The thirtythird morning.
The sky was softly gray, as if the sun were waiting for something before rising.

The young man sat beneath the bodhi tree—
the place where he had spent so many mornings of this journey.

But today, something inside him was shifting.

Not a movement of the body or the breath—
but a movement from within,
as if a shell were cracking open deep inside.

The teacher approached, stood behind him for a long moment, then asked:

“What are you seeing this morning?”

The young man opened his eyes, a hint of confusion in them:

“I… see that the ‘self’ I’ve been holding onto… is no longer solid.

It’s becoming fragile, unreal.

As if just a light touch could make it dissolve.”

The teacher smiled—
the smile of someone who knows the student has reached the threshold.

“Good.

Today you’ve touched the place where Jiddu meets the Avatamsaka teaching:

breaking the self through seeing.”

He sat beside him.

“Jiddu does not teach you to practice.

He does not teach you to become someone.

He does not teach you to believe in anything.”

He looked straight into the young man’s eyes:

“Jiddu teaches only one thing:
see the self clearly.

And when it is seen clearly,
the self dissolves on its own.

No resisting.
No fixing.
No fighting.”

The young man remained silent.

He felt something trembling inside him—
something he once believed was “core,”
now becoming vague like smoke.

The teacher asked:

“What do you think the self is?”

The young man thought for a moment, then replied:

“It’s… ‘me.’

The one who thinks, who wants, who fears…”

The teacher nodded.

“But the self is not an entity.

It is a process.”

He raised his hand and counted on his fingers:

“The self is memory.
It is hurt.
It is fear.
It is desire.
It is the image of oneself.
It is comparison.
It is defense.

It is not ‘a thing.’

It is a movement.”

The young man listened,
feeling as if someone were removing the bricks
from a wall he had built around himself long ago.

Inside him, a sentence from Jiddu Krishnamurti rose again—
not as an idea, but like a sharp blade:

“The observer is the observed.”

The teacher continued:

“When you observe fear,
the observer and the fear are not separate.

When you observe the self,
the observer and the self are not separate.

When this is seen,
the observer dissolves,
the self dissolves,
and only pure observation remains.”

The young man closed his eyes.

He looked inward—
not with the eyes, but with awareness.

And he saw thoughts about “me” rising like small clouds.

But this time, he was not carried away.

He simply watched.

And as he watched, they dissolved.

The teacher stood up and brushed the dust from his robe.

“Come.

Today, as you walk in meditation,
whenever a thought about ‘me’ appears,

simply look at it and say:

‘This is just a movement of the mind.’

No resisting.
No following.
No fixing.
No judging.”

The young man rose and followed him.

The “self” this morning was no longer a wall.

It had become a wisp of smoke—
thin, light, ready to dissolve
whenever the light of seeing touched it.