A recollection of the first glimpses of perceptual shifts—moments like lightning in the dark. These reflections capture the raw astonishment of discovering how tantric awakening and dissolution intertwine, written during the early years of my exploration.
First Flashes
When I managed to keep thoughts at bay, I began to glimpse something different—brief flashes that slowly shifted my perception. These glimpses were like lightning in the dark: brief illuminations of a reality I hadn’t known, previews of what was to come. My first insights were always confirmed by later experiences, as the intensity and quality of the feeling deepened.
This was my perception in 2015, only three years after my epiphany in August 2012.
On Dilution and Death
The first departure from ordinary experience was a sense of dilution—long before I felt the energy flowing out of my body—and of connection with something much larger. The feeling was like dying, yet instead of fear it brought a quiet hope. Death was no longer perceived as an end, but as a new beginning—like going back home.
“Imagine that you are in total darkness. Then, for a moment, there is a faint light—and back to the dark again. You try to reconstruct in your mind what you barely perceived. This is what I will try to do now. Not easy, because what I dimly saw, through the windshield and the rearview mirror, looked very much like Death.
For us, tantric sex means spending ten, fifteen, twenty minutes being traversed by this energy. And I mean it—we both feel the same thing. It feels like a vast and eternal wave of bliss, not the ‘simultaneous orgasm’ where two private experiences happen to coincide. We clearly experience the same flow, with its highs and lows.
This is a huge departure from any normal experience. Our minds, our whole beings, are connected. And this communion has deep consequences. We dissolve into each other. And we feel dissolved into something immense—like two drops of water merging into one, and then thrown into a river.
In those moments, when I can drink from that fountain without being pulled toward physical release, I glimpse the real nature of my thirst—the drive we call sex. What I was seeking in the arms of my lovers was this: dissolving into the other, breaking free from the prison of my ego. And through the other, dissolving into… God? If I were Saint Teresa, my cultural lens would surely point to that as the logical answer. As an atheist, I don’t know what to think. This dissolution feels like death—but under that light, the word loses its sting. It feels more like going home. So what I wanted through sex was dying—going home.”
On the Self
Being aware without thoughts, even for a short time, made me realize that what I had always understood as “me” was only a bundle of thoughts—memories and desires. My real self was this awareness, silently watching thoughts arise and fade away. The idea—perhaps just wishful thinking—that this “deep self” was the one going back home slowly began to take shape.
“But who’s going home? Again, I’ll try to describe another dim and strange perception.
Tantric sex with a partner requires some attention to the body—movement, balance, physical awareness. But when I lie back and I’m alone with this energy, the mind truly stops, or nearly so. It has to, or the energy will not flow. In that silence, thoughts are perceived very differently. Our hands and feet are useful tools, but we don’t see them as our ‘self.’ With a still, or nearly still mind, I perceive my thoughts the same way—as tools, but not as me. And that changes everything.
I dimly perceive that this thing I’ve always called ‘me’ is nothing more than a bundle of thoughts, memories and desires. Yet now they feel like a house I once lived in—a space full of memories, most of them good, but no longer home. The melancholy of those empty rooms is mixed with the excitement of moving on.
That’s how I feel when I look at that old ‘me’ that no longer feels like me. What I really am is that which moves to a new home. The old self must be left behind; it can’t be carried forward. It cannot survive death—that’s impossible. But then, what is this new ‘me,’ and where is it going? Even considering the possibility of transcending death is a Copernican shift for someone like me—an atheist.”
On God
If the real self was free of desire, what could we expect from God—if there was one? A god enslaved by his own desires? I was still deeply skeptical about the very existence of anything we could call “God.” But if such a being existed, it would surely give its grace as the sun gives its light: expecting nothing, asking nothing, shining for all who choose to join it.
“After all, the trees are not worshipping the Sun—they simply stay away from the dark. And the Sun gives life to the trees by burning herself, but not because she receives any worship. What else could she do? She is the Sun!
So I don’t see myself praying or worshipping any god. But I’ll try to find a little place under this Sun—she who gives without asking—where I can lay my towel.”
Even for an atheist, these states suggest a Copernican shift. By observing the process of tantric awakening and dissolution, I found that the ‘old self’ is merely a house I once lived in, while the sun shines regardless of our labels.
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