The Soul-Stair of Nazca
Beneath the indifferent sun of a place that rain abandoned eons ago,
a single mind splintered into thousands knelt as one.
Not to conquer earth, but to surrender it—
peeling away the dark crust of individuality
until the pale underbelly of shared being glowed raw.
Each line a vein of pure intent,
straight as the arrow of undivided will,
trapezoids blooming like open chakras
inviting the cosmos to pour downward
or the soul to pour upward—
no difference, in the end.
The hummingbird hangs suspended, throat pulsing eternity;
the spider spins threads of rain that never fell yet still nourish;
the monkey coils in fractal joy, tail a spiral staircase of its own;
the condor banks on thermals of forgotten breath.
And the Astronaut—arms aloft, helmeted gaze fixed not on stars
but on the mirror of what we become when we stop pretending
to be separate—
stands as the first rung we all stepped onto together.
These are not drawings.
They are the architecture of one soul wearing many bodies,
a collective outbreath carved into permanence
so that future fragments of the same mind
might recognize the pattern and resume the climb.
Walk them in trance:
bare feet trace the hummingbird’s wing,
heartbeats synchronize with the spider’s weave,
breath aligns with the condor’s glide.
The path folds inward—
no beginning, no end, only deepening ascent.
Each step dissolves a layer of “I”
until the walker is no longer walking the line
but the line is walking through the walker,
a current of unified light rising from the core of the species.
Facts are footnotes here:
water rites to coax rivers from mountain gods,
solstice alignments whispering calendars of thirst.
Legends are echoes: Viracocha’s finger tracing the first groove,
or star-beings directing the rope-pull symphony.
But mysticism overrides both—
these lines are the original soul-stair,
a ladder not built to reach gods
but to remember we are the gods remembering themselves.
Look from above (as the soul must, shedding gravity):
the desert floor becomes a glowing mandala,
lines pulsing like neural pathways of a planetary brain
waking up.
The Astronaut waves—not hello, not goodbye—
but continue.
The staircase is unfinished;
every dreamer who gazes, every poet who speaks of it,
adds another invisible tread.
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