I drank the coast this morning,
palms swaying like prophets
whispering secrets into the Pacific.
The sun came up slowly —
golden, hungover,
smelling faintly of eucalyptus and forgiveness.
Highway One curled around the cliffs
like a lazy serpent
remembering ancient rituals,
and every wave that crashed
felt like a drumbeat from the Amazon
echoing through Santa Cruz fog.
The ayahuasca vision rose suddenly —
a hummingbird made of neon geometry,
wings flickering in fractal Morse code.
It perched on my shoulder,
spoke in a voice made of ocean foam:
“You carry too many sunsets.
Let the night breathe.”
Redwoods towered beside me,
guardians with memories older than weather,
and I swore I saw one blink —
just once, slow, like a cosmic acknowledgment
of the weirdness I was becoming.
Colors dripped from the sky,
melting into pastel dunes
like California deciding to watercolor itself,
and somewhere between Malibu and Monterey
the universe tilted,
spilled a little light,
and told me to keep going.
I walked the shore barefoot,
waves warm as prophecy,
and every grain of sand
felt like a tiny ancestor
humming their approval.
When the vision faded,
The sun kissed the ocean
with that famous West Coast arrogance,
and I laughed —
a long, foolish, grateful sound —
because the world,
for a moment,
had made perfect psychedelic sense.