, but they are softer now, like background noise instead of an active argument. I don’t settle them. That isn't the point. For now, it is enough to notice that this is simply what the mind does when the world gets quiet.