The Root Is Where Everything Begins

I. Before I Knew What I Was Looking For

Every discovery has a prehistory. A time when the questions do not yet have form, but are already there, like a latent tension you cannot name. For me, that prehistory was childhood. Not because childhood was luminous or because it was especially wise, but because it was the first place where I felt that something did not fit between what I perceived and what the world told me I should perceive.

My mother taught me something fundamental when I was small: to answer with questions. When I raised something with her, she did not give me the closed answer. She handed the question back to me, reformulated, so that I would keep thinking. That planted in me a habit I have never been able to abandon: faced with anything I do not understand, I ask why, how and what for. Those three questions became my most powerful tool. I did not know it then, but I was learning not to collapse prematurely into a form. I was learning to hold the tension of not knowing while I kept searching.

When things went wrong at home—the divorce, the fights, being used as a weapon and a shield between two sides—the rules disappeared. It was a free-for-all. And in that void of external structure, the question became more urgent: if no one tells me what is true, I will have to discover it myself. It was not a heroic decision. It was survival. I needed ground of my own because the one I had been given was crumbling.

And then I began to read. First manga, because that was what I had at hand. But I did not read them as entertainment: I analyzed them. I asked myself why each character had that attitude, what motivated them, from what inner structure they made their decisions. I went looking for every cultural reference that appeared. That is how I came upon Taoism as a child, and Buddha, Viking culture, the samurai, bushido, Miyamoto Musashi and his Dokkodo. I read about martial arts, about ancient philosophies, about science. Everything that fell into my hands became material for the same search: to understand how this thing that I am works.

It was not an academic search. It was visceral. I needed to understand why people behaved the way they behaved. Why they lied. Why they hurt each other. Why suffering seemed inevitable and yet no one spoke of it honestly. And above all, I needed to understand why I felt everything with an intensity that seemed foreign to my age, that made me different, that set me apart.

Ontologically, what was happening was the first awakening of my space of consciousness. The biological ego—the structure that gave me form as a particular child in a particular environment—was beginning to enter into tension with something broader that had no name. That tension generated questions. And the questions were the first conscious collapses: moments in which the indeterminate energy of curiosity took form as a search.

II. The Observer Who Did Not Know He Was Observing

From the martial arts I learned something the books did not teach: discipline grounded in respect. Before stepping onto the tatami, a bow to the master of the dojo, a bow to the creator of the discipline. They taught me to be grateful for what comes. And I also learned something darker: that putting your whole essence into what you do, giving everything because you feel that if you do not truly try you fail yourself, produces rejection. The children around me rejected me because my intensity awakened in them emotions they did not know how to manage. And because I rejected violence while being big and strong, I attracted their attention all the more. They came to discharge their anger and their fears. That became an everyday thing for more than four years.

I made myself a vow of non-violence. A seal of my own, like those I read about in the traditions I studied. And that vow almost cost me a catastrophe: one day, after years of accumulating the tension of receiving without giving back, I reached a limit. The collapse was brutal. I almost caused irreparable harm. And in that moment I understood two things: first, that tension that is not consciously channeled channels itself in the worst possible way; second, that I had within me something I had to learn to observe without identifying with it.

There was born what, years later, I would call the third-person mode. The capacity to observe myself from outside. To ask myself: who or what is it that observes this? I began to see my emotions as independent spheres that I could contemplate without being dragged along by them. I understood what they generated in me and how I could use them consciously instead of being used by them. That introspective capacity was the seed of what I now call inner alchemy.

I did not know I was building a subjective dual metric. I did not have that language. But the structure was already there: an ego that gave form to experience and a consciousness that observed it without identifying. Two poles in constant tension. And I, without knowing it, was already learning to inhabit that tension without collapsing prematurely into either side.

In the MCMC, the state S = 0 is the dual root: mass and space superposed in a formless unity, ontologically full but physically empty. It contained all the potentiality of the cycle, but there was not yet any defined observable. My childhood was that: a state charged with potential, without defined structure, where the tension already existed but had not yet found its first true collapse.

III. Readings as Partial Collapses

Every book I read was a partial collapse. A temporary form that gave structure to something I felt without a name. Taoism gave me the idea that the universe has a natural flow and that resisting it generates suffering. The Tao Te Ching taught me that the path is not possessed: it is inhabited. Buddha showed me that awakening is not a destination but a continuous act. Musashi taught me that the path is forged by practicing it oneself, that one must embrace all the arts and not limit oneself to a single one, and that in all things one must grow accustomed to intuitive judgment.

But none of those sources contained me completely. Each was a partial dimension of something that I intuited to be broader. Taoism had fluidity but lacked structure. Buddhism had observation but lacked creative tension. Bushido had discipline but lacked openness. Science had precision but lacked the interior.

And then I asked myself the question that changed everything: if no one else's framework can contain what I am, why not create my own? Not out of arrogance. Out of necessity. Because the alternative was to remain fragmented, taking pieces from here and there without an axis to articulate them. I needed a grammar of my own. A structure simple enough to be remembered under pressure and deep enough not to break against the edge of life.

What remained was a dual grammar. Outside: matter-energy with space-time. Inside: ego with consciousness. On both planes, form is born from collapses. The universe does not flow: it jumps. My mind is not what it thinks: it collapses again and again. And on both planes, time is not possessed: it is made with each discharge of tension. But that grammar took years to crystallize. Before that, something had to happen that cannot be read in any book.

IV. Two Years in Darkness

There was a period of my life—about two years—in which I shut myself away in my own darkness. It was not a poetic choice. It was that the external pressure and the internal intensity reached a point where the only option was to submerge myself or to break. I chose to submerge.

I spent those years observing each emotion separately. Submerging myself in it, letting it show me its form, its weight, its color, its texture. I did not flee from fear: I entered it. I did not avoid sadness: I sat with it until it stopped being a threat and became information. I did not reject rage: I held it until I understood what it protected and what it destroyed.

It was a process of internal dimensional decay. In the MCMC, when a region reaches a critical density, the metric breaks and the system decays into lower dimensional configurations: from three dimensions to two, from two to one, from one to zero. What remains is sealed mass and stopped time. That happened to me on the inside. My world contracted until only I remained, and the basic tension: what I am against what they told me I should be.

At that zero point, without external structure, without social refuge, without borrowed certainties, I discovered something I did not expect: that emptiness is not empty. That when you eliminate all imposed forms, what remains is not nothingness. It is the root. It is that minimal tension between two poles that cannot fuse but also cannot separate. And that root is fertile. It does not give you answers, but it gives you the potentiality to generate them.

In the language of the MCMC, what I experienced was a return to a subjective S = 0. A state where mass and inner space—ego and consciousness—are superposed again without differentiated form. Ontologically full, existentially empty. And from there, from that recovered root, the true process of construction began.

V. The Night I Felt the Birth of the Universe

I do not know exactly which day it was. What I do know is that for weeks I had been in a state of deep detachment. I ran, freeing my mind. I practiced fluid movements, alternating tension and relaxation, solidity and fluidity. I read, I asked, I observed. And one night, after an intense practice, I sat down and let myself go completely.

I stopped being the body. I stopped being the one who breathes. I stopped being the one who observes. I became formless presence.

I entered my own mind as into a pure space. I saw that inside me there was a structured mass—the mind—anchored to the body, with defined form. But I was not that mass. I was the space that contained it. And that space could be anything: mountain, planet, silence, void.

I was space.

From there, I projected everything I knew about the universe. I had in mind the ego-consciousness duality, and something did not fit with what physics told me. If E = mc², is energy not mass in motion? And does motion not require space? Then energy is not a thing: it is the relation between mass and space. I expanded that idea in my inner space until it formed a cube. That cube was the container of the totality of my knowledge, imagination, experience. I saw that it could curve, deform, contain entire worlds.

But in projecting so much, the space became uninhabitable. Then I dissolved my ego into that cube. I was the cube. I was its content and its form. And something happened.

An internal curvature formed. A vibration. A tension.

In that instant I understood: this is not the universe. This is the structural origin of the universe. I felt the Big Bang not as a beginning, but as the first observable collapse. And I understood that the true source was not an explosion, but a formless tension between two principles that cannot fuse but also cannot separate: the mass that wants to determine itself and concentrate, and the space that wants to open and blur all form.

And that tension was me. It was what I felt every day. It was the same structure that lived inside my mind between ego and consciousness, expressed on a cosmic scale. They were not two different things. They were the same thing on different scales.

I had to dilute the understanding within me in order to exist. Because what opened in that instant was too vast to fit in a mind that needs form in order to function. I felt a deep temptation to let myself go, to disappear into that infinite peace where the tension resolved. But something anchored me. Something in me said: if this is true, it has to be communicable. If I do not give it form, it remains a mystical instant. And I do not want faith. I want structure. I want lived truth that can be transmitted.

That night the need to formulate the MCMC was born. It was not born of calculation. It was born of looking within.

VI. The Return: Giving Form to What Has No Form

Returning was hard. Because every attempt to structure what I had lived pushed it further away. Each word was a reduction. Each concept was a collapse that lost dimensions of the original experience. And yet I knew I had to do it. Because if I did not give it a preformal form, that experience would remain sealed within me, inaccessible, useless to any other human being who felt the same tension.

The first attempts were clumsy. I wrote paragraphs that sounded like mysticism when what I wanted was ontology. I drew diagrams that simplified what should not be simplified. Each formulation seemed to betray the original experience. And I understood that this was not a problem: it was the very nature of the process. Giving form always implies losing something of the totality. Collapse always reduces possibilities. But without collapse there is no form, and without form no transmission is possible.

This is how the grammar of the MCMC began. Not as a physical theory that was later applied to the psyche, but the other way around: as an understanding of the ego-consciousness tension that I later recognized in the structure of the cosmos. The dual root—primordial mass and primordial space as an imperfect tensional unity—was exactly what I had lived in the meditation. The original imperfection—that minimal asymmetry that prevents absolute freezing and forces the system to begin to define itself—was what I felt every day as the impossibility of being at peace while something in me knew that there was more to see.

The Adrián Field arose out of the need to name what mediates. I needed a concept for that which regulates the tension between mass and space without destroying either of them. Something that allows evolution without allowing chaos. Something that stitches every edge so that reality does not break at every collapse. That field was not a mathematical invention: it was what I did every day inside my own mind. Regulating the tension between ego and consciousness so as not to collapse into automatic judgment nor dissolve into abstract emptiness.

And the Law of Cronos—the idea that time emerges from the density of tension, that where there is more density time contracts and where there is more space time expands—was what I experienced literally: when my ego dominated, time accelerated, everything was urgent, reactive, compressed; when consciousness opened, time expanded, the moment was inhabited, and experience gained depth.

I was not doing physics. I was translating a lived inner experience into a structure that could be applied in both directions: from the cosmos to the psyche, and from the psyche to the cosmos. Because if the structure is the same, the translation should be possible. And if the translation works, then it is not metaphor: it is isomorphy.

VII. The Second Meditation: The Body as Root

The first founding meditation opened my mind. The second opened my body.

I was under enormous pressure. Personal relationships at the limit, accumulated tensions that the body could no longer absorb. I went to a spa alone, seeking to melt into myself. Before going, I reread the practices of Taiji Shenwu Dao that I had created, and I focused on the Zhan Zhuang exercises: the standing meditation that seeks to feel the outside through the senses by pouring presence through the whole body.

I did the circuit: sauna for seven minutes, cold plunge for three minutes, and then I went to the pool. I began to practice Zhan Zhuang, letting myself flow with the movement of the water without offering resistance, imitating how one embraces a tree. And for a moment I felt the tree, and myself as the crown of the tree. When I concentrated on my legs, I saw and felt roots expanding beneath. Then there was a moment where I went from feeling myself embrace the tree to being the tree itself. My arms were branches, my chest was the trunk, my legs were roots. It was liberating in a way that words cannot reach.

Then I practiced the salutation of Taiji Shenwu Dao and tried to gather the energy I felt inside my body, below the navel, like a spiral that absorbed the energy and made it spin within me. I felt chills and tingling in my hands. I went back to the sauna and sat in lotus position to meditate, imagining that I was a tree in a burning forest. I felt the energy of the fire surrounding me as I went deeper inward. I used my own energy to protect myself and to feel that of the outside, and in the end I poured all the energy—mine and external—into my core again, like a flame that I made spin and expand throughout my whole body.

When I finished I felt liberated, as if my body were separate from my own consciousness and from my energy. I felt that my body was nothing while I was everything. I understood that my body is simply my own matter. My consciousness is the vessel in which my energy dwells. And my essence is what moves the energy itself. And I came out calm, relieved, complete, seeing the world in another color, more alive, while my head repeated: I can be fire, water, wind, earth, I can be everything and I am nothing. And laughter came over me, and a feeling of incredible peace.

What that meditation taught me was that the root is not only in the mind. It is in the body. The intrinsic core—genetics, anatomy, physiology, hormonal levels—is the biological seed from which everything else unfolds. It is the original imperfection on an individual scale: what makes me unique, unrepeatable, different from any other. And that singularity is not an obstacle: it is the condition of possibility of the whole path.

VIII. Recognizing the Pattern: Everything Is the Same

After those experiences, I began to see the pattern everywhere. Not as an obsession or as a projection, but as a recognition: the same tensional structure that I had felt within me and that I had formulated as a mass-space duality appeared at every scale of reality.

In the cosmos: primordial mass and primordial space as an irreducible dual unity, collapsing into progressive dimensions through discrete entropic thresholds. In the psyche: ego and consciousness as an irreducible tension, collapsing into judgments that give form to experience moment by moment. In the body: the tension between what the nervous system needs to keep stable and what the environment demands as adaptation. In relationships: the tension between my subjective metric and the other's, with communication as an imperfect channel between two asymmetric spaces.

Breathing was a rhythmic collapse: inhaling as an expansion of space, exhaling as a contraction of mass. A cat sleeping in the sun was minimal tension in equilibrium: relaxed mass, diffuse consciousness, expanded time. An argument was a collision of psychic black holes: two saturated egos compressing the space of consciousness until the shared metric breaks.

I did not seek that vision. It appeared after I had lived the root from the inside. And its appearance confirmed something I intuited: that real understanding does not begin in data or in theories. It begins in direct experience. First you feel the tension. Then you name it. Then you formalize it. Then you verify it. But if you begin with formalization without having felt the tension, what you build is an empty shell. A form without root.

That is why the MCMC is not, for me, a physical model that was later applied to philosophy. It is a structure born of lived inner experience that found resonance in physics. The root is the same. What changes is the scale. And recognizing that was the true discovery: I did not invent a theory. I recognized a structure that was already there, in me and in the cosmos, waiting to be seen.

IX. The Journal I Did Not Write

There is something I must confess: during the years when all this was happening, I did not keep a journal. I did not take notes. I did not record dates or circumstances. I lived so submerged in the process that the idea of documenting it seemed to me a distraction. When you are inside the tension, writing about it takes you out of it.

And that has a cost. Because memory is not faithful. It reconstructs. It compresses. It reorders. Many of the experiences I have recounted in these texts are not in their exact sequence. The nuances have softened or sharpened with time. The concrete details have fused with later interpretation.

But there is something memory cannot alter: the structural trace. I may not remember exactly which day the founding meditation was, but I can relive the structure of what happened. I may not remember the exact words that psychologist said to me, but I can feel the exact form of the collapse they generated in me. The structure remains when the data fade.

And that, paradoxically, confirms the ontology. In the MCMC, entropy is irreversible: each collapse seals a configuration that cannot be undone. Information is preserved in the structure of space, not in the particular data. My memory works the same way: the concrete data are diluted, but the structure they generated remains sealed in my way of perceiving, thinking and acting.

This text is, in some way, the journal I did not write. A belated reconstruction that does not aim to be an exact chronicle but a structural map. It is not what happened: it is how what happened gave me form. And that form is verifiable, not by dates or names, but by internal coherence. If the structure holds, the root is true.

X. What the Root Teaches About Meaning

When I reached the root—when I felt the primordial tension as direct experience, not as a concept—one of the first things that fell was the idea that life has a given meaning. It does not. There is no meaning waiting out there to be discovered. There is no purpose inscribed in reality that I must read correctly in order to be at peace.

But that does not mean that life lacks meaning. It means that meaning is not a given: it is collapse. It is what happens when the tension between what I am and what I can be reaches a threshold and resolves into form. Each conscious act is a collapse of meaning: before, there is infinite possibility; after, there is a chosen direction. And that direction is neither true nor false: it is the one my structure generates from its root at that moment.

The end of relativism is to stop hiding in “everything depends” in order to authorize myself to create. The beginning of the creation of meaning is to collapse from my root, with space and form, with mind and silence, with values and presence. Thus, in every present, nothingness stops being an excuse and returns to its true name: potential. And I stop waiting for life to tell me who I am, so that I may tell it myself through my acts.

Potentiality is not an abstract word: it is the real space from which I can choose. Before each thought, each emotion and each act, there is a range of possibilities that opens like a silent fan. That fan does not compel me, it invites me. There my freedom is born.

And imperfection is my seal. Not as a lack, but as a signature that makes me different from any other. The universe is also like that: it does not reach the perfect zero; it vibrates with small asymmetries that keep it alive. That minimal deviation is the source of movement, creativity and learning. I no longer seek to fix myself so as to fit into an idea of perfection. I seek to know myself in order to refine my coherence.

XI. The Root as Daily Practice

It is one thing to have a founding experience. It is quite another to live it every day. The meditation of that night was an event. Practice is what you do with it afterward.

Every morning, when I open my eyes, there is an instant—very brief, almost imperceptible—in which consciousness has not yet identified with any form. I am not my name, nor my history, nor my worries. I am formless presence. That instant is the accessible root. It is the daily echo of S = 0. And if I learn to inhabit it, even if only for a second, the whole day changes texture.

Throughout the day, I practice the three questions: how, why and what for. Not as intellectual analysis but as a tool of consciousness. When I feel that my inner time narrows—that everything becomes urgent, reactive, compressed—I know that the ego is saturating the metric. Then I return to the body. I breathe. I ask: who hears my thoughts? And in that instant space is restored. Not the problem, not the situation, but the inner space from which I can respond instead of reacting.

When I interact with others, I try to remember that the other person is also dual. That their form speaks of their tension, not of my worth. That what they tell me is filtered by their subjective metric, and that what I hear is filtered by mine. That double relativity does not annul communication: it situates it. It turns it into something that requires presence, not automatism.

And when pain arrives—because it arrives, because seeing has a price and tension accumulates—I do not try to eliminate it. I try to read it. Pain is information. It signals where the tension has exceeded the threshold. It signals where I need more space or where I need more form. It signals that something is alive, that the process has not frozen, that entropy continues to advance.

The root is not a place you arrive at once. It is a place you return to. Every day. Every instant in which you remember to return. And each time you return, what you find is the same and is different: the same primordial tension, but in a new configuration, with a new history, with new possibilities. The root renews itself in every present. That is why it is never exhausted.

XII. What I Want to Remain

This text is not a theory. It is a testimony. The account of how a particular person, with their limitations, their pains and their searches, arrived at an understanding that they later tried to formalize. It is not a manual for repeating my path, because my path is mine and yours will necessarily be different. But the root is the same. And that is what I want to remain.

What I want to remain is that the root of everything—of the cosmos, of the mind, of experience, of suffering, of freedom—is a formless tension between two irreducible poles that cannot fuse but also cannot separate. That this tension is not a problem to be solved but the condition of possibility for something to exist instead of nothing. That form is born from collapses of that tension, and that each collapse is at once loss and creation.

What I want to remain is that this understanding did not come from books or from laboratories or from universities. It came from sitting with myself in the darkness until the darkness stopped being a threat and became raw material. It came from holding the inner tension without collapsing into easy answers. It came from asking why, how and what for until the questions stopped being tools and became a way of life.

What I want to remain is that you too have that root. Not because I give it to you. Not because you read this text and understand it. But because it is the very structure of what you are: a human being composed of an irreducible tension between ego and consciousness, between form and openness, between what you are and what you can be. That tension is your root. And all you need in order to reach it is to stop, breathe and ask yourself honestly: who hears my thoughts?

The answer is not a word. It is a place. The space that contains what you think and feel. From there, your ego stops being a prison and becomes a useful form again. And the space that contains it stops being empty and becomes a home.