Here I can breathe easily. Here I can speak freely. Here I can feel my thoughts flow. Here I can navigate shifting rules of physics, moving through time and space without borders or boundaries. Inside can be outside, up is no longer fixed above me and all orientation is no longer predicated and held up by the fragile cardinal system. Only where there is no north can we find the courage to sink below the constraints of physical form. Only when there is no West can we dare to move our limbs beyond the temporal frame.
Electrical storms build on the horizon, quickly picking up speed, moving at the pace of insight. Discharges flood the channels with a cascade of motion and spilt ink. In a matter of seconds I can find myself carried from the ground, whirling through branches and pine needles to sit atop the forest canopy – looking out over the sea of green, floating in the musk of ancient evergreen watchmen connected with the threads of memory before time.
The storms turn and the momentum can just as easily hurtle me back down to the earth, unseating me from my ephemeral throne. Crashing through branches and nests, I am taken to the forest floor – compressed down to lie flat between the mosses and shrubs. From this humble vantage point my senses liven with the cool, moist air as the soundscape of life, death, and rebirth reverberate and refract through the rolling waves of timber.
I am a mind nomad, wandering within the landscape of my creation. Treading through dark, unvisited paths guided by the dim sparks generated from perspective. I am only a visitor here, an apparition suspended in brief observation. As I continue, I come to a clearing and gaze in wonder upon the starry expanse resting beyond the treetops. As curiosity builds, I hear the sounds of thunder in the distance, hastening upon my location as the thought crosses.
‘What if it is not I who peers out through the cloak of leaves but rather another nomad that peers through?’ The light of distant galaxies traveling as a weary sojourner to pierce the veil, stabbing star-shaped holes into the canvas and peaking through the leaves – seeking, wondering, reaching for this fleeting standpoint.
#The Writing Writer
Mind Nomad Writing 