There’s a secret that breathes in the space between two breaths. There — in that silence that doesn’t fit into any clock — we perceive that the body is merely the visible edge of something vaster. The skin vibrates like the bank of a luminous river, and the bones aren’t walls: they’re pillars through which a current of boundless life flows.
The energetic body doesn’t trail behind the flesh like a ghost; it precedes it, sustains it, and transcends it. First comes a subtle tremor, like the brushing of wings beneath the skin. Then, we discover lines of light, channels of attention, and centers of power humming in unison behind every cell. It shows itself gently, without fanfare — until, in certain moments, it emerges.
When attention aligns with the Nagual, the world recedes. The mind’s narrative falls like a veil, and only presence remains. This absolute now isn’t a moment in time; it’s a silent crossing where the warrior sheds the story that clothes him. It’s the door that opens in the here and now — not as a metaphor, but as a real rupture in the fabric of perception.
Upon crossing that door, we perceive a murmur older than all form: the Intent. At first, it appears as background — an invisible horizon from which thoughts, sensations, and emotions emerge. Then the backdrop dissolves into sea. Intent reveals itself as an infinite ocean: within it all is born, moves, and dissolves. Nothing escapes; nothing remains outside its embrace.
Then something awakens in the belly. A serene tingling stirs below the navel — physical, yet not belonging to the dense body. It is neither pain nor pleasure: it is power. Under the inner gaze, amber sparks tear through the darkness and transform into tendrils of light.
Lying down, as if looking at one’s own feet, the warrior sees the light-rays emerging from the belly and swirling around an indistinct center. They spin with untamed rhythm, sometimes fast, sometimes suspended, as if obeying an inaudible beat. They grow to nearly twelve inches, spiraling toward the ceiling, widening in deep yellow, almost amber, yet still glowing with gold.
The whole resembles a glass orb filled with gas and electricity: lightning darts dance in the void, drawn by the invisible touch of perception. But here, there’s no glass, no voltage — only living light, woven by Intent itself, dancing within the belly like the secret heart of the Infinite.
This is the Will:
It doesn’t ask or announce — it simply acts in silence, weaving invisible paths. It is the Will that:
- extends the gaze until it sees energy in its raw flow;
- shifts the assemblage point like turning the key to a hidden door;
- sustains the body on the edge of danger, making it light as wind;
- embraces the fibers of the world and realigns destinies;
- erects walls of protection when darkness approaches;
- dissolves habits, bindings, and fears without lifting a sword;
- sows absolute patience, able to wait centuries in a single breath.
When it ignites, it makes the warrior remember without memory and know without thought. He doesn’t possess the Will — it is the Will who lives him, wave and sea indistinguishable. The first attention bows — not submissively, but lucidly — before threads reason never spun.
After that, all that remains is to cultivate a silence the size of the Infinite. To become inaccessible not to people, but to the demands of the ego, to the noise of personal history, to the invitations of the ordinary world — not out of escape, but out of delicacy: to touch the world lightly, so that the Will may always find open ground upon which to extend its threads of light, linking the human to the Eternal and revealing, in stillness, the Intent already present in all things — waiting only to be perceived, in the space between a gesture and silence.
Gebh al Tarik
