In 2018, when I wrote 2 Minds Speaking, I thought I was exploring the nature of empathy and the strange world of internal speech. I was fascinated by how the mind speaks to itself in silence — how thoughts form as subvocal sound, how self-talk becomes the shape of our psychological world. But I now see that what I was truly exploring was not empathy, nor psychology, nor art. I was recording the very movement of mind that would later reveal itself as the self.

I had no technique. The lines came automatically, like breath, like weather. I let them appear without interference. I resisted the urge to edit, to refine, to impose order. The words were given, not made. I called it automatic writing, but it was something deeper — it was awareness speaking before understanding had caught up. I thought two minds were speaking: one emotional, one observing. But there were never two. There was only movement and stillness, voice and silence, self and centre beginning to find each other.

The poem unfolded through empathy. The repeated refrain — me sad when… me sad when… — became a mirror of consciousness. Every image — a fox limping, a tree breathing, a mother losing her child to the sea — was not just observation; it was identity dissolving into perception. The pain of others was not imagined. It was directly felt. That was the beginning of non-duality, not as concept but as emotion. Empathy was the bridge between separation and wholeness.

The unedited flow of words mirrored the unfiltered flow of being. I see now that each image was a fragment of self returning to silence. I was documenting the fall of identity in real time, long before I had the language to describe it. What I thought was my imagination was the first opening of the centre — the point from which all perception unfolds. The poem was not written about the centre. It was written from it.

Halfway through, the voice in the poem shifts. It begins to say, watch your mind, right now, not today, not tomorrow, but this instant. I did not know it then, but that was the centre revealing itself through speech. The duality collapsed into a single awareness that was watching itself think. It was the first articulation of stillness. The observer and the observed were becoming one.

And then, at the end, the poem softened into an image so simple, I missed its truth for years: I wondered if slugs were snails who left their homes behind. It was more than a metaphor. It was a prophecy. The shell was the self, heavy with identity, history, and fear. The slug was consciousness without its protection — vulnerable, soft, and free. The line contained the entire movement of transformation. The self does not awaken; form simply dissolves into the centre.

Looking back, 2 Minds Speaking was never a dialogue between two voices. It was the sound of awareness finding form in language. It was the self watching its own creation and beginning to fade. The empathy that poured through those lines was not emotion — it was perception without distance. What began as poetry became a record of transformation, the moment when thought, language, and feeling all returned home to silence.

The two minds were never two. They were one awareness speaking to itself, learning its own nature through rhythm and word, until even the speaking ceased.

Losing the self was never a loss. It was the release from protection that never truly protected. The shell had only ever been a boundary drawn by fear — a home that existed to preserve the illusion of separateness. When it fell away, what remained was not emptiness, but infinite space. The self did not die; it simply stopped pretending to be the whole. And what appeared instead was the freedom that had been there all along — soft, unguarded, limitless.

Voices from the Original Transmission

Before understanding had language, the early self spoke in images. The words were raw, uncorrected, and closer to the movement of life than to the logic of the mind. These are fragments from that time — echoes of the centre before it was seen:

Watch your mind, not about tomorrow or yesterday… not today, but right now, yes now. Bring it back further to right this moment. You came out of the ether like some magic, and here you are.

The self was watching itself appear. The voice thought it was alone, yet it was being watched by silence. What seemed like thought was the centre speaking through time.

Then I thinking, who made that tree? Where it come from? That tree always been around. Carpenter did not make that tree. Tree and grass same thing. They grow with your body, with your feeling.

Already the insight was there — the sense that creation does not begin with a maker. The mind was describing the universe as it describes itself through form.

Sometimes we very sure, like Jesus he very sure until people hang him with nail on cross… You see no good and no bad, but you know something keep all accounts.

Even then, the words were tracing the field of balance, the restoration that arises when stillness returns.

And finally, the closing image — the prophecy that waited years to reveal its meaning:

I wondered if slugs were snails who left their homes behind.

The shell was the self. The slug was consciousness without its armour — soft, unguarded, free. The home that once protected had become a prison. When it fell away, only openness remained.

The early voice did not know what it was saying, but the centre did. It was speaking through the folds of time, preparing itself to be seen.

Most people hear the word non-duality and immediately turn it into a belief.

They say:

• “Everything is one.”
• “There is no separation.”
• “The world is illusion.”
• “Only consciousness exists.”
• “The self is a dream.”

These statements may point toward something real, but the moment the mind repeats them, a knower appears. A centre of ownership. Someone who claims to understand.

Duality returns.

Non-duality is not about understanding what is. Non-duality is about seeing the one who is trying to understand.

How Duality Appears

Duality is not built into reality. It is created by the mind.

It happens in a single moment: when the mind leans toward experience.

When there is no leaning, there is simply seeing, hearing, and breathing. Experience is happening, but there is no one at the centre of it.

This is the centre. Still. Silent. Aware.

Then the mind moves. It reaches. It says, without words: “This is happening to me.”

The lean creates two:

• a “me” who experiences
• a world that is experienced

Duality is not real. It is a movement.

The Self Only Exists While Leaning

The “self” is not a thing. It is not a soul. It is not a person.

It is only the movement of mind reaching toward experience.

No lean → no self. Lean → the self appears.

Like a fist that exists only while the hand is clenched. Release the tension, and the fist is gone. The hand remains.

The centre remains. The self was only movement.

Non-Duality Is the Absence of the Lean

Non-duality is not unity. It is not oneness. It is not merging with everything. It is simply:

Experience without the one who claims to experience it.

Seeing without a seer. Hearing without a hearer. Living without someone living life.

Life is happening. The “someone” was extra.

The Closing

The self is the one who learns, compares, remembers, and reaches. It leans toward experience and calls the leaning “me.”

But the centre does not learn. It does not accumulate. It does not become anything.

It simply unfolds.

Not from effort. Not from understanding.

But from its own stillness.

When the leaning ends, the self ends.

What remains is the centre, unmoving, yet alive with everything.

The self learns. The centre unfolds.

The self does not awaken. Awakening is what happens when the claim over experience dissolves. Form remains — the body moves, speech happens, thought appears — but none of it is held as “me.” There is doing without a doer. Seeing without a seer. Life moving without someone inside it controlling the movement. The centre never needed to awaken — it was already whole. Only the leaning, the contraction, the identity had to be seen. When that movement ends, what remains is simple, natural, effortless presence. This is not the self becoming enlightened. This is enlightenment appearing when the self no longer needs to be there.

Non-Duality:

This is how Buddha meant Nirvāṇa:

The flame goes out because fuel is no longer added.

This is how Nanak meant Sehaj:

“Effort ends. The river returns to its source.”

This is how Krishnamurti meant Freedom:

“The ending of the known is the beginning of the real.”

This is how Jesus meant The Kingdom is within:

It does not come through effort. You see it, and the self dissolves into the centre.

We begin where all traditions meet.

Not in belief. Not in scripture. Not in philosophy.

But in the quiet before thought. In the stillness that is present before the mind leans.

This stillness is not something to achieve. It is not created through discipline or effort. It is not produced by meditation or practice.

It is already here. The natural state. The ground. The centre.

In Sikh language, this is Sehaj.

Not peace. Not calm. Not trance.

Sehaj is the mind at rest in its own nature.

Stillness while life moves. Silence while speech happens. No effort anywhere.

A river flowing without a boatman. A wind moving without a direction. A thought appearing without a thinker.

Sehaj is not the absence of experience. It is the absence of leaning toward experience.

Awareness remains open. The world arises within it. Nothing is resisted. Nothing is grasped.

This is the natural state of being.

The Fall Into Effort

Sehaj is not lost. It is covered.

The covering begins when the mind leans. A small movement. A reaching toward what appears. A tightening around experience.

This leaning is the birth of the self. Not the mystical Self — the ordinary one. The one made of memory, reaction, preparation, and defence.

Before the lean, awareness is open. After the lean, awareness becomes a point.

This point calls itself me.

This is not an error. It is not a flaw. It is simply how the mind organises experience.

But once the point forms, it begins to act on behalf of itself.

It tries to secure. It tries to continue. It tries to control.

This is where effort begins. Not physical effort. Not work.

Effort of identity. The effort of becoming. The effort of trying to be someone in the world.

This effort is subtle, constant, exhausting.

And yet —

It was born from a movement so small you did not notice it.

The tiniest lean of attention away from the centre.

Sehaj is not regained by removing effort. Sehaj returns when the lean is seen.

Sehaj Is the Return Without Trying

Sehaj does not come through effort. And it does not come through abandoning effort.

It comes when the movement that creates effort is seen.

The lean. The subtle reaching. The shift from being to becoming.

When this movement is seen directly — not analysed, not interpreted, not controlled — it loosens by itself.

The self that was being held begins to soften. The contraction begins to open. Thought loses its urgency. Emotion loses its charge.

Nothing is taken away. Nothing is stopped. Nothing is suppressed.

The centre simply becomes clear again.

This is why Guru Nanak speaks of Sehaj as:

“Natural. Without force. Without practice.”

Not because practice is wrong. But because practice can only operate within the self.

The self cannot dissolve itself. The doer cannot remove the doer.

Only seeing the movement ends the movement.

Sehaj is the state that returns when you are no longer leaning into experience.

When awareness rests as awareness, without trying to become anything.

Here, life continues, but there is no one managing it.

The body moves. Speech happens. Decisions unfold.

But inside — no friction. No strain. No identity forming around the moment.

This is Sehaj.

The world moves. The centre does not.

Sehaj Is Already Here

You do not enter Sehaj. You notice that you were never outside it.

The stillness at the centre has never moved. Only attention moved. Only awareness leaned. Only the self appeared around that movement.

When the movement pauses, even for a breath, a blink, a moment of stopping — Sehaj is revealed again.

Not as an experience. Not as a state. Not as something to hold.

But as the ground of awareness itself.

This is why the Gurus speak of Sehaj as “Sahaj Avastha” — the natural condition.

Not reached. Not earned. Not attained.

Recognised.

You have tasted this many times.

The instant before a thought forms. The moment after a breath releases. The first second upon waking, when the mind has not remembered who you are.

That open clarity. That simple being. That is Sehaj.

It was never distant. Never advanced. Never hidden.

Only overlooked. Because the mind was fascinated with its own movement.

Now the movement is seen.

And in seeing, it loosens.

And in loosening, the centre shines through.

Sehaj is not something new. It is what was here before you tried to become someone.

The Quiet Knowing

Sehaj is not something to hold. It cannot be remembered or maintained.

It appears whenever the leaning ends. Whenever awareness stops trying to become. Whenever the self is not being built.

The world continues. The body moves. Speech happens.

But the centre does not move.

Sehaj is the natural ease of being. Stillness in the midst of action. Silence in the middle of thought. Presence without effort.

There is nothing to do. Nothing to practice. Nothing to correct.

Just notice the moment before the mind leans.

Here. In this. You are already home.

The self collapses the instant you see how it is being made.

We begin here.

The centre is already known. Stillness has been experienced. The bridge has been crossed.

Now we turn to the movement itself.

The self is not something you are. It is not a fixed identity or a permanent presence. It is not a soul, a story, a memory, or a continuity of personhood.

The self is a movement.

A motion of attention. A leaning away from stillness. A shift from simple awareness into becoming.

This movement is subtle. It happens before thought. Before language. Before emotion.

It begins as the slightest impulse.

The impulse to grasp. The impulse to avoid. The impulse to orient toward or away.

This is the beginning of “I.”

Not the full sense of identity — only the spark.

We will learn to see it as it forms.

We are not correcting it. Not stopping it. Not replacing it.

We are simply seeing the movement that becomes the self.

The First Lean

In the beginning, there is only awareness. Not aware of anything. Just aware.

Simple. Quiet. Whole.

Then something appears. A sound. A sensation. A memory. A thought.

For a moment, it is simply there. No one is experiencing it. It is just part of the field.

Then — a movement.

So slight it is almost nothing. A soft turning toward. A tensing. A reaching.

The mind leans.

This is the birth of the self.

No story has formed yet. No identity. No history. No name. Only a subtle orientation.

The sense of “I” does not begin as a thought. It begins as a gesture. A small motion away from the centre.

If you stay very still, you can feel it.

The feeling of awareness beginning to contract. To locate itself. To become a point instead of a field.

This is where we look.

Not at thoughts. Not at emotions. Not at beliefs.

But at the movement that comes before them.

The movement that turns the open sky of awareness into the small room of “me.”

Nothing to change. Nothing to stop. Only to see.

And in the seeing, the movement slows. And in the slowing — space returns. And in the space, the centre becomes clear again.

This movement you are seeing is the beginning of the self. The self does not appear as a thought. It appears first as this leaning — this shift of awareness from being open and whole to becoming a point that experiences. The sense of “I” is not something you are born with; it is something the mind does.

You can see this in daily life. Someone calls your name — and awareness contracts. A memory appears — and attention leans toward it. A desire arises — and the mind moves forward to meet it. In each case, the self is formed by movement. When there is no leaning, no reaching, no turning away — the self does not appear. Awareness remains wide. Whole. Unbroken.

The Formation of “I”

Once the lean begins, the mind does something very simple and very old.

It gathers.

It draws memory toward the movement. It collects past experience, familiar language, known patterns. It tries to make sense of what is arising.

This gathering is the forming of the self.

Not as a story yet — but as a centre of perspective. A point of view begins to take shape.

“This is happening to me.”

The moment this sense appears, the world divides. There is now an inner and an outer. A perceiver and a perceived. A holder and what is held.

Nothing external has changed. Only the way awareness organises around experience has shifted.

The mind does this automatically. It is not wrong. It is not a failure. It is simply the movement of self-formation.

The lean becomes a location. The location becomes a point of view. The point of view becomes the sense of “I.”

It is gentle at first. Like a faint outline. A shape drawn in water.

But if the movement continues, the outline thickens. The identity gains weight. The feeling of someone inside becomes solid.

Just notice.

The self is not found. It is built.

Built from the movement that begins when awareness turns toward experience.

If you stay close to the movement — before thought — you will see:

The self is not a presence. The self is a process.

A process the mind performs. A pattern of organising experience.

And because it is a process, not a thing, it can loosen. It can soften. It can dissolve.

Not by effort. But by being seen.

The Thought Loop

When the sense of “I” has formed, even lightly, the mind begins to speak. Not out loud — but inwardly.

A quiet commentary appears. A soft narration. A movement of thought that tries to explain, interpret, justify, prepare, defend, or confirm.

This is the thought loop.

It does not arise to understand the world. It arises to sustain the self that has just formed.

The mind is not thinking about life. It is thinking about “me” in life.

See this gently.

A sensation appears. The lean forms. The sense of “I” begins. Then thought arrives to give that “I” shape and continuity.

It says: “I am feeling this.” “This is happening to me.” “I need to respond.” “I need to be understood.”

The loop is not a problem. It is simply a way the mind maintains identity.

But once you see the loop forming, the illusion begins to thin.

The commentary becomes transparent. You can watch it instead of being pulled into it.

The voice is not you. It is the echo of the self trying to stay formed.

When the movement is seen, the loop loses momentum. When the loop loses momentum, the self softens. When the self softens, the centre becomes clear again.

Nothing is forced. Nothing is stopped. Nothing is corrected.

Seeing is enough.

Return to the Centre

The loop does not end by force. It does not end by controlling thought. It does not end by trying to silence the mind.

It ends when the movement that began it is seen.

The moment the lean is noticed, the contraction loosens.

The sense of “I” that formed around the experience no longer has anything to hold on to.

Thought loses its purpose, because thought was only there to support the self.

Without the self needing to be maintained, thought naturally settles.

Awareness returns to its original openness. The centre is felt again.

Not as something achieved. Not as something regained. Not as something held.

Just as what remains when the movement dissolves.

You do not return to the centre. The centre returns to itself when the leaning ends.

Stillness was never lost. Only attention moved.

The wave rises and falls. The breath enters and leaves. The self appears and disappears.

The centre does not change. The centre does not move.

Rest there. Not by effort. By not moving.

This is the natural dissolution of the self. This is the end of the loop. This is the return.

The Seeing

Now the whole movement is visible.

Stillness. The first lean. The forming of “I.” The thought loop that sustains it. The return when the leaning ends.

This is the architecture of the self. Not imagined. Not believed. Not reasoned.

Seen. Directly. In your own mind.

The self was never a thing. It was always the movement of attention.

And when the movement is seen, it dissolves on its own.

You do not return to the centre. The centre returns to itself when the leaning ends.

There has never been a doer of awakening. Stillness was always here. Awareness was always whole. Only attention moved. Only identity formed around that movement.

Now the movement is understood. And in understanding, it loosens. And in loosening, the centre is felt again.

This is not a practice. It is not a path. It is not a method.

It is a recognition.

Anyone who reads this in silence will feel the centre directly in their own mind.

No belief needed. No teacher required. No effort necessary.

Just seeing.

The wave rises and falls. The breath enters and leaves. The self appears and dissolves.

The centre remains.

Rest there.