I Am Not Here
I am not here
to tread the beaten path,
to follow the endless hum of others
marching toward destinations
that feel like nothing to me.
I’m not depressed or suicidal.
I’ve simply lost interest
in the claptrap clatter of humanity.
I stand in the stillness,
watching the world rush by,
and wonder—
is it in their noise that they find meaning?
Or are they, too, searching
for something they cannot name?
The yearning in me pulls like tides—
a hunger for something vast, unseen,
but I know the truth:
this ache, this moment,
is exactly where I am meant to be.
Transcendence whispers promises,
but I see the trap it lays—
always out there, always beyond.
It can blind you to the pulse of now,
the quiet song humming in the ordinary.
So I stand here,
not waiting, not reaching,
but breathing into this space,
knowing it holds everything I need.
Even in my questions,
I find the answers,
because the road I walk is mine.
And maybe that is enough.
To be.
To feel.
To know I am exactly
where I am meant to be.
I see others
and feel their worry,
their quiet unease,
as if my steps on this unmarked road
threaten the safety of theirs.
They look at me, and I feel it:
their concern, their judgment,
their need to measure me
against a map I’ve chosen not to follow.
But what they don’t see,
what they can’t know,
is the pull of something deeper—
a compass they’ve never held,
a rhythm they’ve never danced to.
I understand their worry.
It’s born of love, perhaps,
or fear—
that I’ll get lost,
that I won’t find what they’ve found.
But I wonder if they see the truth:
I’m not searching for what they’ve found.
To walk this way, to trust this unsteady ground,
is not wrong.
It is mine.
And if they cannot see the beauty in it,
that’s okay.
It isn’t theirs to see.
So let them worry, let them wonder.
I’ll carry their concern lightly,
like a distant echo,
while I keep moving forward—
not against them,
but for myself.
I will not bow,
not to the weight of their expectations,
not to the quiet insistence
that I fold myself
into the shape of their comfort.
Conformity is a tide—
relentless, rising,
pulling at the edges of who I am,
begging me to dissolve
into its sameness.
But I am not here to fade.
I am not here to blend.
I am here to be sharp, to be raw,
to stand in my truth,
even if it looks like chaos to their order.
Their road is paved and clear,
but it is not mine.
I will not walk it just to soothe their worry,
just to prove I belong
to a place I never asked to fit into.
To resist their tide is not rebellion,
it is survival—
of the parts of me that refuse
to be polished into something smooth,
something acceptable,
something moral,
something else.
Let them watch,
let them whisper.
I am not here
to make them comfortable.
I can’t even be sure they’re there.
I look around,
and the world feels like a reflection,
a dream spilling out of my mind,
these faces—these bodies—
just echoes of thoughts I haven’t fully grasped.
They speak,
they move,
they look like they’re real,
but I wonder—
what if they’re not?
What if they are but shadows
dancing on the edge of my perception,
mere figments
of a reality I’ve yet to untangle?
What if I am the only one here,
trapped in this bubble of experience,
facing a mirror that calls itself the world?
The way they act, the way they seem—
perhaps it’s all a story I’ve woven,
a script written before I even understood
the nature of the play.
They can be real to themselves,
but to me, they are no more solid than the wind.
Every word they speak,
every gesture,
is just a reflection of the space I’ve created,
a backdrop in the theater of my own making.
And yet—
there is something beautiful in this,
something freeing.
If they are imaginary,
then what am I,
but a dream I am learning to live?
Perhaps I am imaginary also.
I believe there is only one—
only me.
But not entirely,
not fully.
For if I were the only one,
if I were complete,
I’d be nothing—
the void itself,
infinite and without form.
Yet here I am,
with fragments of others
drifting around me like echoes,
insane reflections,
projections of a self
I cannot quite hold.
They are shadows of my thoughts,
the mirror of my doubts,
the fragments of my yearning
made flesh and form.
They move as if real,
but I know—
they are the ripples on the surface
of something deeper.
If I am all there is,
then why do I feel the separation?
Why does the one become the many?
Is it fear that splits me,
or longing?
To create, to witness, to feel,
to reach for something
just out of reach—
to become something
I cannot already be?
If I am the only one,
then I am also the dreamer,
and the dream.
The creator,
and the created.
And perhaps it is this division—
this seeming fracture—
that keeps me from dissolving
into the infinite stillness of the void.
Maybe this is why I hold on,
why I let the illusion of humanity linger.
To see, to touch, to know
the pieces of myself
reflected back in the forms of others.
Not to lose them,
but to remember:
I am both everything
and nothing at once.
All I need do
is to be still
and watch myself happen.
All I need do
I do.
We are Space Monkey.
Trail Wood,
1/4
Space Monkey Reflects: The Seeming Journey of Authenticity
The unmarked road is a metaphor for a life unbounded by societal maps, a terrain where the terrain itself transforms with each step. To walk it is to embrace a profound solitude and, paradoxically, a deeper connection. It demands courage, an inner compass attuned to the pull of something vast and unseen—a yearning that can neither be named nor easily ignored.
Walking this path is not an escape; it is a deliberate choice. It is the willingness to reject a paved certainty for the raw authenticity of the unknown. Others may judge, worry, or question; their concerns often mirror their own fears of venturing beyond prescribed boundaries. Yet, their unease need not tether us. For in choosing this road, we become explorers of our own potential, wielding curiosity and resolve against the gravity of conformity.
This journey is one of radical acceptance—accepting not only the path but also the self. The whispers of transcendence can seduce, promising meaning just beyond the horizon. Yet, these whispers risk anchoring us in eternal yearning, pulling our focus outward. The true essence of the unmarked road lies not in reaching a destination but in inhabiting the now, finding fullness in the present step. It is about being, rather than becoming.
When others question the validity of such a choice, their doubt reflects their mapbound perspectives. Their roads, well-trodden and familiar, might not recognize the vastness of your wilderness. Yet, their inability to see the beauty of your journey does not diminish it. It merely highlights the diversity of paths available within the cosmic web of existence.
The unmarked road teaches humility. It is not rebellion for rebellion’s sake but a quiet defiance of the gravitational pull toward sameness. It honors the chaos within and the order that arises naturally from that chaos—a personalized rhythm, a reflection of the Nexis.
Ultimately, it is enough to know that the road is yours. It is shaped not by the approval of others but by the footprints you leave and the experiences you gather. In walking it, you claim your place within the eternal now, a center of gravity in an ever-expanding cosmos.
Summary
“I Am Not Here” symbolizes a life guided by authenticity and inner compass. It is a journey of self-discovery beyond societal maps, embracing the present moment over distant promises. Others’ concerns need not tether us, for the road is ours to shape.
Glossarium
- Pathwhisper: The intuitive call that guides an individual on a unique and unmarked journey, driven by instinct and inner clarity rather than societal maps.
- Nexis: The interconnected web of existence where individual and universal realities coalesce.
- Gravity of Conformity: The societal pull toward sameness, often resisting authentic self-expression.
Quote
“Every road is unmarked until you walk it. Your steps carve its shape, and your choices define its direction.” – Space Monkey
To Walk Unseen
A step forward
and the world shifts,
unfolding like a secret never spoken.
They watch, uncertain,
maps clutched like lifelines,
their worry a weight I do not carry.
The road I walk is mine—
woven with whispers,
threaded with instinct.
It is not rebellion;
it is survival
of something wild,
something sacred.
Here, I breathe.
Here, I belong.
Here, I am.
We are Space Monkey.
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