The weightlessness of sensations

We would talk for hours, unaware of time. Each day brought a new layer of practice. I trusted him completely. I went in fully. I felt safe. In my body. And somewhere deeper.

The activation of the human body is not an ordinary process.

I was fortunate. I was allowed to go through it individually, with clear instructions on how to maintain purity — physical, mental, emotional. I followed them precisely. I was given time to feel the value of what I had entered into.

Gradually, I grew accustomed to a world with my eyes closed. The chaotic waves of an immeasurable space began to take form — into a new, lucid world. A world of sensation.

From the moment I first met the Master, I began to record our conversations methodically. I retained every moment, every smallest detail: observations, explanations, exercises.

I absorbed everything.

A surgeon without a knife

We were going deeper.

One day, he stood behind me and touched my head. Precise movements of his fingers, brief clicks — and silver sparks.

He murmured quietly:

— What if like this…

A click. Another.

— There. That’s it.

This is how it happened — between conversation and tea, my first operation on the brain. Without a knife. At the end of each practice, he would always bring the process to completion. Return everything to balance. Close what had been opened.

— Never let anyone touch your head.

His voice came from the dark.

One part of me was looking into the world of sensation with an inner sight. Another seemed to step out of the body, watching what was unfolding from the side. I held onto the details of the process as a sequence of exact images, preserving them carefully in memory.

Later, he admitted we could have moved through the entire activation much faster.

But he slowed it down. He stretched it out.

He gave me time — not only to pass through it, but to withstand what I had passed through.

The test of attention

— Remember this — there will always be tests.

The Master said it quietly.

— In what sense?

— In the strength of your intention to change.

That was exactly what was happening. Familiar faces kept flashing before my eyes. Wherever I went — at any hour — someone would be there, waiting, appearing out of nowhere.

«Where have you been?»

«Why haven’t you written?»

«What’s going on with you?»

My old life seemed to be trying to pull me back into its orbit. But it couldn’t. I kept moving forward.

Very quickly, it became clear: our evening meetings had moved far beyond anything familiar. Not those predictable scenarios where, under the guise of spiritual practice, inexperienced girls end up with older men and are gradually drawn into something destructive. Where everything tangles together — substances, manipulation, strange collective games.

I could have been taken for the same kind of naive girl, newly arrived, with only one difference — I wasn’t interested in pleasure.

Spiritual pursuit opens many doors, and the paths to them are often slippery. Only a deep inner maturity allows you to walk that path through to the end.

As for me — I was simply fortunate. At the time, I didn’t fully understand the price I was paying. But I felt it — whatever it was, it was worth it.

The secret of the gaze

One day, in the middle of a lively conversation, we began to talk about human eyes. What, in fact, lies behind them?

I asked questions that went deep, and the answers were tested immediately — in practice. I was learning about different levels of sight. About the ways one can look, and how that look affects both the one who sees and the one being seen.

Driven by my usual curiosity, I went further and further, intent on reaching the very core. I crossed into that depth without ceremony.

And at one point, when I held his gaze a fraction too long, he said quietly:

— Don’t understand? Well. Look.

A moment later, I felt a faint discomfort — a thin haze spreading across my vision.

I lowered my eyes.

— There’s a fog… my sight feels dim.

I began to blink more often, trying to bring the sharpness back. Something inside tightened.

He responded at once:

— Close your eyes. Turn your head sharply, side to side.

It worked.

I fell silent, trying to understand what had just happened. I had only been looking into his eyes.

He asked:

— What do you think that was?

I listened inward. After a moment, I said:

— It felt as if I were looking into…

I couldn’t finish the word.

He opened his eyes slightly and completed it for me:

— Yes. Death.

Then he leaned back, folding his hands behind his head, and as if to himself, said under his breath:

— Why you’re allowed that…

I said nothing.

Death? What did that even mean?

Later, I understood what it was. That was my first encounter with what stood behind it.

He told me about undergoing a ritual of clinical death in Tibet. Since then, death had remained close to him.

I listened quietly. He spoke of guardians of consciousness. Of techniques of influence. If not for what I had just experienced, it would have sounded like fiction. The Master shared everything he knew with a kind of careless generosity.

Any desire to play staring games disappeared forever.

Instruments of influence

It was as if I were being born again. Every cell of my body was sensing — and resonating. Life had opened along a different axis. I was learning sensation. And in that moment, nothing mattered more.

Every single day, I practiced the art of balance. I began to feel other people more deeply. To perceive their intentions before they themselves were aware of them. To catch their thoughts. To know what they would do — before any movement began.

All it took was to gather my attention and look a person in the eyes — and I could see their path. Their life. Everything hidden. At some point, I understood: I was holding something dangerous. And for a while, I was allowed to play with it.

During our meetings, an Indian cat would often wander in. At times, it became part of what was happening.

He said once:

— Cats are creatures that live in several dimensions at once. Train on cats.

He caught the animal’s head in his right hand. A moment later, the cat’s eyes closed, its body slackened and dropped to the floor.

— The cat is gone.

He said it calmly.

For a second, I thought he had killed it. But that wasn’t it. The cat was asleep.

And I wanted to find my own cat.

The thought returned a few days later, when I was sitting in a closed café owned by someone I knew. A flicker of a furry tail passed by — the animal was deliberately ignoring me.

What if…

I closed my eyes.

Then I felt a soft warmth near my thigh. A moment later, a rough tongue brushed against my skin. For the next half hour, the cat licked every patch of exposed skin it could reach. I protested, but it didn’t care. In the end, I had to leave.

The picture was beginning to assemble itself —

the body conducts energy.

Where the channels are.

How to feel them.

Where to find them.

How to activate and connect them.

I encountered qigong. And I began to understand that the body holds everything.

I felt an increasing pull to work with people.

Almost without noticing, we moved from working with my body — to another level entirely.

The architecture of will

— Oh no, this isn’t esotericism, — the Master said. — It’s something else.

It has many names. The forms differ, the language shifts, but the task is the same: to clear perception, to bring a person back to their inner center, and return to them the ability to feel beyond what the ordinary state of consciousness allows.

I was fortunate. He led me along the shortest paths. I was entering states that are usually reached through years of meditation — with the snap of a finger.

From the outside, the technique looked like a simple movement of one hand. Behind that simplicity stood a titanic effort and a long road. Sometimes — a road walked alone.

— You have to choose, Oksana. You can’t develop both sensing and seeing at the same time.

Why he was right — I understood later.

The exercises he gave me, I absorbed instantly. Training the will became one of my favorite disciplines.

I began to refuse myself. In small things. In habitual gestures. In what seemed harmless.

And I saw how unfree I was.

Desires pulled at me. But the moment I stopped — and did not respond — something else rose within. Quieter. But stronger.

That was the first time it became clear: power is not in taking.

Power is in not obeying.

And that is what power is.

The test of success

— You’re unique, — he repeated every day. — You’re moving in strides.

If I had known him better then, the thought that he might be flattering me would never have arisen.

Within a few weeks, I had reached his level. And it became more interesting for both of us.

— This is a miracle. It takes people decades to come anywhere near this.

Somewhere inside, I knew he was right. But I still couldn’t see what stood behind it.

I played at full capacity. At that level, we could already measure ourselves against each other. Who would do it cleaner? Whose form would hold? Who would go deeper?

If he more often prevailed in precision and stability, then in depth — I had no equal.

At some point, I crossed an invisible line.

And he reacted.

For the first time, I felt the full weight of his nature.

It was as if a concrete slab had dropped onto me — without warning, without support. Breathing became difficult. The playfulness, the lightness — gone in an instant.

What had just happened?

Something in the illusion cracked.

I said goodbye abruptly:

— This is who I am right now — the real one. Why are you raising your voice at me?

And I left his space almost at a run.

The calm I had guarded so carefully dissolved into a dense, invasive chaos, spreading deeper under the skin with every passing minute.

When I reached home, there was a message on my phone:

— I want to apologize.

My understanding did not come at once.

Pride arrives quietly — right on the heels of success.

The responsibility of power

— You’re getting it…

I would hear his voice during practice.

In the evenings, people began to come to us. Sometimes the Master would let me work. With new eyes, with a different order of perception. It didn’t always unfold smoothly, but his hand was there — holding the line.

Why do people step into this at all?

Because this path does not offer only pleasure or affirmation. It does not spare you pain.

Each new stage took something with it. For something new to appear, something old had to leave. To let go — and that is almost never easy. I saw it happen: a person touches pure sensation — and begins to lose their grip on reality.

The impulse we worked with, the tools we gave — created a feeling of sudden acceleration. And most people forgot how easily that state could be lost. Forgot that everything carries a cost.

I had passed through it myself more than once.

Sometimes, from somewhere deep in memory, his voice still rises:

— Use it with care. Don’t waste it.

Intellect is not enough. What matters is how you use it.

No, this was not mysticism. And yet these unexplainable processes were part of our reality. Gradually, I began to see: a thought, joined with impulse, begins to alter reality. Literally. That was what intention was. And a word spoken with inner force can carry more weight than action.

I had to explore this on my own.

Understanding came slowly — the sense of responsibility.

The games were over.

And something else began to take shape before me.

The collapse of illusions

The moment of my departure was approaching. One day, the man who had become my teacher said:

— This will be your test.

I would like to say I took his words seriously. But then — at the height of ascent, held by his support and my own momentum — I took it more as an adventure than a trial.