Perhaps, the secret is in doing nothing? What if the mechanistic techniques, even if addressing the soul (in its mechanical, devitalised version) are just the umpteenth trap of an exhausted and exhausting modernity for its exhausted soul-seekers? What remains once we scrap farniente which is directly co-related to creativity? The time of sad passions, anxiety, compulsion. The anxiety of not having seen enough, done enough, enjoyed enough.
Everything becomes evasive.
But instead of stopping, we continue our pursuit of what evades us. We look for paradise in the mind, while it is all around us. We can't see it because we constantly live in some nebulous elsewhere.
But life is here and now.
And to exist in its plenitude it asks for one thing only.