Unraveling Knots

In the dim light of the clinic, there is a moment when silence weighs like an ancient secret.

The needle touches the skin, and the body responds before the mind can catch up — knowing, somehow, what thought has yet to grasp. Pain, anguish, insomnia — the invisible knots of existence — woven not only into the meridians but also into words left unsaid.

And then, a conversation begins. Not the kind that drifts between habit and haste, lost in the noise of routine. But a finer listening, a thread of thought unspooling precisely where the body seeks relief. Acupuncture opens doors the mind has closed without noticing. Therapy steps in quietly, tidying the chaos, like sweeping dry leaves without a sound.

Because touching the body is not enough if the mind remains trapped in the dim corridors of fear. Pain is not only what happens to us, but what we do with what happens to us. Thoughts stitch themselves into feeling, tightening the knot in the chest, keeping pain captive. And healing — what is it, if not a new way of seeing? A way of retracing the paths where the mind has been stumbling?

The session becomes a suspended moment, a space where body and thought meet and recognise each other. The needle speaks to the nerve, the word calls to the soul. The body feels, the mind understands. Breath steadies, eyes brighten, and there is a quiet astonishment: I can think differently, I can feel differently. And as awareness shifts, the body lets go of its knots, effortlessly, like releasing a weight that no longer needs to be carried.

Perhaps this is what I seek. A meeting of the visible and the invisible, of skin and idea, of pain and the possibility of freedom. For acupuncture soothes, but thought can imprison. And when the needle and the word meet, there is a rare moment — brief and luminous — in which, perhaps, the patient becomes their own once more.

Comments

When Shawn Mendes Became a Lifeline

When my father fell ill in his final days, the lyrics of Shawn Mendes’ In My Blood became an unexpected refuge, helping me process the reality unfolding before me. The song’s plea — its raw, urgent cry against the weight of helplessness — resonated in a way that felt almost too personal. “Help me, it’s like the walls are caving in” — those words captured the suffocating dread that gripped me in the small hours, waiting for news, hoping for a miracle I already knew would not come. The song does not offer easy comfort; nor does it deny the pain of endurance. Instead, it acknowledges the struggle — the desperate search for strength when every instinct urges collapse. “I just wanna give up, but I can’t.” That was it, exactly. The exhaustion, the emotional erosion, the moments when hope felt like a cruel joke. And yet, beneath it all, an unspoken defiance: the fight continues, not because it is easy, but because surrender is unthinkable. The grief that followed those long hours ...

Delusions

I've attempted to discover a quick way to deal with confrontational scenarios by interpolating empathy with courteous demeanour. While it didn’t interrupt confrontations, nor made them avoidable, it seems that begging to disagree can work, so long as you’ve have first learnt to mirror what is being talked in a different point of view. I like to call those exercises tools for mutual understanding. It took me a while to understand that it is natural for some people to showcase colourful disagreement only to capture a topic by exhaustion. Funnily enough, no words can interpret with precision what a subject matter can bring to a vulnerable person. I say vulnerable not to explicate people who eventually become vulnerable, oh no. We are all vulnerable to small stressors, too many of them, too many times. Triggers, say, of how much sentiment you will drill in a matter of seconds. More than that, it is a delusion to ignore them. That’s righteous okay, I need to add. Subjectivity is always ...

The Shape of Thought

Gustav Klimt once said, “Art is a line around your thoughts.” A line — thin as a whisper, trembling yet deliberate — emerges from nothingness. It does not impose itself. It does not command. It is barely there, yet it holds. It is the first breath of form, the fragile boundary between the unsaid and the spoken. Without it, thought is a flicker in the dark, a thing half-lived, dissolving before it can be known. A vision stirs. Not summoned, not controlled. It arrives unbidden — whole yet veiled, elusive yet certain. It lingers at the edge of perception, pressing gently, insistently, against the mind’s quiet. It cannot be seized outright. To reach for it is to risk shattering it; to hesitate is to watch it dissolve. And so, the line must be drawn. But not too soon. Not too rigidly. It must breathe, as thought itself breathes, as meaning unfolds. The hand moves, uncertain yet assured, guided by something beyond logic. An intelligence older than language, something that knows ...

The Hyggelig Journey

Search This Blog