How I Became My Own Kundalini:A Surreal Autobiographical Methos

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It didn’t happen the way the books promised. No serpents uncoiled themselves at the base of my spine, no gurus whispered secret syllables into my ears like smug locksmiths. Instead, it began with a quiet, persistent hum beneath my skin—an electrical murmur that felt less like enlightenment and more like a miswired fuse panel. I thought it was anxiety. I thought it was exhaustion. I thought it was every ordinary misinterpretation a nervous system can throw at a person trying to remain civilized.

But it grew.

The hum thickened until it became a pattern, and the pattern became a language, and the language—strangest of all—was mine. Not spoken, not written, but drawn across me. One morning I looked in the mirror and realized the markings on my skin were not imagined metaphors; they were cartography. Spirals tracking old wounds. Dotted lines charting failed decisions. Constellations mapping all the moments I’d refused to inhabit my own life.

I became, in effect, a topographical survey of my own becoming.

The first real shift happened the day I stopped trying to ascend. I’d been taught that everything spiritual rises—kundalini rises, the soul rises, consciousness climbs its bright little ladder out of the body. But mine didn’t want to go anywhere. It wanted to sit, thick and coiled and radiant, right in the center of me. So I sat too. That was the beginning of the détente.

As I settled, the world around me dissolved into a monochrome storm: swirling ink, stippled void, broken landscapes rearranging themselves like old memories freed from chronology. My body wasn’t separate from it anymore. The patterns running through my skin were the same ones twisting through the sky. A single engine. A single vibration. A single organism tricked temporarily into thinking it had edges.

That’s when I understood: kundalini wasn’t a ladder at all—it was a loop. A recursive pulse. A self-coiling awareness that rises only because it has first descended, rooting itself into every forgotten basement of the psyche. I had always been waiting for some cosmic current to ignite me, but the current had been waiting for me to stop fleeing myself.

Becoming my own kundalini meant accepting that illumination wasn’t an invasion from above—it was an excavation from within. It meant letting the patterns I’d ignored draw themselves openly across my skin. It meant recognizing the stars in my head were simply thoughts I had finally permitted to glow without shame.

And when the coil finally completed itself—when the hum became a tone and the tone became a field—I discovered something disappointingly, beautifully simple:

Nothing rose.
Nothing fell.
Everything circulated.

And I was no longer a seeker.
I was the circuit.