Fundamental existential questions
At the core of existence lies a timeless question: What is consciousness? Is it merely a byproduct of the brain, a side effect of biological evolution? Or does it hold a deeper significance—something we often overlook or take for granted?
Every human being experiences reality on two levels: the outer world and the inner world. We observe events, participate in them, and assign meaning to what happens around us. At the same time, we navigate an internal landscape of thoughts, emotions, and reflections. While the external world is shared with others, our inner response is uniquely our own. The same event might be seen as profound or insignificant, joyful or painful, depending entirely on our internal perspective. If we embrace an experience with openness, it feels enriching. If we resist it, even something neutral can become a source of discomfort.
We often assume that the physical world is the only real one, while our thoughts and emotions exist separately, as something intangible. This leads to an old question: Are our inner experiences just fleeting illusions, or are they as real as the external world? From this debate comes epiphenomenalism—the idea that thoughts and emotions are merely byproducts of physical processes, reacting to the material world but having no power to affect it in return. In this view, the arrow moves in only one direction: the external world shapes our inner experiences, but our inner world has no influence on physical reality.
Yet, common sense and lived experience suggest otherwise. We don’t always need an external trigger to have thoughts and emotions—they arise spontaneously, shaped by memory, imagination, and introspection. And just as the outer world influences our inner state, our internal landscape shapes how we perceive and interpret external reality. The same event can seem different depending on our mood, past experiences, and personal expectations.
This isn’t to say that our inner states directly change the outer world—though some might argue that possibility exists. More often, they determine how we experience it. We filter reality through the lens of our thoughts and emotions, comparing new experiences with past ones, interpreting them based on the patterns our minds have constructed over time.
Even as you read these words, your response is shaped by past encounters with similar ideas. Your mind weaves connections between this moment and your previous reflections on consciousness. In doing so, it subtly influences how you’ll engage with these concepts in the future.
Who am I?
What is it that is being shaped? And what is it that thinks and feels? These questions lie at the heart of all genuine philosophy and spirituality, touching the very essence of existence. Who am I?—a seemingly simple question that, when explored deeply, unravels layers of understanding.
Nearly all religions and philosophical traditions recognize that something within us transcends the physical body—a soul, a core awareness. Plato called it Psyche, in Judaism it is Neshamah, in Islam Ruh, and in Buddhism, it is known as Anatta. This awareness is what perceives both our inner and outer worlds.
In the Vedic tradition, this essence is known as Jivatman, the individual spark (jiv) of the Universal Soul, Atman. From this perspective, our true identity is pure consciousness, temporarily clothed in layers of limitation to experience what we call life. These limitations create the dramas of existence—the joys, sorrows, and everything in between.
According to this view, the infinite spark of Universal Consciousness assumes these limitations to participate in the grand cosmic play known as Lila. But in doing so, it forgets its own divine nature, becoming immersed in the illusion of separation. Only after wandering through the depths of this forgetfulness does an inner longing arise—the urge to rediscover its true nature.
Hide and seek.
The modern philosopher Alan Watts beautifully likened this to a game of hide-and-seek. First, we hide—we take on identities, burdens, and imagined limitations. But as these layers accumulate, they begin to weigh us down. What once seemed like the natural path—growing up, building a life, getting married, having children, or even seeking adventure and success—begins to feel increasingly hollow. The excitement of new experiences fades, and the promises of fulfillment remain unsatisfied. Whether one follows the conventional route of stability or the restless pursuit of novelty, a quiet realization creeps in: no achievement, no relationship, no external adventure seems to fill the underlying void.
At the same time, an inner call grows louder. It begins as a subtle restlessness, an unshakable feeling that something essential is missing. This call does not come from the world outside but from within, stirring beneath the surface, demanding to be acknowledged. Eventually, the search for our true self begins. And the joy of this rediscovery is profound, like the thrill of being “found” after a long game. The deeper the forgetting, the greater the satisfaction in remembering.
This process of losing and rediscovering oneself mirrors the cyclical nature of the Vedic universe. Day follows night, seasons come and go, and the cycle of birth and death repeats endlessly. The only constant is change. While some Western philosophies have viewed this impermanence as meaningless or chaotic, the Vedic worldview sees it as an ordered rhythm—predictable, yet ever-unfolding.
Even the largest cycles, like the Maha-Kalpa, which spans hundreds of trillions of years, follow this pattern. But no cycle repeats exactly the same way. Just as today is different from yesterday, each repetition brings something new—unique moments that have never existed before and will never happen again.
Even on a cosmic scale, movement is not circular but spiral. The Earth does not simply orbit the Sun—it follows a spiral path as the Sun moves through the galaxy. The galaxy itself moves within the vast expanse of the universe. In this way, the cycles described in the Vedas are not static loops but dynamic progressions.
According to the Vedas, human consciousness originally entered the material world aware of its divine origins. But as the ages pass, this awareness fades, eventually only remaining accessible to a few. In the end, most of humanity forgets entirely, seeing themselves as separate physical beings, cut off from the whole. Yet, in rare moments, something stirs—an intuitive glimpse of unity. And with that, the journey of rediscovery begins.
The Ascetic path and the Tantric path.
As the soul begins to seek itself, the journey shifts inward. At first, this often means turning away from external distractions, looking within for meaning and truth. Many traditions advocate withdrawal from worldly life, believing that silence, solitude, and renunciation are the surest ways to rediscover the inner self. But is this the only way? Must one abandon the world in order to transcend it?
Tantra offers a different approach. Instead of rejecting the world, Tantra embraces it, teaching that everything—every experience, every sensation, every moment—can be a gateway to awakening. Unlike paths that call for isolation, Tantra recognizes that life itself is the field of transformation, and that the forces which bind us can, if mastered, set us free.
Tantra employs many methods, but at its core is the understanding that our primal energy—the very force that animates us—is essential to this process. When this energy is depleted, we weaken, age, and eventually die. The greatest loss of this energy occurs through sexuality, particularly through uncontrolled release. This does not mean sexuality must be denied, but rather, it must be mastered.
This is where celibacy takes on a deeper meaning—not as mere abstinence, but as the conscious preservation of vital energy for higher purposes. Like electricity, which can be transformed into heat, light, or sound, sexual energy can be transformed into different forms—mental, emotional, and spiritual.
Tantra, unlike more rigid ascetic traditions, has developed methods to preserve sexual energy without renouncing erotic activity. This practice, known as erotic continence, allows men to engage in sexuality while maintaining seminal retention, transforming their vital force rather than dissipating it. For women, a similar mastery applies to menstrual energy, harnessing its power instead of passively losing it.
Both paths require discipline and effort. On the surface, these practices might seem simple or even appealing, but true mastery demands profound self-control. Those who achieve it gain not only command over their own energies but also access to heightened states of awareness—culminating in Samadhi, the state of ultimate realization.
Thus, Tantra presents a path that is neither about indulgence nor repression but about transformation—using the energies of life itself as fuel for awakening.