In the Quiet Corners of Curiosity”

“In the Quiet Corners of Curiosity”

What am I curious about?

Ah, what a gentle question — not demanding an answer, but rather inviting a silent meandering through the corridors of the soul, like a whispering wind brushing past half-opened doors of forgotten wonder.

Curiosity, for me, is not merely a spark — it is the eternal lamp that burns, flickers, and glows in the darkest corners of existence. It is the secret chord that connects the seen and the unseen, the known and the unknowable. I am curious not just about what lies beyond the stars, but also about what breathes beneath the surface of a smile, the meaning behind silence, and the stories trapped in a grain of dust.

The Unseen Threads of Being

I am curious about the space between moments — the intangible in-betweens where time seems to hold its breath. What colours do memories wear when no one is watching? Does a tree cry when the axe forgets its father was once a seed? Do echoes ever get tired of returning?

These may seem like abstractions, but in them lies a raw, poetic truth. Curiosity, after all, is not the thirst for information — it is the longing for intimacy with life itself. It is the soul’s way of reaching out, asking the universe, “Will you let me in?”

Of Nature and the Nameless

I am curious about the stillness of stones and the murmurs of moss. What do mountain peaks whisper to the clouds at dusk? How do rivers remember their origins while dancing wildly through bends and falls?

The fragrance of a jasmine bloom, the exact moment when dawn quietly overcomes the night — these fascinate me more than the mechanics of machines. Not because the latter are unimportant, but because the former hold a magic that resists explanation.

Curiosity, to me, is spiritual. It is a form of prayer — wordless, yet intimate. Like a seeker gazing at the stars, not to map them, but to feel them.

The Pages Unturned

I am endlessly curious about books I have not yet read, languages I do not speak, and cultures I have never walked through. Not to own them — no — but to let them transform me. To feel what it means to be someone else, somewhere else, with different dreams, fears, and faiths.

The unfinished manuscript of history, the paused sentences in ancient scriptures, the blank pages of a child’s imagination — all call to me. Not to be solved, but to be embraced.

The Eternal Why

I am curious about the divine — not in a ritualistic sense, but in the wild, uncontained sense of wonder. What does the soul remember that the mind has forgotten? Where do all the unspoken prayers go? Do they fall like dew on the petals of a higher truth?

Like the sages of old, like the wide-eyed child, I sit beneath the tree of time, not demanding fruit, but watching the dance of light between its leaves.

In silent awe, I seek the skies,
With ink-stained hands and dreaming eyes.
Where time dissolves and winds confess,
I chase the shadows thought forgets.

Beneath the veil of worldly noise,
I hear the hush of deeper voice —
A song unsung, a path unseen,
Between the stars and soul’s ravine.

Oh let me never cease to ask,
To lift the veil, unlearn the mask.
For what is life, if not the art,
Of holding wonder in the heart?

Curiosity, for me, is the soft hum of the cosmos reminding us that we are both question and quest.
Let it not die in the comfort of answers. Let it bloom — eternal, fragrant, and free.

And so I walk on, not to arrive, but to awaken!