Find Your Ocean Beyond the Wave

The iron bars of the Roman prison couldn't contain his thoughts. Boethius, once a powerful official, now sat alone in his cell in 524 AD, confronting the void. "Why does Fortune thus smile upon the wicked, while good men's souls are crushed beneath harsh distress?" he wrote in anguish. "If there is a God, from where comes evil? And if there is no God, from where comes good?"

The darkness pressed in as his quill scratched deeper questions onto parchment: "O Creator of the spheres that turn in Heaven, who rests on Your eternal throne, spinning the whirling world...why do these slips and slides of Fortune come?" In the silence of his cell, facing execution, he grappled with the terror that existence itself might be meaningless.

We've all felt that terror. The fear of death. The fear of meaninglessness. The fear that none of this matters at all. The Yogis understood this dread intimately. This existential fear, they taught, comes from a case of mistaken identity.