itchINESS blame

What’s something most people don’t understand?

“The mind alone is the friend of the self, and the mind alone is the enemy of the self.” — Bhagavad Gita

The night did not begin with fear.It began with a small itch.I lay on my bed, tired from the day, when a sharp irritation rose from my leg. At first, it was nothing. Just a scratch, a shift, a turn. But the itch stayed. Then it grew. Then the swelling followed.My eyes opened.The room was silent, but my mind was not.

A thought entered—soft, almost harmless.Then it sharpened.This is not normal.I sat up, staring at my leg as if it held meaning beyond the skin. The feeling was real—but the explanation began to form on its own.My mind started building.

A name appeared. A reason followed. Then a chain of blame.And with each thought, I felt a strange sense of control—as if tearing someone down in my mind could explain what I could not understand.It must be them… they are doing this…But the more I followed that path, the tighter something inside me became.

The itch worsened.My breath shortened.The room felt smaller.Without realizing it, I was no longer dealing with the itch—I was feeding something else.A cycle.

I got up quickly, took salt, and pressed it onto my skin. The sting brought me back for a moment. Something physical. Something real.The itch softened.The thoughts slowed.Silence returned.Morning came gently.Light filled the room, touching everything the night had distorted.

I looked again at my leg—still swollen, still uncomfortable—but no longer surrounded by the same storm of thoughts.I sat down with the chapter I had been reading over and over again.This time, the words did not feel distant.

They felt like a mirror.I paused, reading the same line again.And then it came to me—clear, simple, undeniable.“Tearing people down in my mind… blaming… assuming… it only pulls me into a negative cycle.

”I sat back.“That’s the trap.”It wasn’t about others.It was about what I was doing to myself.Each time I created a story, each time I blamed, each time I mentally attacked—I felt a brief sense of certainty. It never lasted.

It only made the next wave stronger.A vicious cycle.“I kept reading this… again and again,” I said quietly.

“Why did it take me so long to see something so simple?”

There was no anger in my voice now.Only clarity.I closed the book.“This is how it keeps going,” I continued, almost as if explaining it to myself. “I feel something…

I don’t understand it… I create a story… I tear someone down… and I fall deeper into the same trap.”I nodded slowly.“But I can stop.”The thought was new—not loud, not forceful—but steady.I sat still and watched my breath.A thought came.

I did not follow it.Another came.I let it pass.No blaming.No tearing down.No building stories.Just observing.Again.And again.The cycle did not break in a single moment—but it weakened.And in that quiet effort, I felt something return to me.Not control over the world.

But control over where my mind chooses to go.I looked once more at my leg.It was still there. Still healing.But now, it was just a condition—not a story.And that made all the difference.

“When one lifts the self by the self and refuses to fall into negativity, the mind becomes a path to freedom, not a prison.” — Bhagavad Gita