“I die daily… yet in the renewal of the mind, I find life.” — 1 Corinthians 15:31 + Romans 12:2
There are moments—rare, almost invisible—when something within us shifts.
They make no noise.
They don’t interrupt the rhythm of the day.
They simply happen… and yet, after them, nothing remains exactly the same.
We don’t always recognize them in the moment.
Sometimes they reveal themselves seconds later…
sometimes hours after…
when we realize that something has changed without being able to point to exactly what.
One place where this seems to happen more often is in metaphysics class.
Not as a constant…
but as a kind of quiet revelation—brief, subtle… yet enough.
Yesterday, one of those moments took shape in a single sentence:
“The mind begins to feel when it understands what it knows.”
And that was enough.
Not because it explained everything…
but because, for a moment, everything seemed already explained.
From there is where the little I write about metaphysics comes from…
not from what I hear, but from what I manage to understand.
That is why there are so few texts.
Because truly understanding is not a frequent act… it is an event.
In that instant, something aligns.
An idea stops being abstract… and becomes direction.
It was from that moment that I stopped to look at time.
Not imagined time… but the real time I give to class—
that remarkable space where our human version has restricted access.
Strictly speaking—without counting breaks for holidays or interruptions—
it is two hours a week in class.
That becomes 8 hours a month…
and barely 96 hours a year.
Taken even further…
that is roughly 1.1% of the year.
That’s it.
And yet… it is there, within those two hours, where everything happens.
It is the only space where nothing habitual manages to break through:
not the noise, not the rush, not the inertia…
not even that part of me that always believes it has something more urgent to do.
There, I listen…
there, I understand…
and, on rare occasions, something within me changes direction.
At that point, the law of progression begins to make sense:
life—and my life—unfolds continuously and eternally toward perfection.
Not because I do more…
but because I understand better.
That is where the discomfort begins.
Because, if I’m honest, I still behave as if metaphysics were only that:
a weekly class, two well-behaved hours, and maybe a scattered thought throughout the week.
As if light had a schedule…
while unconsciousness moves freely without restriction.
I say I understand… but I don’t live from that understanding.
I listen… but I don’t sustain it.
I feel inspired in class… and then dissolve back into the week.
And so I grow used to a life that doesn’t hurt enough to change…
yet doesn’t shine enough to transcend.
An average life.
A comfortable life.
A mediocre life disguised as normal.
Because it is not ignorance… it is decision.
The decision to keep reacting the same way.
The decision to keep thinking the same way.
The decision to give 98.9% of my time to the automatic…
and barely 1.1% to what could actually transform everything.
Now imagine this…
If with just that 1.1% of time, within class, the changes are this profound,
can you imagine how far we could go if we were capable of doubling that time?
This is not theory.
This is decision.
To stop treating metaphysics as an event…
and begin living it as a state.
To gradually reduce that dark, human way of living that—although it doesn’t seem that bad—keeps us exactly where we are.
And to intentionally expand that illuminated way of living we barely touch for two hours a week.
Because the question is not whether it works…
the question is why we are not doing it.
And finally…
when I looked at that percentage of the year dedicated to metaphysics—that 1%—I realized something uncomfortable.
In the world of finance, there is a measure known as “the 1%.”
It is not exact, nor universal—it shifts depending on the country, the context… but the idea is clear:
a small group that no longer lives worried about the essentials, that has reached a level of stability most people pursue.
That is the symbol.
That is the language.
And yet…
how do we expect to approach that 1%…
if we dedicate only 1% of our time
to what actually orders life?
Perhaps the problem is not distance…
but proportion.
An uncommon life cannot be built
from a minimal investment.
Because to belong to that 1%…
that other 1% is not enough.
And even less so when that 1%—our time—
is the only space we give
to that 100% which is understanding.
Finally…
this text has been written in the first-person plural.
Not out of inclusion… but out of literary habit.
Because in truth, this is deeply autobiographical.
I do not speak from authority…
nor from any moral position to address others.
I speak from myself.
Not from ego…
but from the only territory I truly know.
If I use “we,” it is form…
but what is said here belongs to me.
Because, honestly…
who is one to speak to the masses?
Life has taught me something simple, yet impossible to ignore:
no one can think for me…
no one can feel for me…
no one can do the work for me.
And it is from there…
not as a statement,
but as a consequence—
that this text exists.
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