3.3.8. Duality
“It is because of the duality of perception that there is attachment and aversion.
When perception ceases, neither does attachment arise nor aversion remain.”— Saṃyutta Nikāya 35.94
I have long been fascinated by how easily we take for granted the way our minds carve up reality. What feels so solid and obvious — this world of things outside and a self inside — turns out to be a mirage woven by perception. As I explore deeper into this work of transformation, I begin to see how duality is not merely an abstract philosophical problem but the very fabric of confusion and suffering.
Our minds have a deeply ingrained habit of splitting experience in two. This arises through the process upon which all cognition depends: perception — the creation of mental objects. As children, this is so challenging we hardly remember it. Before language, we swim in what is called the ālaya, a raw, undifferentiated field of awareness. Through persistence and karmic seeds, we learn to recognise patterns in this seamless dance, and soon become conscious of being a creature with five senses and a mind.
Words themselves are intricate constructs: perceptions tangled with mental formations (saṅkhāras). Letters and words hold a subtle power — the foundation stones of our cognitive universe. Even if we do not fully understand why, they wield profound influence; music and poetry move the heart beyond any explanation.
Through karma, certain visual patterns — the sight of a sweet, for example — link with pleasure. Others bring fear. This learning happens even before words, driven by karmic imprints and repetition, reactive rather than contemplative.
Once we acquire speech, phenomena receive names. Words become complexes of perception and mental formations, prone to proliferate (papañca). Now patterns are actively sought in the sense fields. Hallucination arises to varying degrees. Before language, we were more rooted in vivid, present reality. The ālaya is still delusory, but it is the subtlest layer of deluded consciousness — closest to truth. Once we grasp a word, merely pondering its meaning pulls our awareness from this subtle ground into the tangled realm of “the thinker.”
I like to imagine the ālaya as the moon in the night sky. This is the “true” view of an enlightened mind. Picture the same moon blurred by weak eyes — that is how the ālaya relates to reality. Then see the moon reflected in a rippling lake: this is perception grasping at objects. The ālaya is still illusion, yet nearer to reality than our usual perceptions.
In early childhood, even sorting colours into mere “red” or “blue” is a struggle. But habits of recognising and labelling quickly take root. It is telling that in Genesis, God gave Adam the task of naming creation.
Gradually, “reality” transforms. Before we start thinking about ourselves, objects simply appear in the ālaya. Until we objectify ourselves — until there is a concept of “me” — we still dwell in this subtle, though deluded, consciousness. This is the innocence many mistake for happiness.
Yet adulthood demands care for this being. For some, harsh circumstances force this awareness early; for others, it comes later. Once we must habitually consider ourselves — worrying about teeth, hair, health — the process cements. When life turns sour, introversion and depression often follow. Overthinking this objectified self becomes a trap.
Duality arises as an illusory split. At its starkest, it feels like there is an intimate, vulnerable “inner” self and a vast, indifferent “outer” world. Yet in truth, the mind gives rise to both. The very process that fashions this division is perception, which births the consciousness aware of objects. But instead of seeing this as a play of mind, it becomes “my” mind, with “my” thoughts and “my” consciousness. Because thoughts and feelings are so intimately experienced, we fall into the delusion of an experiencer. And once the self becomes an object of reflection, we imagine this is the whole of our being. Thus we are doubly deceived: believing ourselves to be an object among other objects in a world that seems objectively real, despite it being a self-generated hallucination.
To escape this web, we must take up a spiritual path. We must see that adult experience is haunted by shadows from the past and habits spun across countless lives. We must learn to see through this illusory divide — sometimes called the Veil of Isis — and calm the mental habits that lead to hallucinated experience. We must ultimately cease cognition itself. This is the razor-thin path. We cannot simply swap cognition for the concept of emptiness; cognition must stop at the root.
This state is called nirodha, cessation. It is reached in many ways: through sustained meditation, by uniting with the subtle body of channels and winds (nāḍīs and prāṇa), or — closer to the alchemical approach — through insight that sees the senses and mind’s illusions.
In cessation, the processes of objectifying (perception) and subjectifying (consciousness) end. With them go the five senses and the mind. They are replaced by the three kāyas (Buddha bodies). Now, former “objects” still appear, but the mind rests within itself. Our five senses once seemed distinct avenues of reality, drawing attention into exclusive channels. In truth, they are all the same awareness fractured into six. In cessation, the mind is empty and calm. Objects arise without being grasped. Without that grasp, they cannot become objects of desire, aversion, or dull indifference. They appear empty — transient, lacking any inherent self.
When object-making stops, so does the little self that seemed to live inside or near this body. Cognition depends on objects. Without objects, cognition ceases.
A profound peace and bliss follow, naturally settling into jhāna. Physically, this manifests as a radiant, healthy glow. This is nibbāna. There is no real duality — nibbāna is saṃsāra stripped of hallucinated meanings. When reality is experienced without thought, one simply dwells in the moment. Thought itself proves unnecessary once we are aware of the source from which all thought arises.
There are, astonishingly, still further stages — where the disciple moves from cessation experienced only in meditation to an unbroken state: Buddhahood.
So much of our confusion rests on the simple split between “me” and “not me.” By seeing how perception fabricates this divide, we begin to loosen its hold. In that gentle unraveling, we glimpse a peace that no longer depends on thought, where reality simply shines as it is.
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.