Sharing Experiences
Block 1
Everyday life is often experienced as cold, rational, almost robotic. That lack of human touch, that emptiness in gestures and gazes, is what wounds the most—because at the core, what gives life meaning is not data or protocols, but sensitivity. A doctor can speak with clinical certainty and exact measurements, but when humanity is missing from their manner, the patient is reduced to an object measured, not a living being who feels. That absence of tact is not a minor detail: it’s what transforms existence into something hollow, like an art gallery where observers deform the masterpiece instead of appreciating it.
This sensitivity is what allows us to recognize the impact of human violence. A news report delivered with neutral tone may transmit horrific acts without the journalist showing emotion. That coldness has technical value, because it avoids manipulation; but it also reveals how social consciousness is anesthetized. Some realities should make our blood boil, and yet they are absorbed as raw data. That contrast exposes the gap between living with tact or simply functioning.
Those who cultivate sensitivity discover they can play the social game without becoming trapped in it. They can make others feel good, even if inside they burn with anger. They can preserve primary bonds and keep external harmony, but at the same time they recognize that often people just “don’t get it.” They retreat into themselves not from isolation, but because the depth of what they feel and understand goes beyond their environment. Anger then ceases to be weakness—it becomes the latency of an unshared truth.
Life is perceived as pure art: every instant, every emotion, every gesture is a brushstroke in a masterpiece that needs no spectators. The art is in the living itself, in the consciousness that observes and feels. From that perspective, the real path is not to accumulate or prove, but to stay connected with what is natural and coherent.
From that integration arises a constant flow. What once seemed an extraordinary state—hyperpresence—reveals itself as something we can practice in daily life. It’s not about being in constant extreme alert, but about sustaining a harmonious flow as a lifestyle. This flow is not speed or slowness, but coherence: moving, thinking, and feeling with softness, without excess tension, optimizing energy in every gesture. We often use more tension than necessary to talk, walk, move, or think. Reducing that tension opens a new, wider space where each action costs less and resonates more.
Here consciousness appears as a quantum observer. Just like in quantum physics, where the observer collapses superposed possibilities into one state, the human mind contains multiple superposed intelligences: logical rationality, sensitive emotion, bodily instinct, and subtler energies. Each action is a collapse of those layers into one manifestation. The difference lies in whether that collapse is automatic and tense, or conscious and soft. When the witnessing consciousness is present, the collapse becomes an act of freedom, not compulsion.
The ego emerges as the most complex node. It sets boundaries between life and death, self and other, attack and warmth. It cannot simply be eliminated: it’s the structure that makes individuality possible. But it can be observed, recognized, integrated—or even dissolved when it becomes oppressive. The mistake is confusing it with the true self. Ego defends, manipulates, builds masks; but behind it there is a deeper witness that needs no defense. Integrating ego means using it as a tool, not obeying it as a master.
To be an absolute witness is to watch inner movements without fully identifying with them. To see how the mind grows desperate when the body enters deep calm—because it has infinite ways to move a foot, to take a step, to interpret a gesture. That multiplicity can overwhelm, but the witnessing consciousness creates space: there’s no need to rush into choice. One can feel, see, and then act with the most harmonious option. That witnessing capacity is what transforms experience into learning, not chaos.
Tension versus softness is another central pattern. We live in constant tension, as if every move were pushed by excess force. But when the intention is softness, everything reconfigures. The body moves more effectively, energy expenditure decreases, timing becomes natural. It’s not about speed but about rhythm. Practicing this alone—walking slowly, moving calmly, listening to music and following its rhythm—trains body and mind for a new kind of efficiency. Softness is not weakness: it is maximum optimization.
In this field, there also appears an energy that overwhelms the mind. Not just as clinical illness reduced to diagnosis, but as the mind’s extreme defense against unbearable dissonance. This energy is chaotic, dense and hard to handle. It can lead to breakdowns, distortions, ruptures with reality. But it also shows the nervous system’s capacity to raise walls when vulnerability is absolute. Integrating it is not romanticizing it, but recognizing its existence and its potential to be transmuted if observed instead of unleashed blindly.
Nature stands as a mirror of harmony against human incoherence. Animals don’t accumulate or manipulate; they live in balance with their needs. A lion may kill more than it eats, but only to teach its cubs—not out of greed. Ecosystems self-regulate, while human society entangles itself in hierarchies, manipulations, and ego games. In the social sphere, expectations and blame replace real care. Politics and economics feed dependencies and mental slavery, normalizing the unhealthy as if it were inevitable. Recognizing this does not mean escaping, it means choosing how to live without being dragged.
In all of this, human fragility is not a defect, but the entryway to coherence. An imperfect, vulnerable body can still hold harmony if consciousness flows through it softly. Death and deterioration are universal, but the balance tips toward infinity when consciousness is seen as something beyond neural processes. Fragility becomes a doorway to the eternal.
Even art and the gaze belong to this field. Eyes don’t just capture light: they connect directly to the brain and transmit energy. A human gaze carries layers of emotion, thought, and tension that affect others. An animal’s gaze, by contrast, is neutral—pure. The observer is never neutral: it modifies the field. Recognizing this is key to understanding the invisible influence we exercise simply by being present.
Block 2
The social and mental weight is often an invisible battlefield. Human bonds are filled with micro power games, egos trying to impose themselves, reasoning that attempts to silence sensitivity. On the surface, everything may look like normality; underneath, constant tensions throb. Examining glances, judging words, silences that are actually tests. Most interactions are not full encounters but disguised contests.
That’s why true connection is so striking: when two people manage to look each other in the eye without layers, when conversation flows without hidden agendas, when human tact appears clean. Those moments are rare, but they make the difference between feeling alive and feeling like you’re just surviving.
In states of mental or emotional vulnerability, the lack of tact from others hurts three times more. A cold comment, unnecessary blame, reproach disguised as advice, they all feel like knives because they go straight into a fragile body. What would slide off at other times, now pierces existentially. And yet, with time, that very vulnerability becomes learning: you realize that what sustains you is not the other, but your own capacity to soften and witness the experience, both, what comes from outside and what arises within.
The practice of softness emerges here as a path of optimization. Speaking with less tension, walking with less effort, moving with just enough force. It seems like a minor detail, but it is radical: it lowers energy use, harmonizes the nervous system, opens space for mental clarity. Softness becomes a way of caring for body and mind so they don’t burn out under excess strain.
Timing reveals itself as more important than speed. You can move slowly and still be perfectly synchronized with what’s happening. A soft move with precise timing can be more effective than uncontrolled anxious speed. In daily life, this means not falling into others frantic pace but finding your own rhythm and holding it. Softness and timing become true mastery: acting without wasting energy, living without breaking down.
This work isn’t theoretical, it’s trained. Practicing it alone, at home, in daily life. Sitting quietly and noticing how the mind wants to rush into the next move, how infinite options arise, how it grows desperate to choose. Letting that tide pass and simply observing what happens when you give the mind time and absolute calm. Putting intention into every movement with minimal effort. Listening to music and letting the body follow the rhythm—without tension, without forcing. Walking the street without hurry, breathing deeply, feeling the air connect you to a finer sensitivity. All of this is training—moments of pure presence to step out of automatism.
Socially, the challenge is greater. There, softness collides with accelerated rhythms, with lack of tact, with others urgencies. But if you can sustain your own rhythm, you can inhabit those spaces without breaking. Even anger can be lived coherently: when rage aligns all centers, when it is not just ego defense but real field energy, it feels like a force hard to dissolve. That energy demands action and movement. And yet, the learning is in recognizing it, feeling it, but not letting it drag you into blind destruction. Instead, soften it, let it flow, or channel it into training, dancing, playing, releasing tension.
Here the ego is key. Socially, ego rises as defense, as shield, as mask. But if observed without identification, its energy can be used without entrapment. Ego marks boundaries, but it doesn’t need to direct life. To integrate it is to know when it helps and when it hinders. To dissolve it is to let go of the impulse to control, to manipulate, to win micro battles. Either way, what matters is keeping individuality healthy—not the mask. Ego manipulates from within too: that sense of urgency, of being inferior or superior, of having to “do” something with absolute certainty. It’s exhausting and illusory.
All this work is fostered through the witnessing consciousness. The practice is not to suppress thoughts or emotions, but to be present when they arise—to watch them pass, to recognize them, to let them flow, and to interact when necessary without the need to impose—neither on yourself nor on others. At the root, it is training in presence: learning to stand in the whirlwind without becoming it. Like the quantum observer, who doesn’t need to force the outcome but simply holds the gaze that collapses possibilities into one singularity.
The human world, however, does not facilitate this. Politics and economics revolve around manipulation, dependence, normalization of incoherence. The rich function as kings on a board, the poor as pawns. Most live in loops of consumption, distraction, and overexertion. In this context, practicing softness, witnessing consciousness, and constant flow is almost an act of resistance. Not because you want to rebel, but because you want to live in coherence with yourself—and ideally, with the harmonious rhythm of nature, and why not, the cosmos.
Art and music help as allies. A song with positive resonance can set the rhythm, and you can flow with it purely. An animal’s gaze can remind you what neutrality without judgment feels like. Contact with nature can restore the lost reference: no tree forces its branches, no flower compares itself—each blooms in its time. Learning from those patterns is integrating the human with the natural.
The conclusion is that the path is not conquering, manipulating, or surviving under constant tension. The path is optimization: being soft, caring for body, opening space for mind, holding individuality without masks, witnessing without identifying, finding your own rhythm. That lifestyle is not evasion—it is the most concrete practice for living without burning out or submitting to social and mental noise.
Block 3
Limit experiences of the psyche are thresholds where human perception is tested and expanded. They are not the norm, but they reveal hidden dimensions of mind and consciousness. They can be classified into several types, all united by a common thread: they force us to confront the fragility and vastness of what we are.
- Experiences forced by substances The use of psychedelics, entheogens, or stimulants opens doors to altered perception. Time dilates, senses intertwine, identity fragments. These states are not mere “chemical illusions”: they reveal the mind’s extreme plasticity—its ability to reorganize and create internal worlds. The risk is that, because they are induced abruptly, they may fragment more than they integrate.
- Experiences achievable naturally Lucid dreams, deep meditation, breathwork, or states of extreme focus lead to equally radical states, without external substances. In lucid dreams you can fly, teleport, manipulate space like clay. In meditation, time can vanish, the self can dissolve into breath, consciousness can experience void or fullness with no external cause. These paths show that the extraordinary already lives within the architecture of the mind.
- Experiences of perceptual rupture There are moments when perception breaks without warning: nervous crises, psychic fragmentations, hypersensitivity where every stimulus becomes unbearable. The mind enters chaos that seems overwhelming. From the outside, they may look like delusions, breakdowns, extreme vulnerability; from the inside, it is like a storm of overlapping realities. What matters is the truth they reveal: the mind is not a solid unit, but a set of layers that can separate, clash, or integrate.
In all these cases, the decisive factor is the witnessing consciousness. When there is an inner point that observes—even in chaos—the limit experience becomes learning instead of ruin. Fragmentation becomes recognition of multiplicity. The void becomes space for softness. Madness becomes data of the possible, not a sentence.
Seen together, limit experiences show that humans are not made only for stability. We are also made to explore extremes. And the true art of living is not to avoid them, but to integrate, respect, and recognize them.
Block 4
The deep learning of all experiences—everyday and limit alike—is that life asks for softness. Not as weakness, but as the most efficient way to exist. Every gesture, every thought, every word can be done with less tension and more harmony. That means using less energy on what is unnecessary so that what flows is available for what matters.
The practice is concrete: moving with less force, speaking with less harshness, thinking with less rigidity. Listening to the breath, feeling water, letting music set a tempo. Timing appears as the key: it doesn’t matter how fast or slow, what matters is being in tempo, in tune with what is happening. Speed can dazzle, but timing connects. And when you find your own rhythm, life aligns around it.
This training is not obsessive or rigid. It is more like a game of attention. Walking slower and noticing how the mind wants to rush. Eating calmly, bringing presence to sensation instead of judgment. Being with an animal and learning from its effortless presence. Watching nature and recognizing that everything has its own rhythm, rarely hurried. Practicing this, body and mind begin to recognize a new way of being: not forced, not tense, but open and light. Perhaps even more malleable to external stimuli if one fully opens—but always with that extra moment to choose how to act instead of reacting.
In this state, individual sovereignty becomes real. Not as a shout of independence or denial of others, but as recognition that each consciousness is unique, unrepeatable, with its own pulse. To be sovereign is to know you can be in contact with others without losing your center—that you can love and respect without needing to manipulate or be manipulated.
Love then appears not as a fleeting romantic feeling, but as a basis of care. Love toward the body, listening and giving it what it needs. Love toward the mind, not overloading it with unnecessary demands. Love toward others, offering tact and respect instead of judgment and pressure. Love toward nature, recognizing it as family, not resource. This love does not seek grandeur: it expresses itself in the simple—in how we speak, walk, or just be.
Respecting the natural rhythm means recognizing that there’s no need to rush into an artificial future. Life unfolds in its own tempos. Forcing it drains us; accompanying it lets us bloom. Practicing softness is, ultimately, accompanying the rhythm of the real.
Fluidity as a lifestyle becomes the synthesis: a constant flow—not rigid, not overflowing, but harmonious. A flow that integrates the witnessing consciousness, energy optimization, individual sovereignty, respect for natural time. That flow doesn’t erase pain, tension, or edges; but it teaches how to go through them without breaking, to live them without getting lost.
The training of this state is simple and deep: think only what needs to be thought, feel what has to be felt, move the body with minimal energy, speak with pure intention, let tension flow out. There is no external manual. Each one finds their own rhythm and timing by practicing, failing, adjusting. But the principle becomes universal: softness, timing, respect, love, and harmony.
Humans are the only beings capable of creating connections through a love deeper than that encoded in biological evolution. A love that is soft, that nurtures, that opens doors between species, that unites cultures, that connects us with ourselves and allows us to feel whole without needing external recognition or constant stimulation. And thanks to that connection with ourselves, we can also connect with others, with greater sensitivity.
Step by step, this daily practice can lead to a more harmonious life, a calmer mind, a deeper knowledge of the body and the spectrum of emotions—how each emotion affects the mind, how over-tension is our everyday enemy, how to free ourselves, focus on our center, always respecting ourselves and the freedom of others.
This is an invitation to reflect. It is not absolute truth, but it resonates deeply with my path.
For a more harmonious life, for understanding, for celebrating our individualities and sharing them—accepting ours, and accepting others’. No hierarchies, no levels, only respect.
—Lautaro
