Katabatic Din

No words in the sound.
I can protect my thoughts.
Long drones with slow clashes. Deep muscle awareness.
I went to the trees long ago.
High above the plains. If you lie here and listen you can hear what sounds like the sea.
The sound of the wind rushing over the tops of peaks.
We live on a fault line.
They are all around us.
The one right beneath me has lava so close the surface the scientists are talking. The earth moves with the heaviest bass.
The earth’s core.
A small child, listening to low, rumbling drone doom, with arms-wings outstretched, turns in slow circles. He mouths screaming elegantly, silence intact. It’s so loud you can’t hear anything.
There are good arguments to play children these sounds in utero. His vision of god is that she is multiple and winged.
She feels in progressions of fifths and octaves. Pentatonic and violent protector of all wills who call.
She, the monarch, knows we are all palaces. Vast spaces.
Long views at altitude.
Wild air-pressure. Full moons ringed with ice-crystal rainbows.
I threw a can or hairspray in a fire once and the explosion was bigger than I had expected. It blew out a window. And the sound did not register because it was so loud that it deafened as it went.
I am at times tearfully grateful for heaviness in music without silly jock words and posturing.
I prefer utterances, and invocatory swells of sound. Intense can become histrionic at that line.
Summon something.
Slow, pulled, dragged, repeated, circular, looping. Wooden walls. The instruments of ships.
The blessing of cold air is to feel more, and be more abstract emotionally.
The trees don’t care, the mountains don’t care, the ice doesn’t care, why should I? So I don’t.
I don’t miss the dumb Christian/Satanic words. I am not interested in organised religion or its inverse. It is a drop in the ocean of time. Young and arrogant.
Thinks it knows its worth.
Before all that there was tree-worship. In cathedrals of energies drawn from earth and sky.
I am more interested in learning to remote view trees.
In lightening goddesses.
Some can see that auras also contain ropes around necks. They are gendered, spelling out male and female emotions in spots and darts and crawling scratches. Power flying out hands and glowing from foreheads.
Green for supple intelligence.
Currents are switched, and energies course from the place of listening—slower, harder.
All experience, really felt, is an assault. Voices cry out. Each dry tears a hole, makes a labyrinth.
Its words are like the edges of trees, electric.
Language came from the trees in the first place.
The tones of entities come—their vibrations, frequencies—from sources geophysical and psychic. Synaptic wind blows.
Churning, non-entropic.
Love without anticipated loss.
The long, bearded lichen falls from the trees only in places where the air is pure. The air is full of refracted light. Those with souls are joining with the things whose joyous god is the sun.
Heaviness. When the sound’s frequency matches the precise resonance frequency of our bodies, we can feel it. The hairs move on forearms in one-ness.