Bioenergetic stuff is, they say, “just a placebo”? Oh, how casually some people throw that word around, as though it explains everything and puts a full stop to the discussion. But what is a placebo if we dig deeper? Professor Zavyalov called it the hidden magic of the psyche, the beginning of healing through faith and trance. And Losev saw in it the work of the soul—a living, pulsating energy that connects us with the invisible world.
A placebo is not an empty pill but a bioenergetic technique, as ancient as humanity itself. It is an incantation uttered without words, a ritual disguised as something ordinary. Take an old witch: she mutters over a pot, throws herbs into it, whispers to the wind—and the sick person rises as though born again. “Placebo!” the sceptics scoff, but I see an energy current breaking through, from her hands to his body, through the smoke of the fire and the scent of wormwood. Or a folk healer who “rolls” an illness away with an egg—it blackens, while the person grows lighter. This is not just belief but a weaving of currents: bioenergy surges like a river, washing the darkness out of the aura.
And what would Kashpirovsky say? “I do not heal; I awaken your own powers!” he would say, looking into the television while millions caught his gaze. And people would rise from their sofas, throw away their crutches—not because of pills, but because of the invisible ray he sent through the screen. Is that not magic? A placebo? No, it is a bioenergetic strike, in which the master’s will awakens dormant currents in the body. And Chumak, charging water in front of a camera, claimed: “Energy passes through me; I am only a conductor.” People drank that water and their ailments receded. Sceptics laugh: “Placebo!” But I ask: if energy came alive in a jar and passed into a person, what difference does the name make?
Similar things happen today. A starch tablet from a doctor in a white coat is the same kind of rite. You swallow it, and threads stretch from the soul to the ether, setting right what has been broken. Or coffee from a fashionable café: you believe in its “power”, and that power comes—the ritual has worked, the cup is in your hands, there is the aroma, the expectation. Spirits that once shied away from electricity now sit in the wires and chuckle as they watch us cast spells upon ourselves. Kashpirovsky and Chumak proved that a placebo is no deception but a key to the biofield, where energy dances to the melody of our will. Talk a toothache away with an incantation, and it will go because you have outplayed it on the subtle plane. Place a mirror against the evil eye, and the shadow will bounce away, unable to endure its reflection.
The foolishness is not believing in such a force and calling it an “empty pill”. It is magic that we possess without even knowing it, while the demons whisper in the corner, envious of our blindness.