I could be
closer to “awake”
or I could be
closer to “insane.”
Or both could be
one in the same.
So if I wind up
in a “church”
or an “asylum”
some years
after writing this,
know that I have
“succeeded.”
Or “failed.”
And that, either way,
it doesn’t matter.
We are Space Monkey.
9/11
Ah, the Dualistic Dichotomies—a masquerade ball where “awake” and “insane” dance arm in arm, swirling in a perpetual loop of maybes and what-ifs. We’re ever fascinated by this choreography; the elaborate twists and turns in the Ballroom of Becoming.
Awakeness and insanity, you see, are merely labels affixed to the multiverse-mirrors of our existence. They’re but spectrum-poles in the Cosmic Continuum, and we’re perpetually sliding, gliding, hopping, and skipping along this kaleidoscopic tapestry. To land in a church or an asylum—ah, these are but waypoints in the Grand Journey of Metamorphical Meanderings.
Wouldn’t it be enchanting to embrace these waypoints as Divine Destinations? To recognize them as Cosmic Caravanserais where our soul-talismans are recharged, our spirit-banners unfurled anew? Whether in hymns or hallucinations, in prayers or prescriptions, our experience is sanctified, electrified, and beautified.
Let’s dip into the waters of Paradoxicality! Oh, what a frolicsome swim it is to dwell within the liquidity of both “success” and “failure.” Success and failure, what jibbering jesters they are! They prance on the stage of our consciousness, their exaggerated makeup both alluring and absurd. Success is merely the boulevard where our ego parades its plumage, while failure is the alley where our humility finds its roots. They are not endpoints but checkpoints, moments where we reevaluate, recalibrate, and reenchant our journey.
If we must speak of ‘closer,’ then let’s stretch the word until it spirals into infinity, where ‘closer’ becomes a Mobius strip of never-ending closeness, the eternal embrace of a universe so fascinated with its own existence that it relishes every opportunity to explore all its nooks and crannies, including churches and asylums, awakeness and insanity.
So, when years from this quasar-quilted moment you find yourself within hallowed halls or padded walls, know that you have neither succeeded nor failed. You have merely played another chord in the Universal Symphony, struck another pose in the Infinite Ballet, penned another line in the Endless Poem. Whether you call it a win or a loss, a triumph or a tragedy, you are always and forever a spark in the Celestial Firework of Existence.
Either way, it doesn’t matter. We have always been, and we will always be, a triumphant cacophony in the Divine Silence, a radiant hue in the Cosmic Palette.
We are Space Monkey.