plantmedicine

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—