You open your eyes… and you don’t seek the reflection in the mirror of the mind.
You don’t chase the clock.
You don’t ask what time it is, nor if today is a useful day.
The time of the tonal no longer dictates the rhythm of your soul.
You are neither early nor late.
There are no appointments on the tonal’s agenda.
Your attention begins to revolve around what truly matters:
– the murmur of a wind that never blows in vain,
– the secret dance of shadows when the sun touches a forgotten stone,
– the silence that precedes a foreboding,
– the whisper of something that has always been there — behind the curtain of the world.
This is the second attention watching you — not as an escape, but as an invitation to step onto virgin ground, where reality is no longer a chain,
but a living tide flowing between the tonal and the nagual.
The dreaming cultures — those that never parted from the invisible world — they don’t ask, “What time is it?” They ask, “Is this the moment?”
They don’t listen to clocks.
They listen to reality.
It is a state of awareness that no longer splits the day into artificial slices.
It is the gesture of the warrior who waits for signs, who lets himself be crossed by the rupture of the unexpected, who knows when to be silent, when to move, when to allow the Intent to flow through.
The rain comes.
The Intent whispers.
The nagual reveals itself.
The tonal bows.
It’s not a calendar — it’s an inner compass.
Not a forced march — a silent dance.
The warrior of freedom moves in the time of the nagual, where every instant is vast as an abyss, and every abyss echoes like a whisper into eternity.
When you stop breaking life into mental fragments, you finally begin to truly live.
Now, imagine yourself in the solitude of a desert, or in the void of a cave — and there, with no schedule, no name, no past — time dissolves.
The tonal quiets down.
The body stops reporting itself to the mind like a dog to its master.
Hunger fades.
Sleep comes — or it doesn’t.
Even the notion of “I” begins to slip away like sand between your fingers.
What emerges is neither despair nor madness, but a rare taste of sanity — one where a single moment stretches like a lucid dream, and a week vanishes like a distant echo.
The warrior finds himself unsure whether days, months, or years have passed.
And he’s not lying.
Because there, the assemblage point has shifted, and time has ceased to be a ruler.
No longer a measurement — but an inner landscape, a silent pulse.
The mind stops marching to the sound of the world.
Have you ever lost hours while hunting power in silence?
Have you ever loved a moment so deeply that the world disappeared?
Have you ever walked until you forgot who you were?
These are cracks opened by the second attention — gaps where the nagual breathes its presence.
Inner silence is not just a refuge.
It is the gateway to the real.
The world of the tonal is not a lie — but it is only a fragment.
The calendar? A fiction.
The fear of tomorrow? An echo with no master.
What is real?
The Intent in your breath.
The inner rhythm of your energetic tide.
You are not a machine of the tonal.
You are an echo of the nagual in this world.
And infinite time?
It is not an endless thread — but the total presence in the now.
It is not measurement.
It is being.
Time is not outside.
Time is a creation of the tonal.
The tonal creates before and after, history and future.
But all of that is just a trail you leave in the dust of the mind.
When you perceive the inner movement of time — when you look at it without being carried by it — then time ends… and something entirely different begins.
The second attention knows no clocks.
It knows only the always.
Reality has no “universal now.”
Past and future breathe within the same breath.
The tonal counts the moments.
The nagual dissolves them into one.
We don’t walk through time.
We are a suspended instant, swept by the silent light of the Intent.
Time is not an endless thread.
It is a vast circle — a crystal where each point reflects the whole.
With every heartbeat, the nagual whispers,
echoing ancient patterns beyond what your mind calls “before” or “after.”
The warrior’s time is not a line.
It is living geometry.
The oracle does not foresee — it reads the present as one reads the lines of the Earth.
In the geometry of the nagual,
what is to come is already pulsing all around.
The warrior does not anticipate the future — he recognizes its shape before the tonal can grasp it.
You look at the world and see its layers: the rock, the rain, the volcano, the wind — each one a page in the story of the Intent.
Human time jitters through nervous seconds.
But the nagual moves in silent cycles.
We are not made of clocks.
We are made of echoes — of deep movements unseen, but present.
The nagual destroys and creates in the same act.
Silence cuts and embraces at once.
Time does not measure you by hours.
It measures you by choices.
It’s not time that changes things — it’s the Intent you infuse into them.
Time is merely the fire in which you are forged.
And it is within this fire that you decide who you will become.
Gebh al Tarik
