Whose voice is this?

Who speaks when I speak in love, in gratitude, in appreciation? Sometimes even in instruction? Who speaks through me when I’m showing with my body what their bodies are invited to do too?

Whose sinister snake voice wakes me up, sends my heart into a panicked thump, prodding something into place—an artificial structure to point to in case the intuition fails to arrive (as though it has ever ghosted me)?

In fact, it (the intuition) seems fearful of that structure: an unnatural oil rig constructed in the middle of the ocean of knowing. Seeing it, if I was a free creature, I too would fly off in another direction seeking a friendlier place to land—or, better yet, simply stay airborne.