It was not a thought — it was a feeling. Thoughts are slow, they need shaping, but this knowing arrived whole, needing nothing. The meridians do not speak, yet you hear them. The body does not argue; it simply reveals itself, a quiet confession given freely to those who know how to listen.
Your fingers rest, light as a breath on the surface, and the needles follow — not merely where they should be, but where they must be. There is no hesitation, no deliberation — only a call, and you answer. Not with reason, not with proof, but with certainty that is older than both.
Intuition does not shout, does not ask permission, does not knock at the door. It is a river that already knows its course, a tide that knows where it must go. You do not rush to explain it, do not try to bend it to the understanding of others. The patient speaks, you listen. But long before they found the words, before the world required explanation, the path had already been drawn.
There is no searching for signs, no collecting of scattered clues like fallen leaves. Meaning is not built — it simply arrives. Whole. Silent. Undeniable.
This knowing does not unfold in steps, nor is it a careful assembly of tiny fragments. It is not a hunt, not a guessing game. It does not wait for the permission of chance.
For a long time, you struggled to understand why your knowing felt different. Most of those around you seemed to gather their intuition from the world itself — from the way the wind shifted, from the way details clicked together, from the endless connections forming in front of their eyes. They moved quickly, jumping between ideas, testing, experimenting, seeing possibility everywhere. Their intuition was alive, outward, restless. Yours was still. It did not reach out; it emerged from within, as if carved in stone before you even noticed its weight.
At first, you tried to move like them, to follow their rhythm. You watched, you listened, you traced the paths they took. But something was always off, always a step behind or a step ahead, never quite at the right moment. While they explored, you knew. While they searched, you had already arrived. And it took time — years, perhaps — to understand that both ways of knowing were real, but yours belonged to the unseen, to the shape of things before they took form.
Now you understand: your intuition is not that of the traveller eager for maps, nor of the explorer who opens doors for the thrill of discovery. Others chase horizons, live within the endless possibilities flickering like fireflies in the night. But that is not your way.
Your knowing does not move — it is. It does not reach outward, does not cast itself upon the world in search of confirmation. It does not piece together a puzzle. It already sees the whole image.
Carl Jung knew. He called this introverted intuition — this gift, this weight, this vision that arrives before words can contain it. He knew that some perceive the invisible patterns of things before time makes them concrete.
And he knew, too, the loneliness of it. For those who see what has not yet been are met with doubt. The world hesitates, demands proof, demands words. It needs a reason, a process, an explanation, because it does not know how to hold truth when it arrives too soon. As if the river needed justification to reach the sea. As if the dawn required arguments to dissolve the night.
So you wait. You do not impose, do not force, do not prove. You simply know.
And one day, when everything has already come to pass, when the facts align just as they were always meant to, people will say: but of course, it was obvious!
And you will say nothing.
Because you knew long before there was anything to say.
And that is enough. It has always been enough.
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