The control-addict, whom you mention, Sean, lives in an Epimenides-like paradox.
In the Paper-thin Hotel, our pilgrim hears and learns this lesson. But: Good riddance!
"And you turn in disgust / from your hatred and from your love"
(Light As The Breeze)
The lesson you are inside, not outside is still a lesson administered by a shrink.
Real life, as everybody strives to find, minus "a heavy burden", is still a bearable-but-diminished life.
"Going home / without my burden
Going home / behind the curtain"
"Going home / to where it's better / than before"
If the "outside" can't be found outside, well, then we'll have to find it inside; it must be someplace, after all; we just haven't searched hard enough.
More of the same...
Pain is pain.
Physical pain, nervous pain, mental pain, spiritual pain — is pain.
Pain, however, as seen from the illusory outside, from where the suicide wants to see himself without his pain, that kind of pain is: pain, plus the revolt against pain, equals suffering.
"You want to live where the suffering is":
That's where the bodhisattva vows to live, leaving the personal salvation to the arhat, and remaining on site until all the sufferers, simultaneously, together, take the step beyond the beyond, beyond this hellish "outside", and that means into the inside of the world.
But not behind a curtain.
Not without the burden: With the burden of suffering, minus "outside" and revolt and shrink-pedagogics, equals simple pain (and even that only on occasion).
Beyond the One-ness, my dear brethren and brethresses, into duality, into reality.
Your searching itself was the nightmare.
Rainer Maria Rilke says in "Die Irren — The Mad":
Und sie schweigen, weil die Scheidewände
weggenommen sind aus ihrem Sinn,
und die Stunden, da man sie verstände,
heben an und gehen hin.
(And they're silent, for the separation
walls have been removed out of their mind,
and the hours where one'd understand them,
they arise and pass away.)
And now just look at this prison-cell which those two shrink-fellows locked you into.
The barren field they tell you is the land of your fathers — isn't it?
Those ruins: "It was you who built the temple" (Lover Lover Lover).
Oh, and that mean icky thing there? Yes, of course it is the Holy Grail you've been searching for all the time. What else could it be, you nitwit!
Who do you think those two fellows are, that brought you here, stupid!
They are your feet, two weary trustworthy reliable guides and carriers you've been insulting and cursing and fighting all these years!
They brought you "outside" because you ordered them to, and they couldn't help it. And now they've brought you beyond the paradox because we all have taken that step.
And at present you go and clean up this mess, and then there is a job at hand:
— What is zen?
— Have you eaten?
— Then wash your bowl.
Different sides. Ordinary-day life. That's what zen is.
Not more. No outside. No walking on the water without knowing where the stepping-stones are. No tricks.
You can fiddle around with all that meta-stuff of yours once you'll have learned how to get rid of your resulting fiddlesticks — if then you really still feel like toying like that.
"Before zen, mountains are mountains, and waters are waters — during zen, mountains are not mountains, and waters are not waters — after zen, mountains again are mountains, and waters again are waters." is a popular mis-quote of Ch'in-yuan Wei-hsin (Seigen Ishin).
Correctly: "Before zen, mountains are mountains, and waters are waters — during zen, mountains are not mountains, and waters are not waters — after zen, mountains really are mountains, and waters really are waters."
However: "And she says, Drink deeply, pilgrim / but don't forget there's still a woman / beneath this resplendent chemise" (Light As The Breeze)
Not less. Zen after zen.
Duality: "You want me to change the way I make love" and "I don't like your tone".
Epimenides, the elected spokesman of the Cretans, arguing with the elected spokesman of a neighbouring isle about some fishing grounds. Different sides. Peace or war, but no paradox.
Ordinary-day life with different sides in it. Paradox outside. Different sides on that side, too.
If a teacher does not pick up the disciple where he is, the thing won't work. So the teacher must learn from the disciple.
If a teacher does not know how the disciple learns, the thing still won't work. So the teacher must anew and anew learn from the disciple.
Therefore the teacher must be the disciple's disciple.
And when the disciple in turn has become a teacher, he must not only teach his teacher, but he must also teach his disciple, while being the disciple of his teacher and being the disciple of his disciple.
Therefore "in the higher eye" teacher and disciple are one. And on a different side, "down here", they are on different sides.
No more "Good riddance". No more "turn[ing] in disgust" from whatsoever.
No more shrink-pedagogics, no more hide-and-seek.
No more prison-cell; the Holy Grail resorbed.
The separating walls restored, as well as the doors to walk through to different sides.
The temple no more God or Buddha turned into stone or gold.
The world really the world. Around us. New. In all its splendour.
With all its different sides.
A place where Man is entitled to become a man.
Legend has it, that one day the buddha Siddharta Gautama, in the circle of his followers, picked a flower and rotated it by the stem between his thumb and forefinger. Nobody reacted, except Mahakashyapa: he smiled.
That is said to have been the direct transmission from one buddha to the next.
"Different Sides" is Leonard Cohen seeing a flower being rotated by the stem between thumb and forefinger, and smiling. The direct transmission has taken place.
(Unless you believe me, of course, which would be a shame. But if you have read all my gibberish so far, I cherish a reasonable hope that you're beyond believing what others tell you.)
Therefore know that you must become one with the bow, and with the arrow, and with the target —
to say nothing of the horse.
♪... for a while ♪
♪... for a little while... ♪
(Just a filthy beggar blessing / What happens to the heart)