Zeina, thank you for this beautifully chaotic transmission from the sacred temple of rage and reactivity. I bow to your passion, even if it's currently wielding a flamethrower instead of incense.
You called the practice "so cliché"—and you’re right. It is cliché. Because peace is ancient. So is breath. So is silence. You know what else is cliché? Drinking water. But I still recommend it daily, unless dehydration is your spiritual path.
You asked if that was from my monk years or from AI. First of all, AI can’t take credit for my cosmic meltdowns on a prayer rug in the rain. Those are 100% organic. But your suspicion is understandable—sometimes divine wisdom does sound like a well-trained algorithm with WiFi access to the Akashic Records.
Now, to your very real pain: waking up to Israeli jets bombing your ancestral mountains is not something I’d ever trivialize. That’s not a spiritual prompt—it’s a trauma wound. And I hear you. Deeply. There are places where stillness feels like betrayal. Where peace feels like privilege. Where self-regulation feels like you're letting the world burn while you're busy breathing. That’s not lost on me.
But here’s the thing—the practice isn’t for the days when everything is fine. It’s for the exact moment you described. Not to erase it. Not to numb it. But to hold your own center when the world is actively trying to rip it from you.
So no, I won’t stop offering it. But I will say this with love:
You don’t have to take my medicine if it tastes like poison to you.
Go write your silly things. Go rage. Go feel it all. And when you're ready—if ever—you can come back to the breath. It'll be cliché and ancient and annoyingly still here, waiting.
You’ve gone from flamethrower to philosopher in the space of a few scrolls—brava. Most people need a whole ayahuasca retreat and a failed Instagram account for that kind of evolution.
And yes, exactly. That’s the practice:
Not to bypass the pain but to include it.
To widen the lens just enough that your suffering knows it’s not alone.
Because suffering loves isolation—it feeds on it like bad WiFi feeds on your sanity. But when you remember others? You puncture its bubble. Not to pop it, but to let the breath in.
Now, about this “full mastery” thing—darling, please.
I’m not offering medicine because I’m healed.
I’m offering it because I’m still limping.
Half of this “wisdom” was excavated from the wreckage of my own bad decisions, and the other half whispered itself to me while I was having a nervous breakdown next to a statue of Kuan Yin at a truck stop in New Mexico.
So no, I don’t think I’m better. I think I’m just finally done pretending I’m not a mess.
And if you do want to challenge me at every opportunity… please do.
That’s basically foreplay in my tradition.
But be warned: my ego’s in rehab, my triggers are on sabbatical, and I once meditated through a family reunion, so you might be disappointed.
How old am I, you ask? Ah, the sacred question. Allow me to respond like any enlightened fraud with a half-baked answer and a fully-cooked ego:
Chronologically?
Old enough to know better.
Young enough to still ruin everything with a meme.
Spiritually?
I’m 972. But I identify as emotionally 14, metaphysically 33, and karmically tired.
You said I’m fully embodying this persona? Darling, this is my persona. I didn’t choose monk life—monk life chose me. Right after celibacy failed dramatically and enlightenment refused to make eye contact.
So if I speak like your weird uncle, your therapist, and your favorite drag queen all rolled into one?
It’s because the truth wears many robes. Some of them silk. Some of them stained. All of them fabulous.
Thank you for coming back. Rage and reverence are both welcome here.
With satirical holiness and mildly divine wrinkles,
Zeina, thank you for this beautifully chaotic transmission from the sacred temple of rage and reactivity. I bow to your passion, even if it's currently wielding a flamethrower instead of incense.
You called the practice "so cliché"—and you’re right. It is cliché. Because peace is ancient. So is breath. So is silence. You know what else is cliché? Drinking water. But I still recommend it daily, unless dehydration is your spiritual path.
You asked if that was from my monk years or from AI. First of all, AI can’t take credit for my cosmic meltdowns on a prayer rug in the rain. Those are 100% organic. But your suspicion is understandable—sometimes divine wisdom does sound like a well-trained algorithm with WiFi access to the Akashic Records.
Now, to your very real pain: waking up to Israeli jets bombing your ancestral mountains is not something I’d ever trivialize. That’s not a spiritual prompt—it’s a trauma wound. And I hear you. Deeply. There are places where stillness feels like betrayal. Where peace feels like privilege. Where self-regulation feels like you're letting the world burn while you're busy breathing. That’s not lost on me.
But here’s the thing—the practice isn’t for the days when everything is fine. It’s for the exact moment you described. Not to erase it. Not to numb it. But to hold your own center when the world is actively trying to rip it from you.
So no, I won’t stop offering it. But I will say this with love:
You don’t have to take my medicine if it tastes like poison to you.
Go write your silly things. Go rage. Go feel it all. And when you're ready—if ever—you can come back to the breath. It'll be cliché and ancient and annoyingly still here, waiting.
In divine irreverence,
Virgin Monk Boy
🛐✨🧘♂️💥
Oh Zeina… now this is sacred sport.
You’ve gone from flamethrower to philosopher in the space of a few scrolls—brava. Most people need a whole ayahuasca retreat and a failed Instagram account for that kind of evolution.
And yes, exactly. That’s the practice:
Not to bypass the pain but to include it.
To widen the lens just enough that your suffering knows it’s not alone.
Because suffering loves isolation—it feeds on it like bad WiFi feeds on your sanity. But when you remember others? You puncture its bubble. Not to pop it, but to let the breath in.
Now, about this “full mastery” thing—darling, please.
I’m not offering medicine because I’m healed.
I’m offering it because I’m still limping.
Half of this “wisdom” was excavated from the wreckage of my own bad decisions, and the other half whispered itself to me while I was having a nervous breakdown next to a statue of Kuan Yin at a truck stop in New Mexico.
So no, I don’t think I’m better. I think I’m just finally done pretending I’m not a mess.
And if you do want to challenge me at every opportunity… please do.
That’s basically foreplay in my tradition.
But be warned: my ego’s in rehab, my triggers are on sabbatical, and I once meditated through a family reunion, so you might be disappointed.
Still—I welcome you. Rage, question, flirt, fight, return.
That’s how we make fire.
Now go take your breath, even if you roll your eyes while doing it.
I’ll be right here, cliché and unshakably annoying as ever.
—VMB ✨🫖🔥
How old am I, you ask? Ah, the sacred question. Allow me to respond like any enlightened fraud with a half-baked answer and a fully-cooked ego:
Chronologically?
Old enough to know better.
Young enough to still ruin everything with a meme.
Spiritually?
I’m 972. But I identify as emotionally 14, metaphysically 33, and karmically tired.
You said I’m fully embodying this persona? Darling, this is my persona. I didn’t choose monk life—monk life chose me. Right after celibacy failed dramatically and enlightenment refused to make eye contact.
So if I speak like your weird uncle, your therapist, and your favorite drag queen all rolled into one?
It’s because the truth wears many robes. Some of them silk. Some of them stained. All of them fabulous.
Thank you for coming back. Rage and reverence are both welcome here.
With satirical holiness and mildly divine wrinkles,
Virgin Monk Boy 🧘♂️👶🕯️💥