Pleasure is the serpent that man tries to kill.

But the more he tries to kill his pleasure, the more it returns—like the Hydra: multi-headed, reborn from ashes, healing itself in secret.

Man suppresses his desire and calls it discipline.

But suppression is not mastery—

It is fear with a mask.

Why do you hate your pleasure?

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Yet crave it when you’re alone with your thoughts?

It is not pleasure that binds you. It is your inability to hold it with love

When man learns to acknowledge and love his pleasure—he is no longer its slave.

The serpent no longer coils around his neck. It becomes his staff—his golden rod, his scepter of life. No longer a curse, but a conduit of power.

“He who fears pleasure becomes its prisoner. He who loves it becomes its master.

The serpent does not leave. It transforms. And the stick that once bit—now glows with golden scales.

The way of mastery is not to kill your pleasure—but to indulge in it consciously, then return to yourself. To your solitude.  To your thinking. To your throne.

Like walking from left to right, then back from right to left, with one foot in each world—pleasure and presence, desire and discipline.

If you suppress the part of you that wants to indulge, it does not die. It grows. It coils in the dark, and becomes the greatest serpent—a beast born of denial, not truth. But when you acknowledge it—when you love that part of you, and return to your forward vision—the serpent lowers its guard. It no longer strikes. It submits. Like a woman in love— its poison becomes a perfume. Its danger becomes power. And your essence remains unharmed.

The man who denies pleasure is ruled by it in secret. The man who dances with it, and returns to his center, is never bitten. For the serpent, once loved, lies at his feet— not as threat, but as scepter.

But how do I swing back from pleasure to thinking? And from thinking to pleasure? 

Between indulgence and solitude? Between the serpent and the crown?

There is no technique. There is no answer. Only awareness.

If you fall fully into pleasure, you love it—and you become a demon. Then, in shame, you become the monk who hates pleasure. Only to swing back—and become the devil again.

It is the loop. The eternal ouroboros. The serpent eating its tail. The thinker craving flesh. The sinner craving silence. This is what happens when man swings unconsciously. He believes he's choosing—but he’s being dragged.

To overcome this: You must consciously swing. Consciously walk into pleasure. And when you are in it—fully—consciously return to thinking. Even when thinking becomes sacred. Even when silence feels holy. Even when you despise the body and love the soul—you must return to the flesh, too.

You must swing with yourself—not against yourself.

And when man does this—not with force, but awareness—he is no longer “I”. He is no longer fragment. He becomes himself. Whole. Total. The Self.

This is not always preceded by signal. Sometimes the serpent doesn’t hiss— and the monk doesn’t speak But the fire still shifts. The swing is a choice, not just a feeling.

You swing not because of tension, but because of timing. You don’t always feel the dryness of thought  or the stickiness of pleasure—  but you swing because you know it’s time to keep the fire moving. Like a King rotating his crops— not because they’ve failed.  but because he respects the cycle.

“He who waits for tension will miss the rhythm. Sometimes the path is still,  and you must walk anyway. You do not swing because you are empty. You swing to stay full. This is not reaction.
This is Kingship.