In the Marquis de Sade’s 1797 novel “Juliette,” the protagonist employs the metaphor of “opium” in a conversation with King Ferdinand to criticize his policies towards his subjects. However, in this context, the metaphor is not related to religion but rather to the deceptive tactics employed by the ruling elite to divert attention from the true causes of their suffering. The protagonist asserts that, despite nature favoring the king’s subjects, they live in dire poverty. This is not due to their indolence, but rather a consequence of the king’s policies, which keep people ensnared in dependency and obstruct their path to prosperity. Consequently, their afflictions remain untreated, and the political system itself is no more effective than the civilian administration, as it derives strength from its own frailty.
Ferdinand, the protagonist contends, fears that the truth will be uncovered—a truth that the protagonist boldly states to his face. To prevent this, Ferdinand suppresses the arts and talents within his realm. He dreads the insights of genius and instead fosters ignorance. By providing his subjects with a metaphorical “opium,” he ensures that, under the influence, they remain oblivious to their troubles, which are ultimately his fault. This is why, in Ferdinand’s domain, there are no institutions that can nurture great individuals for the nation; knowledge is neither recognized nor rewarded, and since wisdom holds neither honor nor benefit, no one aspires to it.
I lie still and listen to the blood. The pulse taps at my temples like a small snake hiding in the grass, pretending not to exist. My stomach tightens — as if a living animal were trying to get out. I tell myself: it’s hunger. I drink water, eat bread, scroll, read “seven steps to get your energy back.” The emptiness stays. It only changes its mask.
“Piety is opium for the soul; in small doses it stimulates, in strong ones it sedates and kills” (Rousseau).
You meant it as a warning, Jean-Jacques. I nod: small doses of hope keep us upright; large ones switch off discernment. It’s true of prayer, of love, of “practices.” The moment I rename my pain “fatigue” and medicate it with the sweet pill of “mindfulness,” the body warms for a minute — and then goes numb.
“You feed the people with opium so that, stupefied, they won’t feel their misery” (de Sade).
You said it to a king — I hear the market in 2025. Kings changed shape: the scepter is a subscription, the throne is a desire marathon, the decree is a story. “You are special,” whispers the radiant teacher. “Don’t go into the crack, don’t touch the cold.” The yoga mat turns into a flying carpet: it takes you away from pain and brings you back to the same place.
I remember the kitchen. Cookies, sugar dust on fingers, warm milk. “Eat — you’ll feel better.” The body learns: comfort = sweetness. In adulthood the sugar changes shape: not cookies but words. The formula is the same: sweetness instead of meaning.
“Religion is the sigh of the oppressed creature, the heart of a heartless world… religion is the opium of the people” (Marx).
You’re right and not right, Karl. A sigh is needed when a rib aches from a narrow cage. But when life becomes a sigh, speech atrophies. I know people who have been sighing for years — “doing practices, clearing ancestral scripts.” Their eyes are clear; inside is a silence that feels like anesthesia.
“Religion is spiritual moonshine” (Lenin).
Moonshine warms and wrecks. A slogan is moonshine too. Yesterday a bell, today a mantra, tomorrow “manifesting abundance.” When hope becomes a slogan — it dies. What remains is an empty bottle labeled “path.”
“How much is the opium for the people?” (Ostap Bender).
You laugh, trickster. I laugh too, because I hear the market. Opium is always for sale. Yesterday it cost silver and faith; today it costs likes and attention. The price drops, dependence grows. A sip of comfort is cheaper than a mouthful of truth.
“The spectacle is a permanent opium war” (Debord).
Guy, you saw the common hall; I see millions of tiny stages. Each with its own director and prompter. For one — Castaneda in a shiny cover; for another — “cosmic abundance”; for a third — “techniques to eliminate fear.” Personalized doses for personalized anesthesia. The spectacle isn’t on the square anymore — it’s installed in the palm.
Paradox as thesis:
yesterday opium was called religion; today opium is called “the path to oneself.”
The form changed; the function remained: numb the real so we don’t have to discern it.
I tried all of it — to avoid writing this text. I bought small tickets to an easy tomorrow: energy courses, clever breathing, “yoga for grief.” Often it helped. But each “helped” ate a crumb of my capacity to hold ∅ — the emptiness where speech is born. Comfort is good when you move on. It’s dangerous when comfort becomes your road.
Symbol: the anglerfish. It lives in darkness and lures with its own light so prey will swim closer. I look at the spiritual marketplace: the lures shine — “conscious mornings,” “somatic intelligence,” “destiny re-wiring.” Fish approach — and disappear. Light isn’t an exit; light is a lure.
Break — discernment:
it is not hunger. It is emptiness playing hunger.
it is not spirituality. It is anesthesia in white.
it is not hope. It is the packaging of hope, sold on discount.
Outside — decay, even when it smells like lavender. Inside — alive, even when it smells like iron and blood. While hope lives inside — it moves. Turned into a banner — it dies.
Now — tomorrow. Not a prophecy, just the line of a trend. Algorithms already know my rhythm of despair better than I do. They offer comfort a second before the crack can show. “Breathing session? Sleep affirmations? A quick ritual against fear?” A coach with no face and no body — with access to my pain. If one day the anesthesia becomes continuous, what will remain?
I’m not a prophet; I’m a witness. I don’t call for asceticism — I ask for sobriety. People write to me: “Yoga saved me.” I believe them. “Meditation brought back the night.” I believe them. The question isn’t “what do you do?” but what in you dies when you do it? Does the lie die — or your ability to hold the truth?
I hear the objection: “What’s wrong with comfort? Didn’t Marx speak of the sigh?” Not wrong — risky. A sigh is a bridge. The danger begins when the bridge is declared a home. It’s warm there, the words are familiar, no one demands discernment. But you aren’t there.
Three small practices, not for sale:
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Body. First the body. Where is the emptiness? Where is the crack? What’s cold?
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Language. Name without packaging. Not “energy” — “fear.” Not “practice” — “replacement.”
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Pause. Don’t run to sweetness. Wait until the taste fades on its own.
Enough to return opium from diet to shelf: a medicine for extremes, not a way of life.
I’m not against teachers. I’m against anesthesia dressed in light. If your teacher opens the crack — they’re with you. If they close it — they sell. The question is sharp but quiet: after the “practice,” is it easier to live — or easier to sleep? Life and sleep look alike only from far away.
I leave the ending open because sometimes comfort is the only thing between a person and the edge. I won’t take it away. I only ask: don’t mistake it for the road. And if algorithms learn to sedate before you inhale, keep something that can’t be bought: a small stone of truth in your pocket. Heavy, but not poisonous.
Opium will be even closer tomorrow.
Algorithms will learn to offer “spiritual coaching” before you feel the crack. You will be anesthetized even before you breathe in. You will have a personal mentor, not a human, but a program that knows where you are in pain and applies a bandage in advance.If that happens one day, what will be left?
A body that still discerns taste?
Or the emptiness that won’t let you swallow the sweetness?I don’t know. I’m leaning towards the latter.
If opium changes masks every century — what are we drugged with today, and who among us will dare to taste the difference before it’s too late?
∅
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