i have this tendency where i cannot see everything on surface level , my consciousness will make me feel everything deeply so then i ask myself this .
“The depth of my consciousness causes me to suffer. Is it a blessing or a curse to feel everything so deeply?”

I have come to a strange conclusion one that I did not read in holy books or hear from wise men, but arrived at through sleepless nights and the gnawing solitude that eats away at a man’s soul like rust devours iron.

The conclusion is this:
The only way out is to take more of the very thing that poisons you and transmute it into a tonic that girdles the world around you.

I Did Not Choose to Feel This Deeply
I was born with too many mirrors inside. Everything reflects. Everything echoes.
A word spoken carelessly in a room of laughter lingers in my mind for weeks.
A glance, a silence, a sigh I read a hundred meanings into them, most of which do not exist.
And yet, they wound me as if they do.

What the Gita Said… and What I Could Not Accept
I read the Gita. I read Krishna’s words to Arjuna:
“Bear heat and cold, pleasure and pain… they come and go. Be unmoved.”
Be unmoved?
How does a man who sees everything in movement remain still?
But slowly, I realized Krishna wasn’t asking Arjuna to become numb. He was asking him to become vast.
To not run from the poison, but to drink it with awareness, and let it burn away everything false.

Dostoevsky once wrote:
“Suffering is the sole origin of consciousness.”
Now I understand.
Every humiliation, every rejection, every failure that made me feel like I was drowning in darkness
Was not meant to kill me.
It was meant to force a choice:
Either shrink… or transform.
You think you are cursed because you feel too much?
No.
You are cursed because you haven’t yet given that feeling a direction. A form. A voice. A task.

So I repeat again not with pride, but with grim clarity:
The only way out is through.
And the only way through… is to take what poisons you, and turn it into a sacred medicine one that not only heals you, but offers warmth to the cold world around you.
This is not optimism. This is resurrection.
Not avoidance. But transfiguration.
Because, after all, as Dostoevsky knew, redemption is not born in heaven. It is born in hell and carried upward by those who refuse to stay there.