Letter to Sławek

Sławek,

First of all, I want to apologize for raising my voice at you yesterday. To be honest, I was a little upset that you addressed me as “Your Highness.” You know, for as long as I can remember I have carried the conviction that every great and famous person is a scoundrel. I have no idea where this came from. Perhaps it was one of my karmic resolutions for this incarnation.

You know, I never liked history at school and barely scraped by with a C-. People admired the achievements of ancient rulers and many others after them. They loved looking at pyramids, gigantic statues of Buddha, acropolises, coliseums, and so on. Yet where others saw world-class monuments, I saw the slaves who had worked on them until they died of exhaustion (forgive me—even just before death they were sometimes dragged away and forced to dig their own graves so that another slave would not have to do it, only to be kicked into the pit while still half alive and buried there). Those who put their names on all those magnificent buildings did nothing more than crack the whip to make others work faster. They never lifted a finger to lay one brick upon another.

I have never been able to admire a suit of armor in a museum, nor an exquisitely crafted sword accompanied by a plaque saying that some ruler personally cut off 2,500 enemy heads with it and thus brought glory to his homeland. To me, he was simply a butcher (with all due respect to my husband).

When I first came to these conclusions, I knew nothing about reincarnation, burdens carried by the Soul, and the like. Even you did not know about such things yet. The moment I read on your website that being a king, a ruler, a strategist, or a general was not something inherently good, I immediately agreed with you without even needing to read your arguments, which later turned out to be virtually identical to my own.

Once, while I was on holiday in Greece, someone told me that in ancient Greek palaces the marble floors had been polished so perfectly that they reflected the frescoes on the ceilings more than ten meters above like a mirror, and that even modern polishing machines could not achieve the same finish that people had produced by hand three thousand years ago. I listened to this person, so proud of his nation’s history, and instantly my mind filled with the image of countless slaves kneeling, rubbing stone against stone until it became perfectly smooth, collapsing from exhaustion in the process.

The only question I could ask myself was: what for? So that a school of philosophy could be established there, and people would walk across those floors while some homosexual or pedophile teacher explained the principles of Greek poetry and the differences between comedy and tragedy, only to repay his pupils by sexually abusing a ten-year-old boy. Thank you very much, but I cannot admire such a culture. It simply does not appeal to me.

What is peculiar about my way of thinking is that for many years I believed I was living as a decent person. Most likely I carry unusually heavy burdens connected with Christianity. I tried to live as God commanded—to be kind to others, to pray for my fellow human beings, and above all to work honestly (that is, to own nothing).

Throughout my Christian journey I experienced both highs and lows. I found that religious teaching often did not match reality. I constantly wondered whether priests were not afraid of ending up in hell themselves, since every one of them lived above the average standard of living, while Scripture says that it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the Kingdom of Heaven.

Nevertheless, I always tried to take the good from my faith. Yet as time passed, it became increasingly difficult, and I had no idea why. I prayed to God for all those poor starving children in Ethiopia and for their salvation. I never allowed myself to ask anything for myself because, after all, I considered myself incredibly wealthy. I lived in a first-floor apartment, I had running water, electricity, gas, a wardrobe full of clothes, and I never went hungry.

But whenever life cornered me with unexpected expenses, I would stretch out my hands to God, desperately begging for help. God remained silent, and I felt as though I were speaking into a deep well. Even confession brought no relief, because every clergyman simply reinforced the belief that if God does not give, then He knows what He is doing.

And so my life went on.

Yesterday I told you that I used to sell flowers in nightclubs and that I made good money doing it. That is true. The problem is that every kind of dirty night work (just like prostitution) is organized so brilliantly that the employee who earns good money ends up with nothing. There may not be pimps in the literal sense, but workers are encouraged to spend their days off visiting other clubs and spending the money they have earned there. The argument is that you have to build a circle of acquaintances with whom you maintain regular contact, otherwise no one will hire you. So your people spend their money at my place, mine spend theirs at yours, and we simply take back what we paid them in the first place. It’s a brothel system in disguise—you sell flowers instead of yourself.

Even then I had no idea how heavily I was burdening myself. After all, I practiced acts of forgiveness and forgave every drunken idiot who, at five o’clock in the morning, believed he could say whatever came into his head simply because he had spent one hundred, two hundred, or five hundred euros in the club, while my daily income depended on it.

Eventually I decided to change professions. When I became a massage therapist, I felt as though I were in heaven. I would work during the day instead of at night, and I would deal with people who cared about health rather than getting drunk. It was a completely different world.

I started my work full of enthusiasm and energy. I was happy that I would be my own boss and would no longer have the owner of a nightclub standing over me. That lasted until every woman who stuffed herself with sweets, fatty meat, and liters of Coca-Cola began accusing me because she hadn’t lost thirty kilograms and her cellulite hadn’t disappeared after a single slap on the buttocks. I forgave them too—or at least I thought I did.

You know, when you told me yesterday that I swear a lot, I almost laughed. Believe me, I hardly swear at all when I speak. Don’t ask what happens when I think—or what kind of language I use then.

Sławek, you have an extraordinary ability to draw the truth out of people—the deepest truth. When I came across your website and started reading your texts, even before I wrote you my first email, one thing you wrote struck me deeply: that no one is capable of saving all humanity, because most people have no intention whatsoever of becoming enlightened, and even an immortal Soul cannot do that—let alone a single incarnation that lives only for a short time.

At that very moment I realized that, of my own free will, I had placed an unbearable burden upon my shoulders. I never wanted to save the whole world. I only cared about those poor starving children in Africa. I never wanted to save Onassis, Clinton’s daughter, or Prince Charles, but new children keep being born, and somehow I kept pushing them ahead of myself in the queue for salvation.

When I realized this, all my guilt disappeared in an instant, as though someone had selected every bit of it and pressed the Delete key. Every time I asked God for something for myself, I had been throwing feelings of guilt into the burden carried by my Soul.

When I started working with the intentions, emotions that I had suppressed for years began to surface. I realized that despite all my acts of forgiveness, I had not truly forgiven anything. Perhaps that is why I attract astral snakes. You write that cancer is a disease of hatred, and yet I, with my gentle disposition and my ability to speak kindly, am filled to the brim with suppressed hatred. My thoughts constantly revolve around everything I would say to those who hurt and insulted me—if only I could—if I were not dependent on them because they are my clients and my livelihood depends on their money.

All of those thoughts are clothed in every insult imaginable—words I do not even want to write down. But you know exactly what I mean, don’t you? You know how difficult it is to hold your tongue when your vocabulary is so rich.

As I write these words, I suddenly feel an overwhelming wave of compassion for my Soul. I no longer wonder why it wants to get rid of me as quickly as possible. I have filled it to the brim with every kind of negativity imaginable. It can hardly contain any more, yet I keep pouring more and more into it. I even burst into tears as I realized what kind of fate I had prepared for the very being that keeps me alive.

I have been dripping poison into it like a viper. Who wouldn’t want to get rid of someone who keeps poisoning them?

On top of that, I keep asking my Soul to cooperate with me, yet I have never even apologized to her. And then I wonder why she resists, why she falls into trances of incarnations in which she surely had a better life than she has with me. Until yesterday, I had no idea how much harm I had done to her.

The poor thing is defending herself the best she can. I am not surprised at all that she goes to the Creator and nullifies the intentions I make. She probably thinks that I only want to make room for even more of my own toxic programming, so she is protecting herself from me. It is as if she were saying, “You keep dripping a viper’s venom into me, so naturally you find yourself surrounded by snakes—they are your own kind.”

The Soul is immense, and every single imprint is like a grain of sand. But there are so many of them packed inside that she can no longer bear their weight and simply wants to free herself.

Do you have any idea how I could apologize to her? Perhaps I should begin the clearing process with this very incarnation. I have realized how deeply I love her and how much I understand her. I would like to convince her that the empty space left behind after all those intentions are surrendered is something I truly want to fill with love and harmony. I just do not know whether, after everything, she will be able to trust me.

You know, I have never been able to understand why people hurt one another. What is almost amusing is that they always have exactly the same justification: “to prevent evil.” The paradox is that evil is committed in order to prevent evil. This happens everywhere in the world, at every level of human intelligence and social status.

For example, someone says that a waitress was hired at a café, she got close to the owner and eventually broke up his marriage. A neighbor hears this story and, paralyzed by fear, rushes to her own husband’s café and begins making the waitress’s life miserable until she finally quits. The victim thinks, “I did absolutely nothing wrong. I was honest and hardworking, yet she treated me this way.” But the aggressor believes she has a perfectly valid reason: “That woman wants to steal my husband, and I cannot allow that.”

Or imagine two neighboring countries. One enjoys abundant rainfall and excellent harvests, and its people become prosperous. The neighboring country suffers drought and famine. Its king concludes, “Our neighbors are becoming stronger. One day they will attack and enslave us. Therefore we must strike first to prevent that from happening.” And just like that, a war begins.

Again, the victim cannot understand the reason, while the aggressor believes he has a very serious one—he is defending his country against future enslavement. Alexander the Great used exactly this kind of reasoning: attack your neighbors because one day they might attack you.

The worst part is that even if you suggest they simply ask the other side whether they truly intend to attack, the answer will always be the same: “They’ll lie to deceive us.” And so life goes on, with people feeding off one another.

Somewhere in one of your prayers you write about being exploited in hard and thankless work, perhaps on a construction site or in a mine. I don’t know, but I somehow feel that this description refers to your own experience—unless I am mistaken. If that is the case, then you certainly know what workplace bullying is. Employers assume from the very beginning that such treatment is necessary because they believe workers either intend to steal from them or avoid doing their jobs. Once again, the same logic: “prevent evil.”

You know, yesterday something inside me simply overflowed. I was so completely filled with frustration and despair that I could no longer cope with it, and I took it out on you. I truly am sorry. My Soul was already breaking apart.

I carry such a deeply rooted fear of being mistreated that even hearing one more hurtful remark terrifies me. I am afraid to work on intentions connected with employment and money because those areas are so deeply programmed within me. Work has become associated with humiliation, and the mere thought of working fills me with paralyzing fear.

I have also completely lost hope that another kind of work even exists. My neighbor is an engineer working in a design office. She spends twelve hours a day there, and the management humiliates the employees in every possible way, never watching their language. Here in Spain, the construction industry has declined by more than ninety percent, so finding a job in that field is almost impossible. If even an engineer is treated like that, what chance do I have? I am genuinely paralyzed by fear.

Exactly ten years ago I was visiting my father in Poland. We had an argument. His partner told him that I intended to swindle him out of his apartment—a completely fabricated accusation. My father threw me out of the house. Literally out onto the street. I was standing on the sidewalk in front of his house when my cousin drove from Gdańsk to pick me up because I had nowhere else to go.

Later I found out that my father had signed over all of his property to his partner. A year later he suffered a stroke, and while he was in the hospital she packed her things and left him. She had miscalculated, though. Despite the shock, he recovered and changed his will. I did not learn any of this until 2012 because after he threw me out of the house, I had no further contact with him.

I do remember, however, that I was just as blocked then as I am now. Nothing could get through to me, so I decided to pour all my feelings onto paper. I fell into a writing trance. I wrote almost continuously for nearly a month. I poured every feeling I had toward him onto those pages, even digging out the ones that had been buried the deepest. I filled an entire thick notebook.

When I finished, I felt as light as a feather. I was happy, full of optimism, and my hatred toward my father disappeared as if by magic. I had simply written down everything I wanted to say to him, exactly the way I wanted to say it.

At that time I did not yet realize that after throwing out all those negative emotions, I had left behind an empty space. And if I did not quickly fill that space with positive feelings and God’s love, it would simply become filled with garbage all over again.

Even now, after writing all these things, I already feel better. I feel lighter. I have a deep need to pour all of my suppressed hatred onto paper—or now, perhaps, onto a computer screen. I want to get out of this crazy cycle.

You know, I feel like a domino standing in a line, placed there only to be knocked over. Someone pushes me, and then I push the next innocent person standing behind me. It makes no sense.

My Soul has finally been given some breathing room—I can actually feel it. It is no longer stuffed to the brim. Now I understand that I truly need to write down my feelings.

I have been writing this letter for more than three hours now, and I simply cannot stop. Yet I am unable to write even a single intention of my own. I cannot concentrate for even a minute. My mind feels completely empty, my sense of self blurred. Could this not simply be resistance coming from my Soul?

I have no idea, Sławek, why I am writing all of this to you, but now that I have written it, I am going to send it.

This is the first time I have ever sent a text without reading it over again. I do not want to correct it or make any changes. I do not want to attack with logic what flowed out of my Soul during the first draft.

If there are mistakes, please forgive me.

Yours sincerely,

………… …………

Opublikowano: 16/07/2026
Autor: Sławomir Majda
Kateogrie: Independent work on patterns. Conversations.

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