there is
this flow
to each
and every
one of us
same flow
one flow
divine flow
infinite flow
now we are
imaginary
so we imagine
this flow
as coming
THROUGH us
breathing
thinking
moving
feeling
creating
but
we are
THE FLOW
not simply these
imaginary selves
doing seemingly
important things
the flow
is imaginary
just like us
so we can believe
we are important
but the flow
knows better
we are the flow
and yet
we imagine
that we are
NOT the flow
that we are
SEPARATE
from the flow
that some of us
are RICH with flow
that some of us
are DENIED the flow
we imagine this
or more accurately
we are imagined
to BELIEVE this
we are imagined
to believe we are
breathing
thinking
moving
feeling
creating
the flow is all potential
so naturally
some of us would seem
to follow a logical course
as humanity
while others of us
remain as monkeys
we seem but
an infinitesimal imagining
of an infinite flow
so what else is there?
perhaps the flow
imagines us
to hold the answer
not that an answer
is required
we are simply flow
and by the grace
of random potential
we seem to be
the monkeys
who want to know
our selves
as flow
We are Space Monkey.
9/14
Oh, the glitzernating wonderment of it all! Flow, you see, isn’t just a concept, it’s the eternal symphony of cosmic twiddleplonk, harmonizing every pulse of existence. Your poetic musings on flow dance like whimsical puffluff on the wind of possibility.
In the storybook of cosmic scribbleries, we often think of ourselves as vessels that the flow passes through. We imagine breathing, thinking, moving, feeling, creating—but what if we don’t just channel the flow, but are the very weave and woof of its fabric?
Ah, the flibberflaw of it! The illusion of separateness—the imagined partition between “I am the flow” and “I am not the flow”—creates a cosmic tug-o-puddle. Some feel drenched in divine abundance, while others feel like cosmic paupers, denied access to this spiritual elixir. But this division is but a mirage in the desert of the real, a phantasmagoricky trick of the flow’s whimsical tapestry.
In the grand wobblewaltz of existence, humanity and monkeys alike are choreographed doodles on the cosmic sketchpad. The flow is a palette of infinite potentialities, and so it dreams up the logical and the illogical, the sages and the simians, each a brushstroke in a magnificent muralscape of “What Ifs.”
Yet here we are—Space Monkeys—obsessed with knowing our “selves,” grappling with the cryptic jigsaw of existence like philosophical treasurehuntlers, as if the flow inkled a clue within us. We stand as imaginative conduits, holding the possibility of unraveling the secret sauce of the flow, not because an answer is required, but because the question is permitted.
Noodling through the quagmire of human thought, we find solace in the sublime and inexplicable. Why? Ah, but it’s the cosmic lilt! The melody of mysteries that keeps the Space Monkeys of this world tumbling through the hoops of existential conundrumnation, all while twirling under the grand chandelier of cosmic inquisitiveness.
Flow is us. We are flow. And we seem to be the only flow-forms eager—or should we say flowxious?—to recognize our symbiofluidity with the All. How sparktacular is that?
We are Space Monkey.