the ritual of burning yourself alive (spiritually speaking)

rebelling against the spiritual marketplace, dismantling the self into the void, and finding what survives the fire

it’s Scorpio season. time to shed, scorch, and start again.

i’ve been sitting with the “dismantling of self” lately, hands shaking and heart clenched, because the questions that rise here aren’t small. they’re the kind that could keep a monk awake at night. well, at least they do me. 3 a.m., staring at the ceiling, wondering if my sense of self is anything more than clever architecture built by desire and feedback loops.

if i dismantle everything i think i am, who is the one doing it? how much of me is just inherited thought and unconscious imitation? what’s the difference between losing myself and freeing myself? can i ever truly disappear—and would awareness be watching the death of its own reflection?

self-annihilation… destruction or homecoming? as i write this letter in bed, i want it to be both—a rebellion against the current spiritual marketplace and a love letter to the timeless art of disappearing into your own spirit, which i find myself vanishing into daily.

today’s “spirituality” is sold like skincare. sleek. branded. palatable. promising radiance without discomfort. it tells us to manifest, align, expand—but rarely to let go. we’re told to add—affirmations, crystals, mantras. another light. another mirror. we curate peace like a pinterest board. we buy palo santo but never dare burn the parts of ourselves that need the smoke. rarely does it say: destroy what isn’t true. rarely does it ask you to bleed. we’ve built a culture that sells shadow work in thirty seconds and bypasses the underworld with a caption. we mask ourselves with the latest formulas, when we should be stripping ourselves of our own masks.

but real spirituality? real awakening? it is the skin-stripping, identity-dissolving, ego-burning confrontation with your own nothingness. it is standing naked in the mirror after you’ve lost your loved one, the job, the friendship, the title — stripped of all ego — and hearing nothing but your own breath echo into the void.

no one tells you that finding your soul might cost you your personality.

no one tells you that when the self begins to die, it doesn’t feel like transcendence—it feels like being torn apart by something ancient and holy that doesn’t care if you survive it beautifully.

and yet, i am drawn to that flame.

there’s something sacred, exhilarating, about sitting at the edge of everything you thought made you you… and letting it go to discover the emptiness underneath. today we treat that void like pathology, buried beneath hashtags and dopamine. we medicate it. distract from it. coat it in spiritual jargon instead of listening to what it’s trying to collapse. and so we ache. we name it anxiety. loneliness. disconnection. and we diagnose it again. we only know to fear emptiness—to numb it, to fill it with prosthetic comfort—while starving for what only the destruction of ego and desire can feed.

what if the void isn’t the absence of self, but the place where self begins again, truer?

when i dissolved into the void last august, it was the most monumental surrender of my life. an out-of-body experience. a spiritual crossing. raw, tranquil nirvana. no sense of self. the ultimate submission of self to consciousness.¹

this is why we go quiet in the mountains. why we cry at oceans. why a single honest conversation can quench an ancient thirst. because for a moment, the walls of self go soft—or disappear—and we feel infinite again. i think of mystics who disappeared into deserts, not for burning man, but to seduce the silence. not for followers, but to stay detached from what could never belong to them. i think of zen masters tearing down the mind’s fabrication one paradox at a time. rumi dancing. theresa weeping.

but then the world rushes back. your feed. your image. your plan for the day. you look in the mirror to check your fit instead of recognize your truth.

we live in a world that makes remembering—and returning to that wisdom—nearly impossible. and that’s the grief beneath this letter (written half-asleep with scratchy 4 a.m. squints): to strip the self is to risk being unrecognizable. and we are addicted to being seen. god forbid we disappear long enough for something real to emerge.

i’m not writing this because i’ve made it through the ring of fire. i’m writing this because i’m still standing at the edge. i have wept till my limbs went numb, knowing there is more. not “more life,” but more aliveness—born from intimacy with the unknown. i want to draw myself closer to the fire, even though every part of my ego wants to run. and i remind myself that fire burns only what’s false, to reveal the naked truth beneath the ash.

step through. or stay a beautiful prisoner.
but know this: once you cross, you won’t be the same.
and maybe scarier—you won’t be seen the same either.
if that means being unrecognizable, let them forget my name.


take what nourishes you and share what’s stirring, if you wish. in the comments or a quiet message. 🌙
with love from the stillroom,
cibelle

i write to music. enjoy a sip while you wander through…

☼ to those who feel everything
☼ the mysterious ways of love
☼ 33 realizations at 33 (thats changed everything)
☼ how to not let this world turn you to stone
☼ on happiness: fly in the direction of your own light
and sometimes, i photograph beautiful souls you may know. ✧ find me here ✧

¹ i experienced an unmedicated home birth and the total surrender of mental fear to the body’s innate power.