In meditation, the skull opens up and beams of intellectual light pour out as if in an ad infinitum planetarium. No geography or architecture is too grand, seemingly.
But in the lower realms of psychology, life-doing and life-planning as it were, the gears and grinds of the whole bloody machine--the clamor and claustrophobia of the cranium--are as crude and temperamental as an antique car.
When one's mind is at synch with outer nature, things open up and are seemingly limitless in scope. If only there were more power, more current, then the knowing of all things could be achieved!
But when one's mind is shoved down by indecision and doubt, into the lower confines of worry and fixation, then one's activity becomes no more profound or able than a beaten tiger limping to and fro inside a barred cage with an insane wax glazing its eyes.
You can feel the pinch, the tight bind: a head-ache that isn't physiological but becomes so by default. Stress winds its way around the mind like a constricting hot metal coil, tightening until surrender emits in the most unseemly and undignified ways. Total impotence and madness rule the moment.
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