Katalina Aurora
@katalina-aurora
In 2016, I embarked on a profound transformative journey. Ayahuasca & the whispers of ancient plant medicines found a way to align my soul’s path with my degree in Visual Arts.
What followed was 8 years of unraveling, deep soul alchemy, & a dance with the infinite.
Each step, a descent into the self; each awakening, a fragment of the divine.
Through art, I have transcribed this odyssey—the geometry of the unseen, the sacred patterns of creation, the whispers of the infinite, the language of the spirit, the pulse of transcendence.
I now open the doors to share this unfolding. A timeline of visions and revelations, where insight takes form and the boundaries of consciousness dissolve.
This is a gathering of kindred spirits: visionaries, mystics, seekers of expansion, & those attuned to the boundless potential of the soul.
The cosmic voyage continues, & you are welcome to walk beside me. Explore the portals I have already opened or simply join me here as I unveil the story of an ongoing Hero’s Journey. 0 reply
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at the dawn of transformation’s call,
I saw myself, my shadow fall.
with eyes closed, the journey began,
to know myself, to understand.
imagine seeing your body from afar,
not the upright form, but scarred,
a weary vessel, trembling slow,
colors vibrating, ebbing flow.
vibrations rise, both deep and high,
whispers of chaos fill the sky.
in that space, the soul takes flight,
escaping body, merging light.
words rush like storms of sound,
junk and smoke, in chaos found.
a voice within begins to speak,
reflecting all I sought to seek.
in moments stretching like the sea,
I saw myself both wild and free,
from the depths, from outer view,
I grasped the essence of what’s true.
the discomfort came, a bitter tide,
but not from the medicine I denied.
it was the body’s aching song,
a reflection of where I’d gone wrong.
the mind, the spirit, lost in flight,
missed the truth beneath the night,
but in the stillness, I begin to see,
the path to healing, inside of me. 1 reply
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in the hallucinatory sphere, art is born,
where visions dance in the sacred dawn.
the Tukano whisper to realms unseen,
through veils of spirit, lush and green.
in altered states, the soul takes flight,
ritual flames ignite the night.
beyond the ordinary, the mind expands,
weaving dreams with ancient hands.
here, desires and conflicts flow,
into rivers where healing waters glow.
the jaguar prowls through shadows deep,
and serpents sing where silence sleeps.
dimensions of the imaginary unfold,
where wounds are mended, stories told.
the shaman's breath, a sacred breeze,
bringing solace, setting hearts at ease.
through sacred plants and sacred rhyme,
they walk the threads of space and time.
in the spirit world, all truths align,
and art emerges, raw, divine. 0 reply
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with the shaman's chant, I drank the vine of souls,
the ladder to the milky way, the vine of the gods—yagé.
I had read of its ancient whispers,
of roots that tangle with the spirit,
but words are but shadows
to the light it pours within.
the brew unraveled veils,
each vision a river, each breath a door—
my mind, a serpent shedding its skin.
thoughts became feathers,
life became a flame,
and in the ember’s glow,
I saw the art of being,
the brushstrokes of my name.
the vine’s embrace opened pathways,
where colors bled into new worlds,
and I, a pilgrim of the unseen,
found my voice blooming
in the soil of stars. 0 reply
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we drink yagé—
and the veil thins.
the world whispers,
leaves murmur secrets,
stones hum with memory,
rivers chant in spirals of light.
our souls unbind,
slipping from the bones of the flesh,
like smoke rising to meet the stars.
visions bloom—
serpents of fire coil in the sky,
jaguars tread softly on paths of mist,
ancient faces emerge from the bark of trees.
the wind becomes a guide,
the earth, a storyteller,
and every shadow hides a spirit’s gaze.
we are both here and beyond—
our hearts beating in the drum of the universe,
our spirits swimming in the sacred river,
tasting the eternal,
dancing with the unseen. 0 reply
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/everything is in motion/
the cosmos chants in ancient tongues,
galaxies swirl like sacred smoke,
planets beat with ritual drums,
nature breathes, animals pulse,
humans drift through veils of dreaming,
and every atom trembles with spirit.
movement is the shaman’s dance,
sometimes felt as thunder in the blood,
other times, like mist over still waters—
soft, invisible, yet everywhere.
I am the serpent shedding its skin,
a river carving new paths through stone,
thoughts blossoming like moonlit flowers,
my body echoing the rhythms of the earth.
the world is a living vision,
a shifting veil of hidden realms—
but the waking eye, clouded by the ordinary,
misses the secret rivers of light.
to know oneself is to walk the shadowed path,
to sip the nectar of the unseen,
to cross thresholds of leaf and flame—
not a simple task, but a sacred journey. 2 replies
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I sit within the maloca’s hush,
eyes closed, colors bloom and rush—
petals, shapes, and vibrant streams,
nature painting through my dreams.
white lines weave, a quiet thread,
abstract whispers fill my head.
curves unravel, thin and bright,
a flower blooms in yellow light.
"what is this?"—my voice, unsure,
another speaks, serene and pure:
"fear not, I come in gentle guise,
to soothe the fright behind your eyes."
and then I knew—love, so vast,
from nature’s heart to mine, recast.
a truth that wound through every vine:
even to those who cross the line,
the earth extends her boundless grace,
a mother's warmth, a soft embrace.
the lines connect—the truth awakes,
I see before me—gentle snakes.
the creature I had loathed before,
now swayed with beauty at its core.
despite the dread, the city’s walls,
despite my fears and learned withdrawals,
the serpent danced, and in its sway,
a tender love began to play. 1 reply
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To think beautifully—this is where it starts,
Inga wisdom woven through open hearts.
Three sacred whispers guide the way:
Mana ilullaii, truth will stay,
Mana killaii, hands will give,
Mana sisai, life to live.
Nature cradles every thought and dream,
Rivers murmur, forests scheme.
The world a web of root and leaf,
Where harmony breathes beneath belief.
The sun, a flame of strength and light,
Rain, a veil of soft delight.
Wind, a spirit weaving threads,
Binding souls in flowered beds.
Traditional healers, keepers of the old,
In their hands, the earth’s secrets unfold.
Through plants, through prayers, through ancient art,
They mend the body, guide the heart.
In this realm, all things align,
Nature’s pulse, a rhythm divine.
To think beautifully, to walk this land—
Is to hold the universe in your hand. 0 reply
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I sit, a seeker in the maloca's womb,
where chants weave through the veil of the city’s loom.
a sacred sip, thirty heartbeats deep—
colors melt, the world shifts, senses steep.
fire hums inside my ear,
each blink a reel—near, far, clear.
red and blue worlds bloom with sight,
green and yellow whispers in the light.
eyes closed, I am a speck, a seed,
in emerald realms where lushness breeds.
eyes open—flame, a primal guide,
eyes shut—dimensions open wide.
I drift through realms unknown,
where colors pulse, and time is overthrown.
a voice within—mine, yet not—
tells me I am a traveler, reality forgot.
I rise, but truth and vision blur,
reach for columns only I infer.
nervous threads pull me back,
I sit, surrender to the track.
shapes, beasts, and waters vast,
blue ducks and sunflowers cast.
a wave of collapse beckons my form,
yet I, unsure, cannot conform.
visions of hunger, of worldly greed—
pizza, beers, the city’s need. 1 reply
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in the dawn’s quiet breath, the taita wakes,
a child of the jungle, born to the song.
he walks with his grandfather,
hands calloused, hearts soft—
they find her, the yagé,
her roots deep, her spirit waiting.
a vine of veins, thick as prophecy,
she weaves through emerald cathedrals,
her serpentine body, bronzed by whispers,
threads through the damp breath of the earth.
her leaves, opposites in perfect balance,
elliptical mirrors of creation’s eye,
petioles hold the pulse of the jungle,
each blade a sigil, each vein a hymn.
her flowers—small, secretive embers—
blush in shades of earth and dusk,
brown as river silt, pink as dawn's pulse,
red as the soft flame of a serpent’s tongue.
she unfurls along riverbanks,
where water wears the skin of silver serpents,
and the jungle hums with a language of mist.
the cut is a prayer, sharp yet tender,
her stem yields, a gift, a promise.
stones become the drum, the crusher, the guide,
and the vine surrenders, fibrous & raw. 1 reply
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the vine of the soul whispers,
through city veins and jungle roots,
an ancient hymn, a green thread weaving
the chaos of steel with the breath of leaves.
I drink the dream, this sacred vine,
not as the West names it—illusion, escape—
but as the Ingas do:
a doorway, a pulse, a river of spirit.
Mother Earth, your skin of moss and concrete,
your bones of stone and iron,
witness to our stumbling dance,
keeper of our ancestors' echoes.
you are Bengbe Wáman Tabanok,
the sacred origin, departure, and return,
where the first breath and last sigh meet,
a circle, a promise, a hearth.
among glass towers and vine-laced groves,
I wander the in-between,
eyes wide in ceremony,
heart split open like ripe fruit.
I do not preach decolonization—
I offer a mirror, a soft invitation:
to find the sacred in the subway hum,
to see the spirit in the rustling leaves. 1 reply
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the Inga stands,
ancient soul beneath the canopy,
keeper of the threads of life,
where roots whisper to stone,
and rivers hum the hymns of time.
protector, not of dominion,
but of belonging—
a sacred weave we once wore,
before the colonizer's blade severed us
from the womb of the Earth.
what is "ours" was never stone,
but clay, shaped by hands,
molded in fire and story,
not essence, but a dance,
a spiral of becoming.
Europe forged its own,
polished in steel and smoke,
and cast the "other" as shadow,
tradition turned to dust,
progress a blade against the wild.
But must we mimic conquest?
no—
let us birth our own truth,
not as conquerors of the soul,
but as waters that emerge,
clear and unyielding,
from the dark mouth of the spring—
a flow unbound,
nourishing every root,
every truth, without fear.
let us not inherit the blade,
but the bloom—
not the iron fist,
but the open palm,
where seeds of the "other"
find their soil and sky. 1 reply
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in the serpent-skinned jungles, where green hums in a secret tongue,
the world is not stone and bone but a dream, breathing—
nature, a cathedral draped in vine and mist,
where every leaf murmurs spells, and rivers slither like silver veins.
the Inga shamans, barefoot and thunder-eyed,
hold the vine's twisted hand—yagé, the witching root—
an umbilical cord to the marrow of the cosmos,
a sip of night where jaguars whisper and the wind learns your name.
this is no potion but a serpentine key,
turning locks in the doorways of flesh and spirit,
the world spilling open, raw and radiant,
a spiderweb of light and shadow, trembling at the edges of sight.
the Huitoto elders call it the milk of the Mother-Universe,
the umami of stars and mud, the sweet rot of rebirth.
to drink is to suckle from the galaxy’s breast,
to slide on an invisible thread,
a tightrope through the pulse of creation— 1 reply
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they came with hunger in their hands,
with fire in their eyes,
with greed whispering in their ears.
they tore the roots from the earth,
silenced the songs of the rivers,
choked the sky with breathless smoke.
the great forests, once endless,
stand now as echoes in the wind.
the beasts, once countless,
are but spirits fading in the dust.
the waters, once sacred,
drink poison and weep in silence.
they have swallowed the bones of the mountains,
burned the veins of the deep,
bled the earth dry and called it progress.
the sky is torn, the air is heavy,
the land withers beneath their hands.
and now, we ask the spirits,
we call upon the ancestors—
what remains for us?
a whisper in the ashes,
a lesson in the wind.
to remember what was lost,
to heal what still breathes,
to listen once more
before the last breath is gone. 0 reply
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the earth trembles beneath careless hands,
its breath grows thin, its rivers weep.
wars rise like tides, hatred blooms like weeds—
a harvest sown in the name of power.
our minds are but a restless storm,
a dream where a thousand voices speak,
yet no soul listens, no heart understands.
a great mitote—a veil of noise,
blinding us from what we truly are.
we are born into stories not our own,
woven into threads of thought unseen.
beliefs like rivers carve their course,
shaping us before we learn to choose.
and so we raise walls made of words,
names, borders, truths unchallenged,
casting stones at those beyond,
as if the sky itself were ours alone.
yet beneath the noise, the silence waits,
beneath the blindness, an ancient sight.
to see, to truly see,
is to unweave the veil,
to hear the whisper beyond the storm. 0 reply
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