3.2.5. Papañca

“Seeing nothing in the end
but competition,
I felt discontent.
And then I saw
an arrow here,
so very hard to see,
embedded in the heart.
Overcome by this arrow
you run in all directions.
But simply on pulling it out
you don’t run,
you don’t sink.”

— Attadanda Sutta, Sutta Nipāta 4.15 (Pāli Canon), trans. Thanissaro Bhikkhu

This chapter opens a door into one of the most elusive yet deeply influential patterns of the mind — papañca. As I reflect on it, I notice how quietly it begins, almost innocently, with a simple thought that then branches and multiplies until entire inner worlds are built on fragile air. To see this clearly is to glimpse the roots of much of our turmoil, and perhaps to learn how gently to loosen their hold.

Papañca is a term in the canon that defies neat translation. It points toward mental proliferation — the restless spinning out of concepts, stories, arguments, and interpretations that the mind weaves almost of its own accord. It resembles what we might call overthinking, but it runs deeper, describing the very mechanics by which thought divides reality into subject and object, into self and other, into a thousand entanglements.

I’ve come to see that thinking is not as simple, nor as harmless, as I once assumed. At its root, thinking is intimately linked to speech. In early childhood, before I learned to bite my tongue, thoughts were nearly synonymous with speech. The mind’s formulations moved swiftly to the mouth, driven by karmic conditions that compelled utterance. These first words were echoes, learned through mimicry of parents and teachers. Over time, they refined into unique expressions, but their origin lay in conditioning.

Most of us, through gentle reprimands or sharp correction, eventually learned to interrupt this process. We discovered how to stop speech at its inception. In doing so, we planted the seeds for inner speech — for thinking as we know it. The mind’s intention to express, thwarted at the lips, turned inward. This internal monologue became the hallmark of what we call thought.

Yet thinking is not limited to words. Whenever a natural impulse toward action is interrupted — whether in speech, movement, or even the urge to create art — that energy can fold back on itself, generating thought. These non-verbal currents are harder to notice precisely because they do not rely on language. But they are just as potent.

I also find it helpful to remember the divided nature of our nervous system. From birth, both sides develop in parallel. But once we learn to write, we often favour one side, teaching it to form letters and symbols. This introduces an asymmetry. Typically, the dominant side of the brain becomes the seat of subjectivity, while the non-dominant side shapes the perceived object-world. It is a delicate arrangement. When stable, it gives rise to what we call sanity. When unstable or fluid — as in mania or certain forms of schizophrenia — either side may slip into subject or object, leading to hallucination, fantasy, or delusion.

Thus, within me exists a fragile model of reality. My dominant neurology creates a sense of being a subject; the other side projects an external world to be experienced. When this balance holds firm, life seems ordinary and predictable. When it falters, strange experiences arise.

The subtle mechanics of proliferation

Papañca is the name for the tendency of this mental machinery to elaborate, to run on and on. A simple spark — a slight, a worry, a moment’s uncertainty — can ignite a rapid chain of alternating subject-object constructions. Thoughts respond to thoughts, piling up until an entire landscape of concern, resentment, or fear is built on the slightest foundation. This proliferation often fuels paranoia or hostility, though its beginnings are usually innocent.

Left unchecked, papañca becomes a self-sustaining loop. A person caught here can seem lost, ensnared in fantasy or suspicion, crafting entire dramas from faint impressions. In more extreme cases, this is the mechanism of mania — where the proliferation of thought becomes so powerful it detaches from ordinary checks and balances.

To see this is not simply an intellectual exercise. It requires a deep willingness to observe how thought arises, how it builds upon itself, how it spins. With practice, I can sometimes catch it in the act. The moment I engage my opinion — that subtle inner tightening around “I think” — I feel it anchor in my chest, like an arrow wedged in the heart.

The Attadanda Sutta gives voice to this precisely. Seeing others scramble like fish in shrinking puddles, I too grasped for footing, only to find the world lacked stable ground. The arrow is papañca — the mental habit that spins the wheel of becoming. Pulling it out means refusing to chase every concept, declining to nurture every reactive thought. It means learning to dwell in a space before opinion, before elaboration, before story.

It takes practice, patience, and the quiet confidence to simply watch the mind without rushing to endorse or oppose what arises. In doing so, I discover that much of my suffering is optional — a byproduct of this subtle proliferation. By learning to gently pull out this arrow, I stand freer, less entangled in the mind’s endless weaving.

Table: The Mechanism of Papañca

As I reflect on papañca, I see it for what it is: a clever but often troublesome habit of the mind, endlessly constructing worlds from shadows. Learning to witness this process without feeding it is perhaps one of the most profound disciplines on this path. In that quiet space before proliferation, I glimpse a freedom that needs no opinion to sustain it.

This text is excerpted from the upcoming book Citrinitas: A Course in Modern Alchemy. The complete volume will include additional study guides, glossaries, and extended teachings. Learn more about the book here.