An Uncomfortable Truth

You create your own suffering.

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Not the world. Not the body. Not the circumstance.

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It is the false mind, working as a parasite, that spins misery into a blanket and convinces you to wear it. It whispers: “This is who you are. This weight is proof you exist.” And you believe it—because the story feels familiar.

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Suffering is self-authored. Each breath you take through its veil reinforces the illusion. You carry it, feed it, polish it like a relic. And then you wonder why life feels heavy.

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But the moment you sit still and refuse to participate, the parasite starves. The blanket unravels. You see what was hidden: suffering was never welded to you. It was stitched by your own consent.

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The truth stings because it leaves no one else to blame. Yet in that sting is freedom. If you can create the weight, you can dissolve it. If you can feed the tyrant, you can starve it. If you can suffer, you can choose to stop.

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An uncomfortable truth, yes. But truth is the only blade sharp enough to cut the chain.