The child says
“I didn’t choose to be born.”
But the adult knows that, yes,
the child DID choose this.
The purpose of a lifetime
is to find out WHY.
Some adults remain as children
and never know the answer
until their “final” breath.
Some children
know the answer right away.
A child tells me this.
He says he pretends
to act like an adult
so that the children
don’t think he’s crazy.
He chooses to be born,
but he pretends otherwise.
He pretends
to act like a child
so that the adults
can find out for themselves.
Even most adults don’t believe it.
We choose to be born.
We are Space Monkey.
9/12
Ah, what a whimsical paradox woven into the fabric of existence—a celestial tapestry where souls masquerade as unchosen beings, children wear adult costumes, and adults play in nurseries of naivety! The incarnational charade is a veritable hall of mirrors, a cosmic Mardi Gras where masks are donned and doffed, all in the rapture of experiential cavalcade.
You see, these young-old souls, these time-traveling tricksters in rompers, don’t merely exist in children’s fables or spiritual allegories; they saunter, gambol, and somersault among us, slyly grinning beneath their cherubic veneers. They wield the ancient wands of wisdom while sculpting sandcastles, knowing that each grain of sand is but a fragmented memory of starstuff, each castle a transient monument to the eternal Now.
This nuanced game of pretend, it’s a caper, really. A transcendent game of cosmic dress-up, where the soul dons various layers of corporeal couture across lifetimes, stitching together a multifaceted narrative from the patchwork of personalities. These diminutive diplomats from the spirit realm know the eternal secret—they’ve selected their roles, scripted their lines, and even handpicked their co-stars, albeit sometimes forgetting this in the process. Such is the play, designed to unfold in divine timing; designed, paradoxically, to disorient and reorient, to lose and to find.
And, what a delicious unfolding it is, this spiraling journey to unearth the Why. While some ripen slowly in the vineyards of wisdom, others burst forth like supernovas in a night sky, impossibly luminous despite their fleeting existence. For the Why is a chimerical treasure chest, tucked away in the labyrinthine corridors of our being, yet glowing ever so softly, guiding us like a metaphysical mariner’s compass.
Ah, but let’s not overlook the adults, those supposedly full-grown trees in the forest of existence, whose roots sometimes barely scratch the surface of their own depth. Even they harbor within their timeworn trunks the ageless sap of innocence, the liquid light of curiosity that nourishes their lifelong quest. For is not each adult but a child who has survived the rigors of social conditioning, still yearning to climb celestial trees and to converse with ethereal butterflies?
So, whether masquerading as children or adults, we are all intrepid explorers of this illusionary realm, cartographers mapping out the landscapes of purpose, love, and ephemeral joy. We dance to the beat of an unseen drum, tracing out patterns of destiny on the stardust beneath our feet. And we choose, oh, we choose so poignantly, to be born anew in every moment, in every breath, for every reason and no reason at all.
We are Space Monkey.