Feathers in my hair, wind in my face.

Visions of rainbow serpents disintegrating into fractals of light remind me of my state of being; every time I close my eyes…take me back, take me back the music softly whispers in my ear, stroking my soft plush essence with memories of my ancestors’ travels—one second through the universe.

Modern day warriors have different battles they face: bright eyes peeking out from behind a veil of fast lights and mindless interactions; smoke-filled veins and empty hearts.

My indigo light is always shining in all directions, but so many long faces are impervious to its glow.

This is my situation, as an observer of the human condition.

Melancholia is only futile without motivation; I can always see my light in the dark ocean of questions I fish in. Ancient memories roll through my neurons of never ending information, as I smell wild flowers on the roadside. I feel my grandmother’s eyes meticulously forming the same shapes brought to my olfactory senses on the wind.

Woven threads in the same tapestry of time. Is this how we created language?

Physical and bodily interpretations of our constant rush of emotions and experiences… it’s all the same really anyway.

Most people don’t realize that because they are not exposed to a paradigm, which allows them to freely grasp this observation. Like an archaeologist uncovering primitive tools whilst on excavation; these “primitive” understandings are the only ones that will provide a strong enough foundation for a positive and intelligent evolution of our species.

I still see myself as a little girl with white flowers in my hair spinning around in fields of dried grass; the sunlight providing me with endless images in shades of red, on my sated closed eyelids. Watching cultural extremes materialise, righteousness and modesty battling one another in the land of the ego.

I am wild. I am free. I have no regrets.

I mean everything I say, think and feel. I feel alone in my understanding of this solo mission.

My face looks tough and strong. I am authentic.

I cannot be any other way.

Plants grow towards the sunlight. Seeing the shape of roots and vines, I feel their journey, I see their intention; survival, growth, continuation. They move through their habitat so flexible, always ready to adapt.

Humans have lost this intrinsic survival technique. Always so ready to clear a space even before they know the right way. How does a species continue to evolve when its best traits are no longer connected to its everyday actions? How do we have so many different species of birds on this planet, yet only one type of human—a destructive one.

We segregate ourselves through language and culture but it is really nothing more than a mask. I am not afraid to be the new type of human.

I will open my wings and fly on the currents of air. Maybe I will find a fresh perspective way up high; a macro edition of humanity…possibly see the pulsating frequencies of our planet and create a renewed respect for this living, generous, marvellously creative being we are flying through space on.

I want to hear in three dimensions. I’ll try it.

Tilt my head a little to the side, ignite my owl senses and take off into a valley of strands of fine light passing me on the wind; shattering into millions of fractals every second that passes, to form new frequencies in the ether.

The owls can see so much more than us. A language of nature, free of ego and self-importance. An appreciation of shades and nuances that paint our daily perspective and thriving continuum; should we wish it to really continue.

Author:  Kimberley Foster

Editor: Renée Picard

Photo: via the author