Poetry is art. It is the art of using imagery to inspire a universe of feelings within, which draw a response from our psyche. Poetry dares us to think and to question – going inside of ourselves to explore our inner world. As we are being immersed into ourselves deeper and deeper, we flow unresistingly filling the empty spaces unseen before. We shape feelings and movements and experiences into something tangible – into words – into something to be seen and reflected upon for a long time – engraved through time. And as we do that, we get closer to the previously perceived distance – to find a part of our psyche, which wasn’t able to be found otherwise.
Poetry is the expression of mysticism and the mystic’s inner experience. By nature, a mystic is able to access a state of consciousness beyond the usual awareness of the humanity. Mysticism negates the rational as it explores beyond the veil – an expression of a state of mind which cannot be communicated but can only be felt. At a certain point, all mystics and seekers find it impossible to describe this full yet unseen experience – an experience which is not merely to transcend and annihilate the rational, but to allow for a new awareness and perception.
A few years ago I was standing at 3,300 meters in the Alps with bare hands, freezing. And yet, I felt so alive. Looking at the world beyond and beneath as I was standing at the edge – everything in my life had suddenly become so clear. All that mattered to me was “now”. I’ve been on a spiritual path for many years and it never ceases to amaze me how much movements are found in stillness – and how much unsuspecting intimacy is found in silence. I fell in love with the unnamed. This is what spirituality is – this is what love is – everything we just can’t shape but only feel deep within.
As the storm approached and all became white fog of snow in the Alps, I found that I was no longer within the boundaries of a page. And the only thing I had to trust was my heart.