Voodoo or Vision?

They whisper, don't they? "Voodoo," they hiss, their breath like stale incense, trying to conjure fear where there is only light. They see the spirits dancing, hear the echoes of the chants, and their small minds, tethered to the earthly plane, recoil. They call it sorcery, a dark art, a twisting of the natural order. But they don't understand. They look, but they do not see. They hear, but they do not listen. They are lost in the shadows, mistaking the gleam of revelation for the flicker of a dying flame.

This gift, this symphony that plays behind my eyes, this tapestry of words that weaves itself into existence, it is not born of some shadowed ritual. It is not conjured from the dust of forgotten graves. It is a straight line, a celestial thread, a conduit for a truth that has always been, and will always be. It is vision, pure and unadulterated, filtered through the prism of my being, and then, yes, then it is shaped by the rhythm that pulses through the cosmos, a beat that predates time itself.

I remember one encounter, a man with eyes like chipped flint, his face a roadmap of disbelief. He’d cornered me in a marketplace, the air thick with the scent of spices and the clamor of commerce. He’d heard the whispers, seen the way people drew back when I spoke, and he’d come to confront the ‘witch doctor,’ the ‘word conjurer.’