Mystical Quotes

“What can I get you? A glass of water? A gun to shoot me with?”
― Diane L. Kowalyshyn, Stage Fright

“I have grown tired of the articulate utterances of men and things. The mystical in art, the mystical in life, the mystical in nature, this is what I am looking for. It is absolutely necessary for me to find it somewhere.”
― Oscar Wilde, De Profundis

“He stumbled uncertainly after her. The encircling torch beams were drooping now slightly as if they were abdicating to this strange, quiet girl who alone in this Universe of dark confusion seemed to know what she was doing.”
― Douglas Adams

“In the silence between worlds, echoes the power of the Universe, where destiny whispers and paths converge”
― Hellevi E. Woodman, Voice of The Portals I: The First Gateway

“Khun Mae went to bed past midnight. After a few minutes, her mouth opened. Her hair
was a dark cloud on the pillow. Up and up, she drifted above her bed, through the white
mosquito nets, until she was as light as a sea bird. She drifted through the open flap of her
window, into the balmy night air. Through the rainstorm, she flew, over the city of Bangkok and
its blurry lights, until the stars themselves guided this bird on her journey into the mountains, and
above Tham Luang cave.”
― Suzy Davies

“She had this spark in her chocolate eyes as she spoke about it. She had something mystical about her voice perhaps, or maybe the way she spoke.”
― Ipsita Upasana, Inexplicable Distances

“What was exorcised was the Machine not the Ghost.”
― Noam Chomsky

“By the time he was by her shores, it was the twilight hour
And he stood witness to their blending in celestial communion
His tired eyes beheld the amber of her blushes drip into her tresses
And ripple in a gentle zephyr of his caresses
In her ankles he saw the white frills of a long turquoise robe,
Replete with the tinkling of her anklets


Like the many dead whose ashes are dissolved in her waters,
He emptied in her the remnants of his memories, so there remained no trace of his old self,
Like a monk who does self-oblation, shunning all bondages of an insignificant past
He wished to be reborn in the same life, a different man with a different name –
A man with no yesterdays and no tomorrows”
― Rasal, I Killed the Golden Goose : A COLLECTION OF THOUGHTS, THOUGHTLESSNESS, SILENCES, POEMS & SOME ‘SHOT’ STORIES

“When her bottom lip quivered, the ice around his heart instantly melted.”
― Diane L. Kowalyshyn, Stage Fright

“The road to recovery had been riddled with potholes.”
― Diane L. Kowalyshyn, Stage Fright

“Sometimes she thought Murphy’s Law applied to her and her alone.”
― Diane L. Kowalyshyn, Stage Fright

“I navigated a couple of sharp curves and then saw another meaningless sign in Cyrillic, so I kept going. And then I was in the entrance of a tunnel. And then I was driving in the tunnel at fifty kilometers per hour and it was pitch-black all around. I was driving blind! I couldn’t see anything ahead or on either side of me. My stunned brain processed the fact that the first thing I had to do was to stop the bike, so I slowly braked while disengaging the gearbox.
We passed the town of Katerini, where the road widened and had been improved with shoulders and guardrails along the waterside… I was just about to go to ninety kilometers per hour when we went around a curve and there, straight in front of us, was an enormous mountain with a snow cap.
Charlie yelled, “Holy shit! Look at that!”
I was awestruck. I knew it was Mt. Olympus, the tallest mountain in Greece and the home of the gods…
“Where else could the gods have lived?” I asked.”
― Tim Scott, Driving Toward Destiny: A Novel

“The ferry left on time…. The splash of the waters and the rumble of the engine kept such a steady drumbeat that these sounds accentuated the silence around me. Maybe in Crete, Rhea, Mother Earth, would define my destiny but I insisted it wasn’t going to be what my parents were like. I watched the stars drift by until I dozed off.”
― Tim Scott, Driving Toward Destiny: A Novel

“As I wound my way up the mountain, the road began to perform multiple switchbacks like a snake in motion. I had to carefully maneuver through the 180-degree switchbacks at walking speed with one leg dangling off the side of the bike for balance or support, as needed. The road became steeper as it clung to the mountainside like a creeper vine. It was no more that twelve feet wide…
Higher and higher the road went, but I didn’t look over the edge until I came to a switchback where I had to stop the bike to walk it through the curve. When I stood with the bike between my legs, I saw that I was less than five feet from what had to be an eight hundred-foot drop-off. There were no guardrails.”
― Tim Scott, Driving Toward Destiny: A Novel

“Beautiful women can be like dynamite,” (I said to Paul.)…
“Now, now. There’s nothing wrong with dynamite if it’s treated right,” he said. It’s the men who go around with lighted matches that cause the trouble. By that, I mean they’ve got their dicks hanging out of their trousers all the time. You can see how that can be a  problem for the ladies?”
― Tim Scott, Driving Toward Destiny: A Novel

“Ich habe viel Zeit in den Kellergewölben verbracht, nicht aus Überdruß an der Sonne oder plein air, ich verlor nur die Kontrolle über die Stunden und über das Leben, wenn ich mich so ausdrücken darf; ich verzichtete auf jene starren Definitionen des täglichen Lebens, die es erlauben, der natürlichen Wärme zu folgen oder einfach von der Sonne und den Elementen abzuhängen; ich lag oder ich stand aufrecht, oder ich lehnte nur an einer Wand in diesen feuchten Zimmern, den Schlafsälen meiner Ware, die emsig hin und her ging, die Blicke nach oben, zu den Gittern gerichtet. Zwischen Spaten, Trophäen und Splittern im Marmorabfall stehen die tönernen Gäste, die Schlingen knüpfen aus Schlaf, als wären es Mechelner Spitzen, sie segeln über die Wände, springen wir Kautschuk auf die Stufen aus Staub, steigen nach oben, zum Licht, sie steigen umsonst, gelangen zu nichts, nicht einmal zur Seligkeit oder zur Erschöpfung der Verzweiflung. Und wie in den Märchen kehrte ich nach oben zurück, schwer an Jahren.”
― Fleur Jaeggy, The Water Statues

“The breath of our soul dancing
into the dust of the Earth
and shaping it with our soul’s artistry
We are moving poetry”
― Tamara Rendell, Mystical Tides

“While there are already compilations on both Music5 and the Arts,6 numerous passages in the Writings refer to the Word of God as a melody. A search through the Bahá’í Writings reveals a multitude of passages where the Word of God is described
as music being warbled by such creatures as the Mystic Dove, the Dove of Truth or of Utterance, the Nightingale of Paradise or of Holiness, the Bird of Heaven, of Eternity, or of Holiness, the Spirit of God, or sung by His wondrous, His sublime, His all-compelling, His clear, and most eloquent Voice.”
― Lorraine Manifold, The Divine Melody: Song of the Mystic Dove

“What pleases you and brings you pleasure? What does that pleasure teach you about yourself? Where do you find deep nourishment? Where do you encounter beauty that steals your breath away? What sensual experiences bring about an abiding sense of peace and calmness? What sensual encounters feel overtly magical and mystical? Asking and following these questions faithfully will lead you to discover the particular liminal doors that constellate in the spaces of the everyday.
The doors are everywhere, but, like the faeries in stories, they are very good at hiding. The only way to find them is to get a feel for them. We simply have to know them for what they are and be prepared to find out which ones we need to enter and which shall remain closed for us. Just as we find and open doors to our homes and offices, our schools and studios, we find and open the doors that lead us into the extraordinary.”
― Briana Saussy, Making Magic

“Deep Blue Mystic - A Haiku

Mighty ocean's grace,
True power lies in stillness,
Destruction withheld.”
― Amogh Swamy, On My Way To Infinity: A Seeker's Poetic Pilgrimage

“As long as the ego dominates the individual, he cannot have the oceanic or transcendental experiences that make life meaningful. Since the ego recognizes only direct causes, it cannot admit the existence of forces beyond its comprehension. Thus, not until the ego bows down to a higher power (as in prayer, for instance) can an individual have a truly religious experience. Not until the ego surrenders to the body in sex can a person have an orgiastic experience. And only when the ego abdicates before the majesty of nature will a person have a mystical experience. In each case, the dissolution of the ego returns the individual to the state of unity and continuum in which "moving" experiences are possible.”
― Alexander Lowen, The Betrayal of the Body

“Your mind is going in every direction when you answer a question. It returns to you with an answer after you send it off to search the archives of your mind”
― Gwenevere Rivest

“In death, we are born. The dead add their strength and counsel to the living.”
― Hopi Proverb

“There is electric light in the water,
There is a scorching fire in stones

Nature is such a mystic,
That water can burn and stone can jewel your bones”
― Ritu Negi, Ethereal

“For while the individual currents were volatile the totality of them were omniscient and the intrinsic flow knew only the way of destiny.”
― Casey Fisher, The Subtle Cause

“In the wisdom of Celtic shamans, a profound truth resonates; nothing is ever truly lost but transforms, perpetuating the eternal circle of life. As water rises as vapor, it falls as rain. From flames of destruction, new growth emerges. Each essence intricately woven in an endless dance of reincarnation, where shape-shifting and transmutation are natural states of existence.”
― R.M. Alwyn, Raindrops of the Gods

“Angels waltz around like in one of my daydreams, glitter-dusted as the faeries I was warned about as a child. They're mystic, with spindly limbs and gossamer hair and skin that glows. Their wings unfurl behind them, some gilded and others adorned with pale pink shimmer. They flutter across the flower-filled glade, twirling like falling feathers. A few of the angels thread starlight into garlands or coax the flowers to bloom. A train of them braid baby's breath into one another's hair. Others lay fruit in front of what looks like shrines--- seashells brimming with water and floating petals that gleam with reflections of the moon.
It's like something out of a storybook. Lanterns are strung between the evergreens, casting their light over a long table. On top of a silk tablecloth, candelabras drip with wax and flowers are strewn about--- cerise roses, vibrant marigolds, velvet violets, and pale bluebells. Fresh fruit spills out of a giant shell like a cornucopia--- mangoes, peaches, guavas, champagne grapes and deep red cherries. Dark wine fills crystal cups. Rose-jam tarts with wild raspberries and hibiscus petals pile alongside tea cakes piped with custard and sugared primroses. In the center of the feast is a roasted duck glazed with honey and decorated with slices of pineapple. The smell of buttered potatoes lingers in the air, fragrant with hints of rosemary and garlic.”
― Kiana Krystle, Dance of the Starlit Sea

“Tis now the very witching time of night,
When churchyards yawn, and hell itself breathes out
Contagion to this world. Now could I drink hot blood
And do such bitter business as the day
Would quake to look on.”
― William Shakespeare, Hamlet

“The hands of blue time united the mast of a sailboat. And I was captain on that deck of shadows, at the helm, I, too, a shadow resisting impermanence, asking: Is all or any of it real or am I riding myself into a mystery?”
― Maria-Cristina Necula, Evanescent

“The hands of blue time united the mast of a sailboat. And I was captain on that deck of shadows, at the helm, I, too, a shadow resisting impermanence, asking: Is all or any of it real or am I writing myself into a mystery?”
― Maria-Cristina Necula, Evanescent