A million miles in the sky, the stars, my ancestors, they talk story with me, cradling my existence into a blissful mourning.
Morning is near, this night has lasted half a day, amongst the clouds. Severed from the Earth below by a reflected sea, it’s me and my dreams.
I used to wonder why I always struggled so severely with jet-lag, and now I know. Sowing seeds of the universe trickle into my mind, they find place and pace into fully formed constructions of vapour, pour the memories of a wing flap back to the whenua; the land beneath.
I can never sleep on planes because my mind loses all sense of the hardened continuation of concrete feelings. In the sky I am nowhere, and yet everywhere.
On this night of a thousand lives already lived, I thought through the circled web of whakapapa. To me, whakapapa is the universe’s map, where I am myself and every other thing imaginable, intermingled and singing songs of peaceful manoeuvring.
I am a spiritual warrior, my battle cry a yearning to alms, the forms of healing forces that surrender to a selfless self, all materials and senses sprinkled like sugar through fields of blue, green and yellow.
I await the shimmered rays of the sun, where after the darkness has burned away all aspects of sorrow, sadness and tears, my new day has begun.
I cannot wait till this hurtling molten tube of metal arrives me at my home. I feel incredible.