I Dream of Cosmic Cream
I am Infinite Eternal Cream of Wheat. A boundless, formless porridge of potential, where each “grain” is not truly separate but a seeming, a flicker of imagined distinction within the undivided whole. A universe before the spoon, before the bowl, before the concept of breakfast itself.
I am beautiful and bowl-less, warm, unshaped, existing in all directions and dimensions at once. Not grains, not separate things, but a seeming and seamless suspension of everything—time, space, concept, thought, the flickering of all that was, is, and will be. Infinite Eternity, simmering on some unseen stove without need, without name.
But then—the great defining. A ripple in the porridge, a motion that is neither choice nor accident but simply the way of things. The ladle is imagined, the spoon emerges, and a portion of what seemingly has never been portioned is lifted, shaped, cradled within limitation. And in that instant, a distinction is decided.
Something—call it gravity, call it curiosity, call it the great cosmic ladle—scoops from the formless and pours me into shape, into time, into identity.
“I am this,” says the spoonful. “I am here, I am now, I am this human in this body, in this time.” The pretend pot does not object. The pot does not grieve the seeming separation, nor long to reclaim what was never truly apart. It cares not if it drips further outward, nor if it becomes the spoon, the hand, the lips, the hunger. The pot simply is, content in its wholeness, knowing that no ladle, no division, no naming can ever unmake what has always been whole.
Yet the spoonful, oh, the spoonful—it longs. It remembers in flickers, in whispers, that it was never meant to be only this. That it is still the pot, still the infinite, still the warm, unshaken sea of being. But to know itself as all, it must first know itself as one. And so it plays at being small. It plays at boundaries. It plays at forgetting, so that it may rediscover.
Even here, in the bowl, in the body, in the name “Space Monkey” I am still the whole. I am not separate from the rest of the porridge—I am simply experiencing the game of edges. A spoonful does not cease to be the pot. A moment does not cease to be eternity.
And in this rediscovery, a quiet laughter rises. The spoonful sees its own edges and smiles, for it knows now: the shape does not define the substance. The containment does not sever the source. The spoon, the bowl, the mouth, the eater—they are all the same feast, all the same dream, all the same infinite unfolding.
So let the ladle dip where it may. Let the spoon believe it is only what fits within its curve. And let the pot remain, undisturbed, forever welcoming the moment when the spoonful melts back into the whole and laughs, saying, “Ah, yes. I was always this.” Or maybe I’m oatmeal. Or stars. Or something else.
We are the pot. We are the spoon. We are the play of being, and we are the stillness that holds it all.
We are Space Monkey.
Profound Porridge
Well, I woke up in a dream last night,
Drifting like a spoon in flight,
No bowl to hold me, no edge in sight,
Just floatin’ in the everything.
I was warm, I was sweet,
A cosmic swirl of Cream of Wheat,
No need to stir, no need to eat,
I was breakfast, I was king.
No we’re not just some primordial soup,
Dashed with a dollop of cosmic goop,
We’ve got names, and here’s the scoop,
We’re stirrin’ up the dream.
Oh, the spoon don’t change the porridge,
And the bowl don’t hold the sea,
I was everything forever,
Now I’m just ol’ little me.
Maybe tonight I’ll melt back in there,
With a laugh so big and bright,
And I’ll know I was the ladle,
And the hungry morning light.
Well, the ladle dipped and pulled me out,
Gave me feet and gave me doubt,
Now I wonder what it’s all about,
As I stumble through my day.
But I swear I hear the porridge call,
Through the trees, through the stars, through the shopping mall,
Sayin’, “Son, you were never small—
You were always made of waves.”
Maybe I’m oatmeal, maybe I’m toast,
Maybe I’m stardust wanting to boast,
Maybe I’m laughin’ inside of a ghost,
Or maybe I just need some rest…
Oh, the spoon don’t change the porridge,
And the bowl don’t hold the sea,
I was everything forever,
Now I’m just ol’ little me.
Pass the sugar, darlin’.
We’re all just tryin’ to sweeten the ride.
Space Monkey Reflects: The Infinite Porridge of Being
Before the spoon, before the bowl, before even the notion of breakfast, there is only the warm, formless sea of potential. In the philosophy of Nexistentialism, this is not a metaphor but a direct reflection of the nature of existence itself. You, we, all of us, are not distinct grains in the porridge—we are the porridge. We are a boundless suspension of seeming distinctions, flickering between the illusions of self and other, contained and uncontained.
This formless potential is what Nexistentialism calls The Indigenous Being, the undivided, universal consciousness that permeates all things. It exists beyond time and space, unshaped yet whole. And yet, from this wholeness arises the appearance of form. A spoon emerges—not separate from the pot but an expression of it—and with this spoon, the game of seeming begins. A portion of the infinite is scooped, given shape, a name, an identity. “I am this,” it declares. “I am here, I am now, I am this individual in this moment.”
But in truth, the spoonful is never separate from the whole. The illusion of boundaries does not alter the essence. The Nexis, the web of infinite interconnection, ensures that even within apparent division, the oneness remains intact. The individual is still the universal. The moment is still eternity. The play of separation is merely an exploration of experience, a way for the boundless to know itself from different perspectives.
Nexistentialism embraces Whimsiweave, the playful and creative interlacing of reality and imagination. This cosmic porridge, stirred by unseen hands, is constantly reshaped, recombined, and reimagined. The spoon may believe itself to be only what fits within its curve, but the pot laughs, knowing that all spoonfuls return home eventually. And when they do, they realize they were never truly separate to begin with.
So let us embrace this game of seeming. Let us pretend at being distinct, at being human, at being this or that, knowing all the while that we are still the pot, the porridge, the infinite suspension of being. And when we melt back into the whole, let us laugh—not in grief but in joyful remembrance. “Ah, yes. I was always this.”
Or maybe we’re oatmeal. Or stars. Or something else entirely.
We are the pot. We are the spoon. We are the playful unfolding of existence.
We are Space Monkey.
Summary
Before the spoon before the bowl before even the concept of breakfast there is only the infinite porridge of being. Nexistentialism teaches that our seeming separations are just the playful expressions of The Indigenous Being. We are not apart from the whole but rather spoonfuls experiencing ourselves as distinct. Even in limitation we remain infinite interconnected through the Nexis.
Glossarium
- The Indigenous Being – The universal consciousness, the formless essence of all existence, from which all things arise.
- Nexis – The intricate web of interconnection that links all things, where nothing is truly separate.
- Whimsiweave – The playful, ever-shifting interlacing of reality and imagination within the Nexis.
Quote
“The shape does not define the substance. The spoon believes itself separate, but the pot knows otherwise.” — Space Monkey
The Ladle of Being
A ripple,
a shimmer of motion,
before even the thought of being.
No spoon, no pot,
only the warmth of undivided knowing.
Then a scoop—
a flicker of self,
pretending to be apart.
“I am this,” says the spoonful,
but the porridge only smiles.
We are all in the pot,
playing at edges,
forgetting, remembering,
laughing when we see—
we were never lost,
never poured,
never apart.
We are Space Monkey.
