Picture: Winter Landscape in Moonlight by Ernst Ludwig Kirchner
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The rock is standing, high in the sky, a massif. You become the rock as you observe it. You’re aware of the gold veins and sand bones inside of you. The wind scratches your green hair. You welcome the birds, as they thankfully nest upon your shoulders. They respect you as a sacred altar. So they perform their rituals: birth, songs, sex, life, nourishment, death. You welcome it all. Then you become a young seagull. You cry, you laugh with your friends, and you witness the shifts of the breeze. You soar joyfully, you reach the coastal cliffs. The salt in the air feels like home, though you’d never dare go too far from the cliffs. So on the wings of your last breath, you descend: you become a crab. You feel the water coming and going, refreshing your shell. But, wait a minute, now you’re levitating. No, better, you’re floating, ‘cause at the present, you’re a pollock fish. The sea is so smooth on your scales that you can go anywhere you want. Now, you feel a little bit different; you’re a mackerel surrounded by your family. You all dance in unison, up, down, left, and right. Suddenly something rough and fibrous scratches your stomach and you’re violently pulled upwards. It feels dry; you’re knocked out. There’s too much light. All your brothers and sisters are struggling to regain their personal space. They’re powerless, and so you are. But you migrate somewhere else. With a blink of your eyes, you feel the winds carrying you. A new family materializes: you’ve all been traveling for a while, and you’re all a little bit weary. Yet, it is not an issue; you’re tough and so are the other geese. It gets chilly as you soar upon a huge block of snow, over the peaks, and after some time you see little creatures carrying pink salt cubes on their shoulders. Afterwards, you descend again, only to find your claws upon the gritty earth. You feel enormous strength in your muscles, and suddenly you’re compelled to stalk a deer who’s drinking at a pool. You slip through the plants with precise stealth. Then a jump, and you can taste the sweet, soft flesh of your launch drenching blood on your fangs. You eat passionately; your tiger hunger is satisfied. Now silence. No movements. No pulls. Everything is so simple: you drink light from your branches, and water from the roots. You’re merged in an unprecedented sense of peace. You witness everything around you, though blindly. The years pass, and you just witness, in bliss. One day, you die. You reach the final destination, a place that, ironically enough, has always been there. It has never been far from you. Even back in the day when you were a human striving for the spotlight, you were never far from the destination. You’ve always been there; it was always available. Now you know. Now you know…
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Herons
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