There comes a moment on the warrior’s path when attention begins to turn inward. The world ceases to be merely what strikes us through the senses — it starts to be perceived as a hall of mirrors, where outer reflections resonate with inner movements. At that point, the practitioner begins to cultivate inner silence, sharpen impeccability, and empty the personal inventory. A new center of gravity is born — one that leans toward the nagual and away from the prison of the character.
But this state is still fragile. In the beginning, silence is like a flickering flame, easily extinguished by the winds of the world. And then the inevitable happens: we encounter other people — with their rhythms, their rigid beliefs, their dense emotions, their inflated identities. Ordinary people, operating entirely from the first attention, fully identified with the tonal, with personal narratives, with the ego world.
In such encounters, many beginner warriors experience a strange fading. What once felt firm in solitude dissolves in social contact. Silence is broken. The body tightens. The mind resumes its chatter. And without realizing it, we return to the mask, to the old role, to the familiar story. Consciousness seems to be swallowed whole.
Why does this happen?
Because, even after taking some steps toward freedom, we remain rooted in the collective tonal. We still carry our social self — the character forged over a lifetime to engage with the world. And that character has invisible ties to other characters. They recognize each other, activate each other, sustain each other. The other calls us by name, and we respond. They ask what we do for a living, and the character answers. They provoke us, and the old pattern reacts. The warrior gives way to the common man.
This is not failure. It is merely a reflection of our current inner cohesion. While the assemblage point still oscillates between old and new positions, we remain vulnerable. We have not yet stabilized silence in the face of noise. We do not yet dwell in the nagual with solidity.
But there is another kind of encounter. One that does not pull us backward but instead propels us forward.
It is the encounter with a true warrior — one who has crossed the bridges between the tonal and the nagual. One whose will is already fused with the Intent. One who does not need to say a single word to destabilize us — because their presence itself is a mirror that strips away illusion.
Before someone like this, our character finds no footing. There is no exchange of labels. No reinforcement of social identity. The warrior sees through appearances and addresses the energetic being we truly are. Their gaze wounds illusions and nourishes the spirit. They do not attack us — but their mere attention dissolves falsehood.
At first, such an encounter can be disconcerting. We may feel fear, shame, even anger. Because we are being seen — not as we want to appear, but as we truly are. And for the tonal, that is unbearable. The tonal loves control, wants to know what to do, needs references. But before the living nagual, there is no ground. Only the void.
However, if we resist the impulse to flee and remain present, something extraordinary can occur. Attention reorganizes itself. Silence returns — not as an effort, but as a consequence. Perception expands. And for a moment, we touch the totality of being.
This is the power of encountering an awakened warrior. They do not teach with words. They teach with presence. Their energy organizes ours. Their assemblage point influences ours. Their impeccability compels us to be truthful.
While the common person pulls us back, the true warrior pushes us forward. Not because they want to — but because this is the nature of their energy: to destabilize the false and strengthen the real.
That is why, along the path, it is vital to discern our encounters. Not all will be expanders of consciousness. Many will be tests, mirrors of our fragility. But when we meet a being who lives in mastery of both attentions, we must strip away resistance and allow ourselves to be touched. Not by words, but by intent.
This type of encounter is rare. But when it happens, it marks us forever. Something inside aligns, remembers, expands. And even if we later return to the common world, we are no longer the same.
A reverberation remains. A silence calls us. A direction reveals itself. And then we understand: the true teaching is not in books, rituals, or techniques. It is in the impact of a presence that dissolved illusion and showed us — even for a brief instant — who we truly are.
This is the path. And this is the call.
Gebh al Tarik
