The banksia.

A striking flower.

A well of knowledge.

A mirror that reflects all the paths I’ve walked down, all the doors that I’ve opened on this journey.

My feet wander on, eyes, mouth, ears opened, soaking in the voices.

The voices that talk to me, lead me, tell me stories of old and new.

More paths are taken, more doors are opened.

My feet keep walking, surrounded by whispering voices.

The voices that murmur pieces of information, the information that glues themselves to me, forming a cover, as though I have a second skin, the sprinkles of colour that dance across my ebony page.

The sprinkles of paint, the thousands of people that crowd the world.

Watching, waiting, listening.

Straining their ears to hear the voices.

The voices that share their bountiful wisdom with us.

Explaining which paths to take, and which ones to avoid.

The voices that encourage us to tell others, show others, help others.

The voices

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