It Is Not Out There, It Is In Here
—10/4/2018
After my Fajr prayer this morning, I sat and listened to J. Krishnamurti's audiobook on YouTube. As always, the old man speaks directly to the core, piercing the illusions of self and mind with surgical calm. Over the years, his teachings have deeply influenced me. If I were being purely rational, perhaps I should have renounced religion by now and declared myself an atheist.
But I haven’t.
Maybe I’m a coward.
Maybe I need to believe in God.
Which makes me—by my own admission—a believer not out of true faith, but out of fear. Out of a desire for security, for a shelter beyond the storm. I confess this with unease, especially at my age. But I am still walking the road. Still turning over the stones. Still prying into the dark corners of belief and doubt, until the very end, if need be.
It all comes back to the mind. To thoughts. To the ghostly machinery of assumption and identity.
The question of the self—of who or what we truly are—is intertwined with our thinking. We mistake thoughts for self. We build our entire being on shifting ground. While I resonate with Krishnamurti’s views, I find them incomplete. They lack a harmony between the mystical and the scientific, between faith and understanding.
To me, philosophy should not erase faith, but enhance it.
Religion should not suppress inquiry, but give it moral grounding.
Whether or not God exists is not something one proves. It’s personal. Intimate. It's part of the sacred inner inquiry. No two revelations are alike.
Trying to decode the entirety of human nature with a few profound aphorisms is like trying to eat a durian without peeling off the skin—it doesn’t work, and it will make a mess.
Even with knowledge and fleeting glimpses of truth, reality remains as slippery as an eel. Epiphanies are not conclusions. Understanding flickers like desert light—impermanent, incomplete.
And yet, as long as breath remains, I am compelled to keep digging.
To ask again and again: Who or what am I?
This is the real pilgrimage—not of footsteps across deserts, but of inner deserts and doubt-scorched landscapes. We must take a stand, someday, on what our dharma position is. Not for others—but for our own integrity. Whether we believe or not, we must know what we believe, from within.
The truth is not owned by J. Krishnamurti, nor by Christ, the Bhagavad Gita, the Qur’an, or the Dhammapada. The truth is not in Mooji Baba’s smiles, Sai Baba’s ashes, Tolle’s stillness, or Jung’s archetypes. It’s not even in science or the poetry of Chopra and Michio Kaku.
The truth is hidden among them all.
And yet it rests closer still—in your own heart.
It has been there from the beginning, waiting to be seen.
So abandon all borrowed thoughts. All second-hand beliefs.
Knock gently on the inner gate, enter with awe, and ask.
You may be surprised to find the answer has always been waiting:
Not out there,
But in here.
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