Now you are being honest. And honesty is the beginning of transformation.
You say you are always seeking pleasure, comfort, and sex. Good. At least you are not a hypocrite pretending to seek God while hiding lust in the cellar of your unconscious. Most people are liars—even to themselves. You are not. You are saying clearly, “I want pleasure. I want comfort. I want sex.” That is something to respect. That’s a beginning.
Now let us look into this—not to judge, not to moralize, not to condemn, but to understand.
Why are you seeking pleasure? Why comfort? Why sex, again and again, in different forms, different bodies, different tastes? What is this endless hunger? Have you ever truly watched what happens when you get what you want? For a moment, there is a flash of satisfaction, yes. But immediately after, there is a hollow, a restlessness, a new thirst. Pleasure always promises fulfillment but never delivers it permanently. Comfort soothes the body but dulls the soul. Sex gives a peak—a beautiful peak, let me not deny it—but it fades, and you find yourself chasing it again like a mirage in the desert.
The mind that is addicted to pleasure is a beggar. It can never be a king.
You think you are living—but you are only stimulating. You think you are enjoying—but you are escaping. You are not celebrating life—you are consuming it. And every time you consume, you are left emptier than before.
Sex is beautiful. Pleasure is not sin. Comfort is not evil. But when you become a slave to them, when your entire existence revolves around titillation, then you are not living in freedom. You are not enjoying sex—you are being used by it. You are not resting in comfort—you are hiding in it.
You ask me, “What should I do?” I don’t say give up sex. I don’t say become a celibate monk with dry lips and trembling hands. I say: become aware.
When you move toward pleasure, move consciously. Don’t be drunk in the desire—be alert. Watch how your mind races toward the next high. Observe how every satisfaction contains within it the seed of dissatisfaction. If you can see the pattern clearly, the very seeing becomes a revolution. Then sex becomes not a compulsion, but a celebration. Then pleasure becomes a flower, not an addiction. Then even discomfort becomes a teaching, and silence becomes more intoxicating than any orgasm.
So don’t fight your desire. Don’t suppress it. But also, don’t be unconscious in it. Bring light to it. Meditation is that light. Sit silently—even if for five minutes. Do nothing. Just be with yourself. You will be shocked: the craving for sex is not always about sex—it’s about your inability to be alone. It’s your fear of emptiness.
Can you be with yourself, without stimulation? Can you sit with your own soul, naked, unadorned?
If you can do that, even for a few minutes a day, you will see something strange happening. Pleasure will no longer dominate you—it will visit, it will pass, but it won’t possess you. And then, perhaps for the first time, you will know what real joy is—not pleasure, not comfort, not sex—but a quiet, exploding joy that is your very nature.
Understand this: sex, in its raw form, is instinct. It is biological. It is nature’s trick to keep the species alive. There is no morality in it, no immorality either. It is simply a mechanism. The problem is not with sex itself—but with unconsciousness.
When sex happens without awareness, it becomes mechanical, repetitive, compulsive. It dulls the senses rather than awakens them. That is what most of humanity is trapped in: using sex like a sleeping pill, like an escape from their boredom, their inner emptiness, their unresolved fears. But when you bring awareness into it—when you are present, watchful, sensitive—then something extraordinary begins to happen. Sex becomes a doorway.
A doorway to yourself.
To the body, but beyond it too. When two bodies meet in full presence, something far more subtle begins to stir. The energies begin to merge, not just physically but vibrationally. You are not rushing toward climax—you are melting into communion. Then sex is no longer just friction, but a fusion. And from that fusion, silence is born. Deep, nourishing silence. Stillness like a lake after a storm.
But you have to be very honest: are you using sex to feel alive, or are you using it to avoid being alone?
The moment sex becomes meditation, it loses its obsession. It becomes soft, playful, tender. You are no longer needing the other—you are sharing yourself. That shift is crucial.
Tantra understood this thousands of years ago, but even Tantra has become corrupted—people take the form, the techniques, but forget the soul of it, which is consciousness. And without that, it’s just fancy lust.
So the question is not whether sex is sin or weakness. It is neither. But unconscious sex is bondage, while conscious sex is freedom.
And that doesn’t mean only during the act. Even the desire itself must be seen in the light of awareness. When you feel that pull—that burning in the body—don’t rush. Watch it. Sit with it. Let it rise like a wave. Don’t repress it, don’t act on it immediately. Observe how it moves through your system, how it clouds your thoughts, how it alters your breathing, how it hijacks your decisions. Watch it like a scientist studying fire. This very observation begins to change its quality. The same energy, when seen clearly, starts to become light.
If you can be with your sexual energy without judgment and without unconscious indulgence, it transforms. You begin to feel a powerful sense of vitality, of aliveness, that doesn’t depend on release or another person. That is when you have begun to master your energy. Not by denying it—but by alchemizing it.
So I don’t say renounce sex. I say, enter it as a sacred art. Enter it not as a beggar, but as a master. Don’t let it dominate your mind—let it become your teacher. Don’t make it your addiction—make it your meditation.
