Sharp mountains piercing the sky at dawn, casting their distorted reflection across a lightly lapping lake; and I can hear the eerie sound of trumpet blasts from the peaks calling an ancient race of men to their morning rituals, sitting in the mouths of caves, their guttural mantras vibrate this reality into continued shape and existence.
In this aetheric realm I have cast myself into the body of a hawk and I fly low and fast across the water searching yet again for an essential part of myself long lost. And when I finally spot a body floating, fly closer, knowledge of a secret murder discovered, awareness that the boy is My Self, fly right up to the corpse and gaze deeply into the long dead milky eye staring out from a fish-pecked face. My wings take me away, high into the sky, filled with the knowledge that there is likely no resuscitation or resurrection possible.
I gasp back into the mundane, into my physical body, a dusty room filled with the sculpted artifacts of endlessly questing ritual-art, knowing in my bones that I traumatically died as a child yet this fleshy body shambles on, an actor on auto-pilot simulating life, work, play, completely devoid of meaning and joy, the talent and face seen by the world nothing more than willful, stubborn necromancy.