Those who carry nothing within
are forced
to decorate the outside.

And since no thought
drips from them,
they exhibit their skin—

for skin
is the last temple
of the empty.

Ah—
these preachers
of the ring-light and lens,

how desperate they are
to be seen—

for they do not
see themselves.

They do not live—
they lodge
inside moments,

and each of their smiles
is like a notice
of a thought’s death.

The hollower the inside,
the sharper the pose;

the quieter the mind,
the louder the ad.

They do not think—
they accumulate.

In place of conscience—
metrics.

In place of soul—
algorithm.

In place of worth—
likes.

They say:
“I inspire.”

But their inspiration
is nothing
but the yawn of repetition;

and their followers—
a crowd
that with every click
forgets
a little more
of itself.

In an age
where thought
no longer sells,

the body
becomes philosophy.

And what a catastrophe—
when the whore
names herself
“god,”

and the spectator
kneels.

From Poems of Madness
Ali Delshad Tehrani

Here—
each one shouts
to have his existence heard,

and the more he speaks,
the less he is.

Ah—these virtual arenas
of self-display,

where silence is disgrace,
and emptiness
is posted.

Once, man worshipped gods—

now, mirrors.

And the more one manufactures
his own image,

the less of himself
remains.

Social networks—
O marketplace
of modern slavery,

where each one names
his chain
“profile.”

Here, man no longer thinks—
he reposts.

No longer feels—
he performs.

He molds his emotions,
filters his suffering,
and hashtags his lies.

Here, truth—
worn out by repetition—
falls from meaning,

and falsehood,
by the roar of the crowd,
stands erect.

Here, all are seen—
yet no one
is understood.

All speak—
yet none
say.

All smile—
yet none
laugh.

O virtual man—

you fled the cage
only to be imprisoned
in a mirror.

You feared solitude—
and now live
in a crowd
that does not see you.

You measure your inside
with likes,

and the worth of being
with views.

You are no longer being—
you are display.

Ah—how well
you have learned
to pretend.

But even pretending
is no longer yours:

the system imitates for you,
the algorithm fabricates feeling,

and you—
you merely play
the role
of “I.”

In the world of networks,
man no longer lies—

he himself
has become
the lie.

Where all speak,
thought hides
in silence.

Let your page
remain dark—

perhaps,
for the first time,
you will touch
being.

From Poems of Madness
Ali Delshad Tehrani

Prescription—
not for the cure it brings,
but for the pleasure it stirs—
that is why
it is desired.

Sermon—
not as an iron nail
driven into the stone
of frozen minds,
but from the urge
to blend,
to dissolve into the herd
of the unknowing—
that is how
it leads.

Do not think
the pulpit
belongs only
to the mourner
or the priest.

Have you not seen
the modern pulpits?

Those
who tear their chests open
for myths of motivation,
for chanters of rate,
for gurus of rape.

O steadfast addicts
of remedy,

O prostrators
before deceitful saints,

O pleasure-seekers
at the breast
of naked stupidity—

what have I to do
with disputation
among hollow minds?

O true seekers
of solution in this age,

O worshippers of ignorance
in place of the divine,

O sworn to paths
that never cohere,

O lovers
of filth
cloaked as teacher—

all of you,
hasten
toward dissolution,

for more words
of wisdom
avail nothing.

From Poems of Madness
Ali Delshad Tehrani

Sometimes this path leads to silencing. The suffering must remain quiet, postponed, or pushed out of view. Something appears to calm down on the surface, yet what has not been seen returns elsewhere and later, more condensed and harder to recognize.

Sometimes suffering is projected outward. Inner balance is preserved by attributing it to another—an individual, a group, an enemy, or even to nature. What cannot be endured within acquires meaning outside, and that meaning justifies the transfer.

Sometimes the response appears in the form of excess production. Pleasure, consumption, power, or speed are pursued not to be experienced, but to cover over. Movement increases, distance shortens, and exhaustion gradually takes the place of the very suffering that was meant to be neutralized.

At times the path leads to numbness. Not the elimination of suffering, but a reduction of sensitivity to it. The body and the mind learn to feel less in order to be hurt less. The cost of this learning is the fading of pleasure, meaning, and the capacity for engagement.

Alongside these, other forms also appear. Hastily produced explanations, meanings that arrive before experience itself, the heroic elevation of suffering, or the attribution of everything to structure, fate, or external forces. All of these are attempts to render bearable a condition from which there is no escape.

Amid these familiar paths, another possibility also exists. Not as the correct path and not as a prescription, but as a different relation. A relation in which suffering, before being silenced, remains for a moment within the field of attention. Not to be analyzed, not to be interpreted, but simply to be seen in its movement: how it is felt in the body, how it shifts, how it subsides, and from where it returns.

Care in this sense is neither an inner exercise nor a moral appeal. Care is attentiveness to the path of return. It means that action, if it occurs, occurs with awareness of its transfers and consequences. This relation too is incomplete and guarantees nothing. It merely does not conceal the cycle.

This text does not aim to eliminate the patterns. The patterns remain. What may change is the moment in which the pattern is seen before it repeats—the brief interval between the appearance of suffering and the activation of response.

This pause is neither liberation nor salvation. It is a short interruption within a movement that will continue. What becomes possible in this interruption is not the control of the cycle, but the visibility of it, before it once again repeats itself without name and without sound.

Tourist—
O creature of two lives:

one moment
on the dry land
of boredom,

the next
in the swamp
of reels.

Now on Instagram,
now beneath X.

You flee
your pitiful emptiness—

yet in your suitcase
you carry nothing
but it—piece by piece

In your selfies
the only symmetry
is

the graveyard
of history
behind you,

and the face
of an ape.

You do not taste culture—
you lick its image.

You do not experience—
you wrap it
and post it.

You do not find yourself—
you gift-wrap
and export yourself.

O tourist
addicted to tech,

O colonizer
of the twenty-first century.

Your slaves—
the suffering poor,

the countless homeless
asleep
in silent streets,

the migrants
scarred
by exile.

Your legions—
like-worshipping beggars,

zombie followers
without gods.

Your patrons—
the endless lords
of capitalism,

raised high
upon the rotting bones
of Nazism,

hiding
behind the mask
of fascism.

What remains
after you—

the rise
of Airbnb,

the climb
of rent,

the fading
of culture,

and the digital
disfigurement
of the human.

From Poems of Madness

At every level the same process has repeated itself. Suffering appears, a response subsides it, the response stabilizes, and that very stabilization reproduces suffering elsewhere. What changes is only the intensity and the distance of the return. What appears in the body as restlessness becomes instability in the collective and crisis at the planetary scale, yet the mechanism remains the same.

At this point the desire for correction emerges: the desire to break the cycle and to discover a more appropriate way of confronting suffering. Yet this desire itself, if it turns into an immediate answer, continues the same logic. Every attempt to silence suffering quickly, even when it takes the name of treatment or progress, can become another form of subsiding.

The issue is not ignorance or the absence of good intentions. The issue is that seeing the pattern requires the suspension of response. Such suspension is uncomfortable because it makes suffering more immediate. For this reason the response usually changes, not the relation to suffering.

If subsiding and re-pressurizing are seen merely as errors, the question becomes limited to correcting behavior. But if they are seen as a pattern, the question moves toward the idea of a limit. Not a moral limit and not a legal one, but a threshold at which subsiding still supports the continuation of life, and beyond which it begins to intensify suffering itself.

This threshold is not fixed. It shifts within the body, within relationships, within societies, and across history. What once functioned as endurance later becomes postponement. What once served survival later becomes a source of erosion. Recognizing this boundary is difficult because re-pressurizing usually appears later, farther away, and somewhere else.

In many situations subsiding is a condition of persistence. No body can feel every pain to its full extent. No collective can bear every tension without mediation. The problem begins when subsiding leaves the status of a temporary condition and becomes habit. Habit carries memory. It repeats itself and detaches from the situation that first produced it.

At that point re-pressurizing is no longer a secondary consequence; it becomes part of the function itself. Suffering is accepted as a cost and transferred elsewhere—to a later time, to another body, to a level where it is less visible. It is this displacement that renders the threshold invisible.

The boundary itself is always shifting. The distance between action and consequence becomes shorter, yet the pattern does not change. Attempts to define it theoretically through numbers or regulations usually arrive too late, because habit has already stabilized.

From here the question is no longer one of right and wrong. The question becomes the moment when subsiding turns from a response to suffering into an escape from it. A brief and unstable moment that usually passes unseen.

Returning to the human being is not a return to the beginning, but a return to the question itself. Not in order to find an answer, but to remain within a relation where every immediate response can carry the return of suffering, and every stabilized habit—even if it began with the reduction of suffering—may, over time, become the source of new suffering.

Here there is no final point of rest. The pattern does not end. It can only be seen in the brief moment before it turns into habit—the short moment in which suffering is present and the response has not yet taken form.

Ah, godless saviors!

They have sold the soul
and now prescribe salvation.

Whoever does not know
what he himself wants
now dares
to guide another.

They speak of suffering—
yet their suffering
is the loss
of clients.

They preach self-knowledge
without ever
having smelled
their own depths.

Ah—
what a carnival
they have built
out of human anxiety
and meaninglessness.

They manufacture illness
to sell the cure.

They scatter fear
to deliver hope.

They call it
motivation—

yet it is nothing
but the daily injection
of ignorance
into the restless veins
of mankind.

If only they deceived others—

but they too
are deceived.

For whoever believes
himself saved
is already lost
in the deepest confusion.

They do not say:
Think.

They say:
Repeat.

And from every worn-out word
they forge a slogan:

Believe!
Let go!
Be yourself!

Yet they do not know
that the self
is not something
you become—

it is something
you lose
moment
after moment.

I have seen it:

In their eyes
there is no light—
only the reflection
of a phone screen.

In their voices
there is no wisdom—
only the recorded voice
of another.

In their hearts
there is no love—
only the hunger
for more followers.

Ah, life coaches—

priests
of a churchless age,

those who,
in the absence of God,
sit in His place,

and in the absence
of meaning
sell prescriptions
for success.

To them I say:

Step down
from the pulpit.

There is no truth
in your sessions—

only the fear
of meaninglessness.

And there is no light
in your eyes—

only the reflection
of a ring light.

From Poems of Madness

At this level suffering takes the form of more fundamental fears: the fear of scarcity, of biological insecurity, of the unpredictability of the future, and of dependence on an environment that lies beyond human control. The response to this suffering has been the expansion of instruments of control. Nature becomes a field in which subsiding must occur continuously and at an increasing scale.

Here we are no longer dealing with isolated acts but with patterns that have stabilized over centuries. The extraction of resources, the manipulation of natural cycles, and the growth of consumption have, in the short term, reduced suffering. The world has become more habitable, more secure, and more predictable. Yet this very success has carried re-pressurizing to a level that is no longer local or contained.

At this scale re-pressurizing appears as catastrophe, not a sudden catastrophe but an accumulated one. The suffering that once returned within bodies and human fields now reappears as ecological imbalance and climatic instability. At this point there is no longer an “other” onto which suffering can be displaced. The field of return is the shared lifeworld itself.

Among all these processes, the most fundamental and decisive example is also the one least recognized as a problem: the reduction of mortality. Medicine and public health have been direct responses to suffering—responses that are neither abstract nor deniable. Bodies suffer less, life expectancy extends, and human existence becomes safer and more predictable. Subsiding here is real.

Yet this success, without any conscious decision, has increased the population. A larger population leads to greater consumption—not out of excess, but out of necessity. Food, water, energy, and infrastructure must be provided at larger scales. From this point the next chain begins. The suffering that had subsided at the level of the body begins to return at the level of the planet.

To reduce the suffering of hunger, food production intensifies. In the short term security appears; in the long term soil erodes and water is depleted. To supply protein, industrial fishing expands; supply increases while ecosystems collapse. For development and prosperity forests are cut; employment and production emerge while biological cycles are disrupted. To escape cold and darkness fossil fuels are consumed; life becomes easier while the climate grows unstable.

In all of these cases the point of departure is the same: the reduction of suffering. Each step appears reasonable and every development responds to a genuine need. Yet the accumulation of these reasonable responses produces a pattern that transfers re-pressurizing from the level of everyday life to the level of the planet.

Even the mass production of entertainment and pleasure can be understood within this framework. A denser life and expanding psychological pressures demand instruments that numb boredom. This subsiding is effective in the short term, yet in the long term it erodes attention and weakens the capacity to endure silence. The pattern returns once more to the level of the mind. What occurs on the planet repeats itself within the collective psyche.

At this point the earth becomes the final field of the return of suffering. Consequences can no longer be displaced onto distant geographies or deferred to unknown futures. Re-pressurizing now occurs simultaneously with subsiding.

The decisive point is that none of these stages began with malice. The starting point was the attempt to reduce suffering. Yet immediate subsiding, when the pathways of its return remain unseen, becomes a pattern that operates on a planetary scale.

What appears now is neither the failure of medicine nor the betrayal of progress, but the continuation of the same simple logic: the immediate reduction of suffering without seeing the routes through which that same suffering returns.

You—
the last refuge of man,

you—
the final provision
for the journey
of nihilism1—

you dragged
art
into vulgarity.

O servants
of cancerous masses,

O slaves
to herds
of likes
and scrolls,

like sheep
whose heads,
instead of green pasture,
are buried
in a black mirror2,

their mouths
ruminating
the word
more3.

Art,
seen too often,
turns whorish.

And what does a whore care
for being pawed?

Whoredom
is not
the trade of flesh.

The one
who sells flesh
has something
to offer.

But you—
what do you offer
but craving?

What do you thrust forward
but the secretions
of masturbation?

What remains
but emptiness,
so stale
it reeks
of carrion?

O whores
of the age
of attention
and rumination,

O merciless
art-slayers
of the theater
of self-display,

before
your venomous eyes
I bury art
with myself—

in the hope
that one day
someone
will raise it
from the soil
of oblivion.

From Poems of Madness

Narrative quiets anxiety. Death is answered with continuity, disorder with cosmic order, injustice with final judgment, and loneliness with belonging. Meaning here acts as a sedative, a condition that allows life to continue. Yet the moment meaning becomes stabilized and settles into institutions and power, its form changes. Meaning is no longer a possibility; it becomes an obligation. Subsiding turns into control.

At this point suffering does not disappear. It simply shifts. Questioning is subdued in order to preserve certainty. In-group security strengthens while out-group insecurity expands. The calm of some is achieved through the elimination of doubt and the exclusion of others. The suffering that was meant to be contained returns in the form of exclusion, discrimination, and violence.

The same pattern repeats in ideologies. A promise is made to reduce structural suffering, and in the beginning it appears legitimate. But when ideology becomes identity, doubt turns into threat. Opposition must be silenced in order to preserve cohesion. Subsiding succeeds because an answer exists. Re-pressurizing begins at the same time, because whatever falls outside the answer becomes a new site of suffering.

At this level, re-pressurizing is no longer incidental. It becomes law, education, and collective memory. Some are calmed because they possess meaning; others suffer because they stand outside it. What sustains this process is precisely the initial success of subsiding. The narrative works, it reduces anxiety, and for that reason its costs remain unseen. Suffering moves farther away, becomes invisible, and is rewritten in the language of justification.

In many religious systems, homosexuality is defined as a threat to sacred order. This definition simplifies the world, draws boundaries, and lowers anxiety. Yet those very boundaries transform exclusion and elimination into legitimate acts. Fear subsides, and suffering reappears in another body.

Utopian narratives also emerge from the suffering of loss and historical humiliation. The promise of returning to a sacred land generates hope and makes suffering bearable. But once the ideal becomes an absolute right, the presence of others becomes an illegitimate obstacle. Killing and displacement take on the meaning of restoration. One suffering subsides while another is reproduced on a wider scale.

In ideologies of eternal salvation, violence acquires a sacred form. Anxiety about death subsides through the promise of paradise, and the elimination of dissent becomes a duty. Violence is not the goal; it is the consequence of preserving inner certainty.

What makes this process dangerous is its rational appearance. Suffering is redefined as a necessary cost. When the suffering of some is declared the condition for the calm of others, re-pressurizing becomes logic.

When the process enters the sphere of politics and security, it moves beyond narrative into decision. Here suffering is experienced as collective fear—a threat that must be contained. States often arise or legitimize themselves through the promise of reducing this fear. Security must be ensured. The enemy must be controlled. Subsiding occurs collectively: fear decreases and order becomes imaginable.

Yet suffering is not removed. It merely changes geography. The security of one side is stabilized through the insecurity of another. Violence is justified through the language of prevention. What is called peace in one place becomes bombing, sanctions, occupation, or repression elsewhere.

In the narrative of war, killing is framed as an unavoidable cost. The present of some is sacrificed for the future of others. The same logic repeats: the reduction of suffering here, the production of suffering elsewhere.

The same pattern appears in domestic politics. The suppression of protest is justified in the name of stability. The anxiety of disorder subsides, while the suffering of prison, exile, and extinguished lives spreads elsewhere. What becomes visible is order; what remains hidden is the human cost of that order.

At this level, distance becomes decisive. Suffering turns into numbers—into reports, into statistics. The more abstract it becomes, the more tolerable it appears; and the more tolerable it appears, the easier it becomes to repeat.

This process rarely begins with malicious intent. The starting point is usually an attempt to reduce suffering. But when the only way to reduce suffering becomes the imposition of suffering on others, violence turns into the instrument that preserves subsiding.

The pattern is the same as the one observed in the individual body, only now with a wider scope and more irreversible consequences. Subsiding succeeds because it produces a sense of security. And precisely for that reason re-pressurizing continues. Suffering has not been removed. It has been accumulated elsewhere—and it will return, with the same language, the same justifications, and the same promise of peace.

Confession—

that is the only word
that comes to mind
when I hear
the word therapist.

No—wait.

A dark little chamber appears as well:
a priest
and a groaning child.

O spiritual father
in the robes of pseudo-science!

You are not the Christ
of Christ Recrucified1.

You are the cross itself—
to which
the hands of life
are nailed.

You—
remnant of Freud’s complexes2,
beneath the fading shadow
of Jung3.

You have nothing—

except opening the window4,
except forcing in
the foul air—

nothing
but emptiness.

From your nauseating emptiness
I embrace
nihilism—

and for the crime of adultery5
I am flogged.

From your anxious babble
I lie
with silence
and solitude—

and for the crime of orgy
I am imprisoned.

From your childish prescriptions
I flee
to hashish
and LSD—

and for the crime
of godhood
I am executed.

From Poems of Madness

with all your sermons
you will never persuade religion
to turn away
from suicide.

You stroked
the cold corpse of God1,

hoping
the vanished spirit
might return.

But the corpse
did not move.

You blew your prayers
like spells
into the birth-blind eyes
of these people2.

And the people—
still blind—
ran after you
like a herd.

O savior of religion,

in hope of a miracle
you even slit
the throat of morality
with Abraham’s knife3.

But God was dead

And the dead
save no one.

Upon a straw heap
of myth and belief

you raised
a dazzling palace—

that the first sparks
of doubt
turned
to ash.

O savior of religion,

you sanctified faith
and nailed
the frame of thought
to the wall.

You spoke of reason—

a thing
that appears
only in dreams.

You spoke of wisdom—

yet in that very moment
it was crushed
beneath your foul-smelling
sandal.

From Poems of Madness

The difference between Clown and Crown
is only that r—
erect—
become l.

O old clown,

you who, without Viagra,
cannot even stiffen
your own spine!

A royal crown
belongs only
to madness.

You are deaf.
You are blind.
You are thirsty.

But you are not mad.

With that drug of power,
that magical Viagra,
you even erected
lies.

You made religion
a ladder,

and climbed
its rotten steps
without once looking
at the firm ground.

And when you ascended
to the seventh heaven
of tyranny1,

it was not fear—
but astonishment
at meeting
the void.

I am not the one
who will pull the ladder
from beneath
your weary feet.

I will not, like Sohrab2,
build a boat,

nor cast it
into the water.

I do not want
his pond
of the present3.

Now
the present
is a river—

the very river
Heraclitus4
stepped into.

I am of the descendants
of fire5—

of the burning blood
of Zarathustra,
and the inheritance
of the civilization
of Cyrus.

I will build a fire—

a fire
whose smoke alone
is enough
for your blind eyes.

From Poems of Madness

Nietzsche and Heidegger—

not by fame,
not by any measure of greatness,
are they overmen while I remain an ape,

but because, in reading their works,
I am seized
by a biting sensation
called humiliation.

O modern ape of the city,

you are not even the copycat
of those fearless sages.

From fear
you piss where you stand.

From rage
you merely repeat.

Like a ship without anchor,
you are hurled against two rocks:

the rock of despair in the swamp,
and the rock of hope in a thick fog.

O tedious ape,

you are not in Sein,
not even in Zeit1—
you have merely fled
onto the weary shoulders of science.

From science
you take barren loans.

From philosophy
you borrow stale bread2.

You massacre religion,
yet in the corruption of your being
you still live it.

You are not even worthy
to drag your father’s name behind you3.

Your relation to him
is as a scarecrow to the farmer,

as a pit to a cave,
as an earthworm to a serpent.

O degenerate ape of imitation,
O accursed chameleon of vice,
O narcissist swollen with yourself—

your due is death.
Cease this farce of living.

From Poems of Madness

Scrolling through social media often begins not in search of something specific, but as a way of distancing oneself from an unpleasant state. Boredom, vague anxiety, or the inability to begin a task recede as one enters the continuous flow of images and information. The mind becomes stimulated and the pressure decreases. This decrease stabilizes the pattern. Returning to the task becomes more difficult, concentration collapses, and dissatisfaction returns in a more diffuse form.

Remaining for long periods in front of the television is also usually not about watching a particular program, but about quieting thought. Sitting and watching creates a temporary distance from loneliness or fatigue. Gradually lethargy settles into the body, sleep is displaced, and conversation fades. What was supposed to subside in silence begins to seep into the space of relationships.

Overeating is often not a response to bodily need. Eating creates, for a brief moment, a sense of calm and control. Afterwards heaviness appears, mood shifts, and irritability emerges, eventually transferring into relationships.

The repeated consumption of pornography follows a similar logic. It offers a quick path for discharging tension. With repetition desire shifts, the body is experienced differently, and emotional distance increases. What was supposed to subside in solitude is reproduced within the relationship.

Even constant busyness, excessive work, and the uninterrupted filling of time can function in the same way. Pressure feels reduced, yet exhaustion spreads, hidden anger grows, and emotional distance widens.

In all of these cases the subsiding of suffering genuinely occurs. That is precisely why the pattern is preserved. The issue is not that these behaviors are inherently destructive, but that suffering does not exit the cycle. It simply changes its route. From a point where it was recognizable, it returns in forms that can no longer easily be traced back to their origin.

Subsiding is a redirection of pressure, and re-pressurizing is the continuation of that same pressure within another field. Suffering neither disappears nor stops; it remains in circulation.

What sustains this circulation is normalization. The behavior occurs, pressure decreases, and life continues. It is this continuity that renders the re-pressurizing invisible.

In this condition suffering neither accumulates nor explodes; it disperses. It appears in chronic fatigue, in a reduced capacity to listen, in quickly tiring of relationships, and in a gradual indifference. A change that is felt but cannot easily be attributed to a specific behavior.

Over time the pattern expands. What was once used to endure a particular pressure becomes the default response to other pressures. The difference between forms of suffering fades, while the reactions remain the same.

At this point what seemed entirely personal crosses the boundary of the individual. Subsiding occurs at the level of the individual, but re-pressurizing does not remain there. Without declaration and without decision, suffering enters shared fields and continues to circulate through bodies, relationships, and lived spaces.

To see this process, one has to pause on a word that forms the foundation of the text. In English, reducing refers to lowering the intensity of something. When we say we reduce suffering, we are speaking of a decrease in pressure. But with the addition of a single re within the same linguistic field, the meaning turns over. Reproducing no longer speaks of lessening, but of being made again. The same linguistic movement, the same reversal of meaning, takes place in lived experience. We bring suffering down along one path while simultaneously reactivating it along another. Something subsides, yet that very thing continues elsewhere.

In this text I use two terms: subsiding and re-pressurizing. Subsiding is the moment in which the pressure lessens and the situation appears more bearable. Re-pressurizing is the continuation of that same pressure on another level. These are not two separate stages. In many cases, at the very moment one occurs, the other has already begun. What is felt is the subsiding; what remains imperceptible is the re-pressurizing.

The examples are not for judging behaviors. Nothing is to be condemned or recommended. They only show how suffering changes its path.

Someone smokes to reduce pressure. In the moment, tension drops and the body feels regulated. At the same time, the body enters the path of dependency, thresholds shift, and the need for repetition is formed. A suffering has subsided, and at the same time it has been reactivated in the body, in the cost, in the smell that remains in the space, and in the anxieties that follow.

Someone swallows their anger so that relational tension does not rise. On the surface, calm is preserved. If this pattern is repeated, bitterness, coldness, and sudden eruptions appear through other routes. The opposite follows the same logic. Aggression lowers the pressure in the moment and distributes other sufferings across bodies and relationships. Two opposing reactions, a single mechanism.

Infidelity, used to fill an inner void, removes suffering from one point and places it in another. Trust disappears, the relationship collapses, and this distrust continues into later relations. Suffering does not stop; only its field changes.

The same pattern is repeated in the family. Violence used to discharge pressure is stored in the child’s body and mind and returns in later years as a “natural” reaction. What has worked remains.

On a broader scale, insecurity can be reduced by producing the insecurity of another. Violence can be used as an instrument of calming. Here too the logic is the same: the reduction of pressure at one point and its return at another, from one body to other bodies, from inside borders to outside them.

To follow this process to the end, the example of alcohol can be held. A person is anxious: muscular tension, restlessness, mental rumination. With alcohol the body loosens, the mind slows, and the situation becomes temporarily bearable. This is subsiding. The next day lethargy, low energy, and dullness appear. With repeated use, the body enters the path of dependency and what was a temporary solution becomes a pattern. Anxiety in its initial form has subsided, yet it has returned in the form of need, agitation, and new pressures. This return does not remain at the individual level. Conflict, harmful decisions, or the danger directed toward others are the continuation of the same path. This is not exaggeration for effect; these are the everyday events of the world.

In many situations suffering is neither so intense that it stops everything nor so mild that it can be ignored. It is in this middle zone that subsiding works. The immediate reduction of pressure is enough for the process to appear successful.

But the reduction of pressure is not resolution. It is closer to the temporary silencing of a symptom. If this silencing is repeated, it becomes a route. Each time suffering subsides through the same reaction, the distance between suffering and reaction becomes shorter. The reaction is activated sooner and the question is postponed — to the point where it may not form at all.

Subsiding often has a reasonable face. It can resemble self-control, staying calm, or managing. For this reason it remains unseen. Calm is experienced as a sign of resolution, not as a sign of postponement.

What was at first a temporary response, through repetition becomes a pattern — a pattern that operates without a name and without the need for decision. A significant part of these patterns is formed in the early years of life, through observing and experiencing what reduces pressure.

In this sense, subsiding and re-pressurizing are not two separate movements. They are a single process occurring simultaneously. What is visible is the decrease of pressure; what remains hidden is the continuation of its movement along other paths.

As long as this pattern is not seen, each time suffering appears the same route is repeated — not out of ill will and not out of absolute unawareness, but because this route is the most accessible one.

The question of this text is how an act that subsides suffering simultaneously activates the path of its re-pressurizing, and how this process, through repetition, passes beyond the individual level and continues in relationships, in other bodies, and in shared fields, without the moment of the reversal of meaning ever being seen.

Suffering is rarely accompanied by a pause. It appears, and immediately a movement takes shape after it — a movement that is neither the result of a measured decision nor the outcome of prior reflection, but the natural continuation of the same pressure. It is as if there were no distance between suffering and the response to it, and this absence of distance removes the very possibility of questioning.

The issue is not to explain suffering, nor to search for its origin. The question is not why we suffer or where it comes from. The question is what happens when suffering becomes present, and whether the possibility of a pause can be kept alive — a pause in which reaction, for a moment, loses its necessity.

By suffering is not meant merely physical pain. What is named here as suffering covers a spectrum of states: from bodily pain to anxiety, from longing to boredom, from the sense of insecurity to loss, and even those moments that at first glance do not appear to be suffering — having too much, or losing something to which we have grown accustomed. In this sense, suffering is not an exception and not a sign of disorder. It is part of lived experience that, sooner or later, imposes itself.

Before it carries meaning, suffering appears as pressure — a pressure that does not wait for naming and does not ask for explanation. Just as physical pain forces the body to change its position, suffering sets mind and behavior in motion. This movement is often rapid, in many cases continuous and without interval.

A living being cannot remain without response to suffering. A sustained non-response is neither a sign of understanding nor of maturity, but closer to a kind of rupture or numbness. Suffering is not made to be ignored. Its role is to disrupt stillness and to activate a chain of responses.

The responses are, on the surface, different — eating, sleeping, distraction, silence, withdrawal, anger, aggression. What binds them together is their speed. The mind chooses the shortest and most familiar path, the path that has previously been able to reduce the intensity of the pressure.

In many situations, suffering is vague. It has no clear location and no specific cause. Anxiety, boredom, persistent fatigue, loneliness, or the interval between two pleasures appear without an obvious sign. This vagueness allows reaction to take the place of questioning, and what is repeated gradually takes on the form of habit.

From here, patterns are formed. A reaction that once managed to reduce the pressure is repeated. Repetition stabilizes it, and what is stabilized is no longer experienced as a choice. Suffering arrives, and the response is already there.

Seeing these patterns is not without risk. For what is experienced as “I” is, in many cases, nothing but this stabilized chain of reactions. To pause before suffering is not merely to place a distance between a feeling and a behavior, but to open a fissure in a continuity that presents itself as natural and inevitable.

This text does not seek the elimination of suffering and does not propose a path of liberation from it. The issue is to see these very patterns — to see the rapid movements that are activated before any question can take shape and that gradually stabilize the course of individual and collective experience. To hold the question at the moment suffering appears, not in order to reach an answer, but to disturb the obviousness that continually takes the place of choice.