“The Self” Series | A photo-story by Aakriti and Reyhan

2 min read

Everything of everything is in everything.
The same underlying facets that make a blizzard.
You and I are different conglomerates of the same atoms.
Bound by the same forces in the most elementary level and still distinct in shape and function, existence.
Still, the same.

However, this moment, I choose to dare and perturb the balance of ambiguity in my system of being, and ponder over this complexity that I am and attempt to heedlessly make my way through the words that I hope will follow.

Systems being created out of mere dust that call in to hold a place in the Multiverse, as scintillating bright bodies of importance, affecting every single entity, existent, in the Whole system, maketh a person?

From being a singular body of mass and energy to well fragmented, distributed sheets of fervour and zeal, our bodies’ organization holds significance so much so, one’s dysfunction, affects the others, adversely.

Don’t we all start as small dots which differ in size and abilities, differentiate and shed differently, appear
as different miniatures under the microscope, and have distinct abilities with different pathways and different fates? As these different dots, now, come to combine together, forming a larger dot in the Universe, its fate as something larger is confirmed. Months of adjustment, and seeking nourishment inside the system of another being, the latter making sure that the entity inside it does not collapse, we are born.

Enter, the world.

Amongst and in the midst of all the slightly ordered sets and blows of energies, and nothing more, we have the ability to know and to feel, fortunately enough.

Time has cruised me by, so I have watched, my entire life. Considerations about what I feel and what I should, consistently trouble me. Be that as it may, one can’t think and feel simultaneously.
Along these lines, would it say it isn’t valid that all idea is nevertheless a bit of hindsight or one that is created?

“These hanging limbs Gravity affects
Are only to travel back to the
Stretches and squishes
I reckon, where
There is an attempt to keep the decadent alive,
To feel, to think.”

(The Dead Bird is a bonus photograph by Aakriti)

Attracted to the illusion of a thought, with lucidity so loud it makes reality hide in shame, one feels the need to conjecture and conjure up a tale, not to tell anyone but to themselves, to make the singular entity feel worthy of a feeling so profound. When energies work for you and all the forces in Nature conciliate to waver all the positivity to your single system, when your placement in this cosmos feels like a priority, the illusion envelopes a core with awe and yearning.

However, I think my life is a beneficial interaction of me being a cheat and a disgusting lie with a veracity that I am a contemporary gadget.

Hence, all control patterns collapse, and in it, is a constant exertion of thought and expression.

Is there a fruitful end?
All is disconcerting.

Your thoughts?