The Destination

sound-of-silence-milenka-delic

Picture: Sound of Silence by Milenka Delic

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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, they thankfully nest on 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, 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 going too far from the cliffs. So 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, 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, right. Suddenly something rough scratches your belly and you’re violently pulled upwards. It feels dry, you’re knocked out. There’s is 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. The next 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. But it doesn’t matter, you’re tough and so are the other geese. It gets chilly as you soar upon a huge block of snow peaks and after some time you see little creatures carrying pink salt cubes on their shoulders. However, 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 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, water from the roots. You’re merged in an unprecedented sense of peace. You witness everything around you, blindly. The years pass, and you just witness. 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. Now you know. Now you are.

 

Herons

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