The modern mind, even at its most intelligent and self-aware, is rarely still. Beneath the surface of our daily routines runs a restless current of desires, anxieties, and calculations – shaped by familiar human preoccupations: safety, social approval, material success, reputation, influence, and control. Even our moments of pleasure are often tainted by the underlying question – how can I hold on to this? How do I get more?
It is through the arts – literature, music, architecture, and visual expression – that we sometimes rise above this conditioned state. When these mediums transcend mere entertainment or emotional stimulation, they offer a portal to something subtler, deeper. In such moments, the mind stirs with a distant memory of stillness – of a consciousness less entangled in craving and comparison. At its highest, art becomes a quiet echo of the mystical.
Mysticism, however, is not mere aesthetic transcendence. It is a fundamental reorientation of consciousness. The mystic does not simply think differently; they are different. Their perception flows from a different center of gravity – one that is not defined by the self, but liberated from it. Yet this state is difficult, if not impossible, to describe using the language of ordinary experience. Mystics speak in metaphors, paradoxes, and silences-pointing not to doctrines, but to direct knowing.
And herein lies a perennial danger: the symbols and sayings of mystics, when stripped of their experiential roots, often become tools of illusion. People may project onto mysticism their hopes for divine intervention, miraculous outcomes, or metaphysical shortcuts to success. The mystic’s invitation to surrender becomes a promise of reward; their insight becomes doctrine; their metaphors become magic.
It is true that some mystics-later canonized as saints or prophets – have been able to communicate a message of love, compassion, and fearlessness to those around them. A few among their followers even managed to live this truth. But over generations, what began as lived insight often ossifies into belief systems, rituals, and power structures. The mystical impulse is rarely scalable, and traditions built around it often become mere shadows of the original flame.
In today’s world – shaped by accelerating technology, algorithmic distraction, economic precarity, and ideological fragmentation – people find themselves more anxious, more divided, and more desperate for certainty. As institutions falter and worldviews clash, many retreat into inherited identities: religious, cultural, tribal. Others seek to evangelise or defend what they perceive as under siege. Both are, in different ways, responses to fear. And fear is the antithesis of the mystical.
The tragedy of modernity is not that we have lost access to mystical states, but that we have drowned out the conditions that allow them to emerge: stillness, silence, inwardness, self-questioning. Our age encourages noise over nuance, spectacle over substance, assertion over inquiry. And yet, beneath the surface, the longing persists – a longing not for more, but for meaning. Not for certainty, but for truth. Not for belonging, but for being.
Perhaps the role of art, philosophy, and contemplative inquiry today is not to offer answers, but to keep this longing alive. Not to lead people toward yet another ideology, but to help them hear what remains unsaid – the quiet call of the real.
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An ordinary life 
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