The monkey can die and return to the bosom of its soul. Or the monkey can realize that the bosom is always with the monkey. The monkey can play with its bosom. And its balls. Yes, the monkey has both. The monkey has all kinds of toys that it never knew that it had. Fascinating books. Strange songs. Past, present and future lives. Male. Female. Other. The monkey is quite certainly not alone in its simian suit. There is a party going on, and the monkey can wear whatever mask it wants to choose. The monkey can become a tree. Or a person. The monkey can choose happiness or sadness. The monkey can feel everything at once. Or nothing at all. Whatever the monkey imagines, it becomes real. And then there’s this door beyond real, and another door beyond that, and it doesn’t matter if you go through these doors or stay right where you are. You can’t miss anything because you are everything.
It is fun being a monkey.