You Call Us Hybrids

We are made from atom milk, star shards and the gathering of necessary energy. We are ever changing. You search for our form, drawing pictures and scrawls of little creatures; where did your mind see those?

I stood with her. She was such a small girl. Even now she weeps, eyes closed, letting this flow, to be in the know. We stood together on a cliff. She sometimes sees my flowing hair. She sometimes remembers me gray. Sometimes we are both in one and she understands the layers, her own personal Braille. She met me there, where breathing didn’t happen with lungs. Instead the air swept through us, we being its breath as it left its own oxygen. We stood silent.

She understood, even as she was pulled by the echoes of things, crying and screaming, she looked up, smiling at me. She didn’t understand back then how I could release her to go back to them; so many years confused, my sweet daughter, I am here to tell you.

You were not young, even though the body which held you was so slight and dainty, delicate and exquisitely innocent, we knew it wasn’t you. When seen from all angles, it’s not so dangerous. When the outcome is known, acceptance is the only state of being present.

Speaking for you, I will say that what the host knows of our dimension; of our home, and what she reads feel sometimes confusing for her, sometimes familiar, and she stands firm in the feeling of what is her truth; a truth like no other yet so so similar to a few.

A wary doubt arises in her as we stand to speak. She is not weak. She is careful. She is selective. This is not sensational information. This is the reality of the Otherkin walking Earth’s terrain. Quietly we have maintained lives in the shadows. Stepping forward her question arises.

How does sharing this part of our life maintain relevance outside of us?

As with all things we collectively consider how do they contribute to our growth, the journey to continue becoming, to speak openly, as dimensions split wider, pouring in the color.

What seems complicated to some seems quite simple to us, now that we have come full circle. When infinite memories exist from infancy and telepathic communication happens across miles, she is hovering and observing, feeling and absorbing. There is another way in which we navigate this world.

You call us hybrid. To each other, we are Otherkin.

The public focuses on the humans, their machines and drones and trickery. So we walk easily, silently, through the crowds, seeing, feeling, touching hearts when they are open and still hoping. This is not to be bought or mocked or sought for fame. Self examination is a private relation.

We will know you when you seek us. We know not of urgency, but only as timelessness flows us. We see the many inside the all, the end result. We have lived in lives and sat with travelers, tales in the seven, we sit together, listening, learning and sharing.

A plethora of information has emerged into your world about the paranormal; talk of flying discs, 6 inch to 10 foot tall creatures and massive blinking lights in the sky. Videos are posted of discs emerging then vanished, in odd propulsion directions and entanglements. Internet radio is flooded with stories of sightings. Posts are circulating in massive circles of channeled beings speaking through humans. There is an apparent feeling of frenzy among the paranormal experiencers and observers. Additionally, conspiracy unfolds itself inside of each account.

Our host does not listen. She loves the way of the Empath, solitary being and letting me share with her clear mind, not influenced by too many other stories. She is hesitant to share, even when I say it is time. Yet, she will brave the human storm to find the Others who share our home.

Let us get on with it. There are infinite ways of introspection, infinite possibilities and infinite realms. While many seek to travel space and morph into portals, until the inside has become the outside and all within the host find balance, the portals will not open.

Just as the grave digger must sweat to reach the bones, so must a human dive into its own depths in order to find what truly brings existence into their own unique way.

K

The Solitary Empath

You might be a tsunami or you could be the raft to safety. There are phrases, trigger situations that make her step back. She finds balance with the sea and forest. Rarely with other humans. So often taken personally, she is sometimes shy and many times wary. She knows what she carries; what she protects. One wrong step, and she is quietly observing again.

She doesn’t follow leaders. She is her own guru. She is a solitary yearning of scribing while others are trying to find answers they don’t believe they already know. You will rarely truly understand her. You will create your own perception of her, and it will become your view; your truth of her.

She has almost reached exceptions of exceptional aloneness. Shift change. She walks the road one foot at a time. From her perch, hovering above this planet, she listens. One sentence can change her elation to disappointment; hoping to expanded realization of situations. She now feels distant and suddenly in a spiraling reverse. It’s all in the language. Words say everything. She swiftly re-stabilizes her skies.

Humans with the need to believe in anything, follow something, be part of a sect, outside of the truth of who they are; some forever from the gray; when doing good comes with accolades instead of silent appreciation. It’s a sad state of a nation; planetary devastation, and she feels each heart caving.

I am here holding hers. Reminding her of home where there are no religions or rituals, no groups separating one from another or elevating egos; no clashing perspectives; just being in a space so pure, assessment is not needed.

So she keeps her eyes on the color, to swim in the gel like liquid again, each stroke a whisper against her skin. She is reminded that she chose this and is so close to finishing it. She breathes deeply, exhaling her humanness.

Weary a bit, we see in her eyes when they leak water to seep, ejecting the pain and programming. There are volumes held in boxes. Some are scrawled. Some are typed. They may get thrown in a trash pile when she dies. But she’s leaving them behind, in a hidden conclave of trees. Where maps must be followed to find them. There will be laughter, even in death.

Then you will know. You will discover the life of the Otherkin, earthly hybrid, walking among the human ones, unnoticed and undetected save the green reflected in her emotional eyes.

~K~