esotericallyquaint

[esotericallyquaint]

And just like that, the hands of the clock sank into the darkest period of time's unwoven tapestry.

The rain. The blood. The pain. The lotus in the mud. The skin. The touch. Everything is unwrapping itself like it's too much.

The words. How do I explain the feeling behind having the need to express it all without expressing too much?

The people. The mediator. The secret of silently carrying the secret. The cage. The window. The depth of being hollow at the core. The design. The shadow knocking at the door.

Let me out.

Yes.

Please.

It's too heavy in here.

Hazy.

Dark.

Light.

Lightning.

Stupid circles.

Malicious tentacles.

Riddles.

Loopholes.

Stars.

It doesn't make any sense.

You are here now.

Time.

I missed you.

Entangled.

Quantum entanglement.

Revisit my state.

Reveal my fate.

But you missed my second hand.

I was just an ordinary bit.

Until I found you.

My Qubit.

[esotericallyquaint]

You know sometimes I find myself thinking relentlessly about the past, about all the things that happened to me and how I reacted. And suddenly, I start realizing what went wrong and what I could have done or said at that moment which could have made it better. But the thing is, everything happened the way it HAD TO HAPPEN. And it was necessary, if I think about it now. As remarked by someone, "However is our past, its memories are always sweet." Things can change so fast and I have come so far today that it doesn't really bother me. It's not a feeling of regret, just thoughts, mere thoughts, that are winding the events of the past incessantly, singing the sweet memories, but somewhere, there exists a pale darkness where the music doesn't play anymore. Every darkness has its own density. Densities are impalpable, and yet have its own sound, smell and taste.

Perhaps, everything contains a different kind of darkness. Memories are the iridescent play of several distinct darknesses that appear to form colors, vivid images and the pastel light across it, with its attached sound, smell and taste.

We see darkness as an absence of light. But what if it's the interplay of these darknesses that create the light? We can perceive light because we perceive darkness first.

Similarly, we also come from a place of darkness, the memories forms us from the inside, singing deep within us, and the person we have become today, is again nothing but the interplay of those darknesses around you and within you.

We have to see the LIGHT. Be it the past, the present or the future.

Else, everything is but a darkness.

—V

[esotericallyquaint]

There was this flow of water

Inside of me

And I don't know if it has started overflowing or withdrawing itself

I guess it's both

Deep down

I feel choked

But

I also know how to swim

And I love swimming

So I'm just wafting through the water

Unaware about its flow

Unaware about its depth

The jellyfish from all around the world

The seahorses

The seaturtles

All brimmed under the endless flowing sky

Sometimes I don't understand

Why is it always the ocean

There is this thing

Whenever I look at the ocean

I want to swim and float in it

And at the same time

There is a strangely deceptive force that catapults me to dive into the depths that lie beneath the flowing sky, which is perhaps greater than the sky above us

Everything that scares me also deeply fascinates me

But what am I scared of?

To lose myself in those depths?

But what if I don't?

What if the depths are nothing but those tangled parts of me?

The parts I never traversed in this boundless ocean

It might overflow at times because that part is trying to untangle itself but can't seem to do that without me reaching that depth?

It might withdraw itself because it has given up and is no longer waiting for me to reach that depth?

Sometimes we need to touch the bottom of the deep end

And sometimes we need to just keep on floating

The ocean is huge and I can easily get lost

But what I never lose is the ocean's depth

And maybe

The depth is what makes the ocean whole and complete

To float in the right direction but also listening to the depths

There it is

Now I understand why is it always the ocean

It's because

I was always touching the depths

Ironically

Depths are unreachable until you know everything about the surface

Ocean is unfathomable

But all I do is

I listen to the depths until I find myself on the surface

And that is all I can fathom.

—V

[esotericallyquaint]

🪐STORMS OF SATURN🪐

The moon scattered its pale light into the dark mundanity of life; rising those rivers of silence; deep prolonged periods of sadness, anger, and injustice; how do you see this? how do you convey those outbursts of the calm sea? the tides are faltering; they are too engrossed in their momentary ebb and flow; the moon renders the sky empty with its blanching stroke; but the pale shine outwits the pitch-darkness of the vast; how do you see the light? how do you see the darkness? the sea is petrifying my body; its unusual placidness haunts me sometimes; how does the sea calm itself down? the sun was waiting behind that darkness; waiting for me to burn out those pale lights of silences; oh how do you know the sun? how do you feel its dazzling blaze over your head? the days feel quiet and the nights are noisy; the sea has turned the tides towards the sun and the moon; and the wind crawls under its spell of misery.

—V

[esotericallyquaint]

eyes widening

the color of the sky is lost

will you come and feel the wind?

it consumes me

the labyrinth inside the cloud

will you come and feel the wind?

there's a claustrophobic silence around me

it's the wind that curves the echoes

I was following you in the darkness

can you feel it in the wind?

the sky is blanching above me

it's the clouds that blurs it all

I was following you in the darkness

can you feel it in the wind?

—V

[esotericallyquaint]

Thrill. Oh how such conversations can take you on a beautiful journey, how 'thrilling' it is. Someone remarked, "Love is directly proportional to thrill." Yeah, it is, as long as the trust is constant.

Quest. It's strange how it is the words that find us and not us who finds them. And the quest of words is patiently pathetic because they never find us at the very instant, but, they find us at the right time.

And yes I'm quite lazy, I'm not actually writing all this, just typing from the very first post. Though there is something about it, as long it's written somewhere, it makes a lot more sense to me than when it is just thought or said.

I discovered how attractive it is to just look at the words, to read through the words, and to write your own than just listening to it. Yes, I'm not a big fan of podcasts. Be it anything. I can't just listen to it. I need to see the words.

Can't believe such realizations happen only when I attempt to write down my thoughts. Crazy yet thrilling.

I started to know everything once I wrote it.

[esotericallyquaint]

There's something about the sunset, those warm enchanting colors, and how serenely I look at it, drawing out various emotions as I start living in the present, not once I think about how I'm going to write it, this day was as promising as yesterday and tomorrow will crawl onto me soon, the moon hidden behind the clouds can hear my thoughts, I sensed everything, sensual touches by the wind, and I hear it sing that song to me, I fly away with it, not caring at all, and I found a mirror hovering in the evening sky, and at once I tried to hold it, I knew how boundless it really was, I just couldn't hold it, and I remembered when the wind sang, "you will always find an open sky" and that it sang to every being on this earth, how brutally it revealed the most beautiful truth that, "all the lights are bound to the open sky, all real and all unique, hold it and let it leave you hovering, such souls shan't stop flying but always seek."

[esotericallyquaint]

"Hold on dear, hold on, you need to be patient. Great things happen at the right time, but always with patience. Go ahead and listen to your mind, listen to that every inch of your contradicting sphere, but sure you shall come back to me, you know how crazy it is, the wind will touch you often, and I will always remember it, everything." said my soul.

I remember when I said how writing triggers my rawest self, and how suddenly the words find me, but it's been almost 3 years and I realized it now. Why did I write at the first place? It was after a break of 3 years that I had written a poem called "into the tropics". I don't know why it was poetry. It could have been anything.

Finding words, creating verses, sometimes even contradicting them, It was a wonderful journey back then.

At that point, I believed that I could only write poems and not stories which contained pure sentences. I felt that I could never express my rawest self without poetries.

Right now, at this very instant, I'm a new person with the same old soul, writing my rawest thoughts, not poetries.

The bone behind the change? It's an eccentric soul.

[esotericallyquaint]

Some things happen just to make you realize who you really are. Some quests are never ending. And some people always stay. How is it all connected?

I guess I write because something wants me to. And at the same time I know that something is me.

If ever not those dreams, colors, numbers, places, waters, words and souls came through, I would have remained undiscovered.

Oh the perfection lies in one such soul, the one I always dreamt of, do you take me where it all disappears?

[esotericallyquaint]

Someone told me, "Hey... At one point of time, Did you ever feel that you are very beautiful?

I felt it today... While I was at the door... Looking at the farms and the sunset...and then there is a mirror... Those rays falling on you... A natural spotlight... Making you the most beautiful thing at that moment❤️"

Yes, at times i find myself veiled by the sunshine that falls on my face and right at that moment, ain't no mirror but i can feel that beauty inside of me, and that how nature makes us beautiful because we are looking at it and just like a mirror, it throws back at us.

[esotericallyquaint]

I often question myself, "Why do you always want to write it? Why not just say it?" and my soul replies, "Things make much more sense when they are written, be it anywhere, words that are said often hold a vague meaning in itself because they are uttered, the voice is present, and that calls for thinking somehow. But when you write, it's the purest form of expression, and the only innocence which is not thinking. And so you write, rather you need to write, and we are in quest of words."

And this doesn't mean words don't hold a powerful meaning when said, they do hold a meaning, but not as strong as when they are written.

Honestly, I'm a lazy writer. I don't really "write" things. But when I do write, I'm rawest of all than I've ever been.

Crazy to think of such, there are words that you kinda attract to yourself, like they're meant to describe 'you', but I hold a contradiction in me that doesn't want me to fit into the meanings that those words conform to, but you see, I've fought enough and I know that I will always find words, words that express a 'part of me'. The whole is in itself undiscovered.

[esotericallyquaint]

I was thrilled by the innocence, by those truer lies, by the Magic that remained constant throughout the journey, it's not over yet, I was gallivanting to find something I didn't know, I discovered me, and that made me discover him. What is it in me that sees through it? What is it in me that knows all of it?

I often fell short of words, it's like an artist fell short of colors, and that's impossible yes, I know I have words, but I also know when to put it all in words, it's kinda powerful you know, to have all your meanings to yourself until you write it down, you know it comes out with utter perfection, and you keep on writing, adding essence to your being, and that says it all, isn't it?

What if I'd say I met someone, who made me realize all this, who showed me a different perspective, and to write of such a unique soul, I may fall short of words, until the words find me.

Where are you?

[esotericallyquaint]

Strange people, strange places, strangely making me feel a lot strange about my life, what consequences, such acquaintances, I never knew I could actually write all this, strange urge to write things, what is it in me that follows through it? What is it in me? Walt whitman, you knew I was going to read through your words? And as these happenings excite my consciousness, they equally excite the sub-conscious, the dreams, the blues, everything is unfathomable. And as I hear the wind sing in the open sky, I know, it's just me, and just everything that's waiting for me to know it.

[esotericallyquaint]

And often, if I were ever to question what is happening in my life, I'd just go on terrace, feel the wind caressing my body, I hear it sing to me, "You know you're so much like me, you want to feel everything, you don't wanna limit yourself, and like me, you'll always find an open sky, no limits, no regrets, and these happenings in your life are to make you yourself, just so that you could always find me touching you, singing to you, and you will keep on realizing things."

[esotericallyquaint]

The more you let yourself run deeper, the more you contradict yourself, the more you indulge yourself in writing everything you know, see, think and feel, the more you discover yourself.

"Had I not known this before?" asked my mind, "And of such utter innocence, I believe you tacitly knew it, but you my dear, when in quest for your truth, you subtly repressed my existence until I showed up every single time after your vigorous battle of contradictions." replied my soul.

[esotericallyquaint]

To talk of shadows, there is something about the naked black figure, and I found myself yesterday, jaunting on terrace, walking by the only side which I never chose, and was acquainted with my own shadow through the halogen light on street. I gazed for a moment, my hair was playfully being touched by small gusts. I discovered wind's sensuality and that it had always been cheering me up after the long day. I talked to myself, looking into my shadow and I felt strange but comfortable. I was thinking about the future, particularly this moment that I would be writing all this here and all that I would do once I find myself.

I felt like I saw my soul in the shadow, that it rather wanted me to see itself, such an uncanny, I talked about how I always find myself writing everything down at last, I don't know why, sometimes it's like it isn't even me, but I know it is me.

I'm a contradictory human, I know who l I am but it's like I still have to find myself.

The shadow was pure, bare and unembellished. I knew then, that I'll always find myself in here, looking into my shadow, relieved of all the contradictions that exists in me, that I am one single being and the paradox is just a mere assumption.

And of the future talks, a part of me was screaming at me to stop thinking and to live in the moment, to let myself feel these strange delights, these epiphanies, and not care what to write about these things in future just like right now and rather live in it by truly immersing myself into the present. But my mind could just gather this instant, this very instant, and now when I write this, I know that I had felt it all in real, it's queer to discover myself.

[esotericallyquaint]

And if ever you assume this thing is about expressing my rawest self, it might just be true. I have this strange urge to write everything, be it anywhere. Apart from the fact that I ain't actually writing it hahah. Well this doesn't work in a conventional way as it is supposed to. But if it had to tell you something about me, a bit paradoxical, is that there are words that you use to express yourself and that those words are contradicting, and this urge to create your own words that truly express you, and unknowingly you discover words, not create.

This is when I know what creation is all about. You create something from the existent something, and not create a different existence. And just like the ocean, knowing it's ineludible depth, the playing with words, those whimsical ideas, might suffice.

But yes there are times I must say, I have invented my own words with my own meanings but again, you're not getting away from the water. The letters are stagnant. I may think I have created my own ocean of words but it's with the same water that already exists.