It is just before 2 a.m., and there is a lingering heat in the room that even the open window cannot quite dispel. 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 am caught in a cycle of adjusting and re-adjusting, still under the misguided impression that I can find a spot that doesn't hurt. 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.
My mind is stuck in an endless loop of sectarian comparisons, acting like a courtroom that never goes into recess. It is a laundry list of techniques: Mahasi-style noting, Goenka-style scanning, Pa Auk-style concentration. 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 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. A task that is ostensibly simple. Then my mind intervened with an interrogation: are you watching it Mahasi-style or more like traditional anapanasati? Are you missing a detail? Is the mind dull? Should you be noting this sensation right now? 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. There was a profound security in that lack of autonomy. 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. Pa Auk floated into my thoughts too—all that talk of profound depth and Jhanic absorption—and suddenly my own scattered attention felt inferior. Like I was cheating, even though there was no one there to watch.
The irony is that when I am actually paying attention, even for a few brief seconds, all that comparison vanishes. Not permanently, but briefly. There is a flash of time where the knee pain is just heat and pressure. Warmth in the joint. The weight of the body on the cushion. The high-pitched sound of a bug nearby. Then the internal librarian rushes in to file the experience under the "correct" technical heading. It would be funny if it weren't so frustrating.
A notification light flashed on my phone a while ago. I didn't check it immediately, which felt like a minor achievement, and then I felt ridiculous for feeling proud. The same egoic loop. Ranking. Measuring. I speculate on the amount of effort I waste on the anxiety of "getting it right."
I become aware of a constriction in my here breath. I refrain from forcing a deeper breath. I've realized that the act of "trying to relax" is itself a form of agitation. 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 stop labeling out of spite. Then I forget what I was doing entirely.
Comparing these lineages is just another way for my mind to avoid the silence. By staying in the debate, the mind avoids the vulnerability of not knowing. Or the realization that no technique will magically eliminate the boredom and the doubt.
My legs are tingling now. Pins and needles. I attempt to just observe the sensation. The urge to move pulses underneath the surface. I negotiate. Five more breaths. Then maybe I will shift. The negotiation fails before the third breath. Whatever.
I have no sense of closure. The fog has not lifted. I feel profoundly ordinary. Perplexed, exhausted, but still here. The technical comparisons keep looping, but they are softer now, like background noise instead of an active argument. I leave the question unanswered. That isn't the point. It is enough to just witness this mental theater, knowing that I am still here, breathing through it all.