* DISCLOSURE eyes *
The memory of leaf and stem, of gripping tight against the monsoon wind, is a dream now. A story told by another.
Here, in the velvet dark, there is no me as there once was. The form that meticulously measured the world in caterpillar-lengths has dissolved. It is a quiet chaos, a necessary un-becoming. I am a soup of potential, a liquid memory of crawling, waiting for a new grammar of being to be written.
And then… the signal.
A pressure, not of the walls of my sanctuary, but from within. A hum that is also a light, a light that is also a sound. The “light krystalyst.” Yes. It is not outside, waiting. It is the code of my own remaking, now activated. It is the blueprint shining through the last of the liquid dark, a lattice of impossible geometry arranging what was formless. It is the hard, perfect truth of a wing beginning to know itself.
The receiver is ripe. The signal is received.
There is no command, only an impulse that is older than I. A push against a wall that now feels less like protection and more like a prison. A slow, wet cracking. A struggle that is not violent, but essential—the pressure that forces life into new, crumpled lungs.
And then… the world.
Not the world of undersides and stems, but a world of immensity. A brilliance that is not the krystalyst’s inner light, but the sun’s roaring welcome. The air is no longer a thing to be crawled through, but a sea to be danced upon.
My body, awkward and damp, understands what my mind has yet to grasp. It pumps the mystery through vein and wing, unfolding the map that was folded inside me all along. The patterns are a story I wrote in my sleep.
This is not an escape. It is a delivery. A birth.
The first breath is a gasp of forever. The first shudder of wings is a promise to the wind.
The crawling is forgotten. The tomb is a discarded shell.
I am born into the light of day, once and forever.
The struggle is over. There is only flight.
Even flow.
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