'NYC Fit Living'

Welcome, friend. Find a peaceful, inviting space. Sit comfortably. Gently close or eyes open. Take a deep breath in for a count of four. Hold for four. Exhale for four. Pause for four. Repeat o nce more. And then again. F our times in total. Let the breath return to its natural rhythm. Let the body be exactly as it is. Nothing needs fixing . Nothing needs adjusting. Nothing has gone wrong. Now notice—without effort—that awareness is already present. You didn't create it. You didn't summon it. You didn't turn it on. It's just here. Before any thought appears, before any memory stirs, before any mood arrives, there is a quiet knowing. Rest there. Thoughts may begin to rise. An image may flicker across the inner screen. A word appears. A feeling of tension… or ease. Let them come. Let them go. Do not resist them. And do not follow them. Notice how consciousness, when it rests upon a thought,  seems to take on its color— its tone, its texture, its mood. When anger appears, ...

  On a beautiful spring day, when the air itself seemed to listen, a beggar sat across from a stranger in a quiet courtyard. The beggar’s clothes were worn, his hands restless. His eyes scanned the world as if it owed him something he had not yet received. Across from him sat a man who seemed ordinary—no robes, no insignia, no display of importance. Yet, his stillness carried the weight of someone who had never needed to arrive anywhere to feel complete. Between them, a silent tension persisted—the familiar ache of striving and achieving. “I have worked hard,” the beggar said. “I’ve stumbled. I’ve failed. I’ve risen and fallen again. They say success belongs to those who persist—but it always seems just beyond my grasp.” The man across from him listened patiently. “Tell me,” he said, “what do you believe success is?” The beggar paused and exhaled. “Something earned. Something built over time. Some call it luck, others discipline. But it feels like a door that opens onl...

  In a quiet room— bare, undecorated, almost forgotten— two figures sit across from one another. The room holds no symbols of importance. No scriptures. No instruments. Only silence, seasoned by time. One figure is a  beggar . His clothes are worn thin from years of use. His posture leans slightly forward, as if searching the ground for an answer that once fell and never came back. His eyes hold the familiar ache of humanity—the feeling that something vital is missing, just beyond reach. Across from him sits a King . Not robed. Not crowned in gold. Not elevated above the room. He sits simply. Effortlessly. As someone who has never needed to arrive anywhere to feel complete. Between them, a single lamp glows. Its light is gentle, unassuming. It doesn't demand attention or proclaim itself as sacred. It simply illuminates whatever is present. The beggar breaks the silence. “I have spent my life searching,” he says.  "I study the world. I gather ideas.  "I chase ...

Realize, old friend—t he hour is growing late, Not with urgency— but with ripeness. Not a warning.   An invitation. Time keeps moving— faithful and relentless— like a river that never stops to ask permissi on. Yet within you, something has been observing through these eyes since the beginning of time. and has never moved an inch. The seasons turn. Winter arrives without apology. The cold sharpens the air. The wind cuts through the trees like a blade reminding them: let go. We wait for spring— for softer days, lighter garments, for blossoms to return and whisper... See?  Nothing was ever lost. Days thunder past like freight trains, each one linked to the next, hauling the same cargo— the same hopes, the same fears, the same unfinished longings— only wearing different mask's. Until one day… The story pauses. Your name— given by others— is etched into stone. The titles you wore like armor, the badges you tightened until you mistook them for skin, are finally set down. The wo...

Perhaps, old friend—before sun signs were named, before planets learned their orbits and humans learned to read them— consciousness made its first and most significant agreement: to forget itself upon arrival. Not a loss, but an initiation. Not a punishment. Not a fall. A forgetting— so profound it might someday be mistaken for identity. So complete  that the ocean learned to answer to the name drop. So convincing...  that the screen forgot itself and began arguing with the movie. So intimate... that the sky mistook the clouds for its own movement. This marks the birth of the beggar. The beggar isn't poor because it lacks substance— it is poor because it believes it does. It wakes every morning, narrating a story: I must become something. I must get somewhere. I must fix, improve, acquire, and defend. It takes on every role in the stage of life— hero and victim, seeker and sinner, success and failure— never realizing it is both the actor and the stage. And while this performan...

Let me share an old tale, carried on the breath of time, whispered only among the quiet mystics and never written down— not because it was unimportant, but because it was too easily misunderstood. It is said that when God first created the world, creation happened effortlessly. The mountains stood as if recalling their origin. The oceans pulsed in perfect rhythm. The stars knew exactly where to shine, without instruction or hesitation. Then came the minerals— patient, uncomplaining, content to be stone. Then the plants—stretching toward the sun without question, rooted, yet free. Then the animals— moving by instinct, never doubting the path beneath their feet, never asking if they were enough. Finally, God created humans.   Almost immediately, problems started.  They asked. They begged.  They bargained. They pleaded for favors, signs, guarantees, and exceptions. They prayed loudly—and seldom listened. God, it is said, sighed. “ If I remain visible,” God thought,   “I...