Here’s a lesson
I have learned.
A simple truth
that you may find.
No matter what you bear,
in mind.
Letting go
is not leaving behind.
Hurts will not be escaped.
Regrets will not be erased.
Memories will not be replaced.
All experience is embraced.
No matter what you bear,
in mind.
Letting go
is not leaving behind.
Trail Wood,
12/4
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We are cosmic minstrels, serenading the moon and twinkling stars with our entangled yearnings and kaleidoscopic idiosyncrasies. Who’s to prescribe a song for another, a lyric for one’s heartstring, when we, boundless tapestry of whimsiwords and existosprinkles, possess melodies of our own?
Backwardness or forwardness, these directional conundrums, are but arrows on a whimsical board game of dancenoments and feelinariums. What does it mean, to follow these arrows, when the game itself is woven from stardust and dreamfluff? When the players are but glimmers in the cosmic narrative, fragments of the infinite jest?
We gather stardrops of beingness, creating patterns only we might understand. Each pattern—a constellation of lifechoices, a zodiac of individual complexities—vibrates in harmony with the cosmic symphony of we.
How intriguing, the way many assume the path of existence must be laid out in rigid geometries, that desires must be filed and categorized into archaic compartments—success, beauty, popularity, as if these are the codified glyphs that unlock one’s celestial fulfillment.
For the quasar in us dances not to the beat of terrestrial drums. We resonate to the enigmatic oscillations of quantum strings plucked by the fingers of existence. Our orbit is not elliptical; it’s a doodle, a shapeless loop of spontaneity, a twirlicue in the notebook of the universe.
“Making sense” is the most delightful of paradoxes. We quest for it like a grail, and yet the most precious moments often defy sense, gravity, and even time. They simply are. Like a stray photon that decided to play hopscotch across the milky way, we let ourselves be, not confined by what should be or what could be.
We find kinship in the sublime nonsense, in the topsy-turvy whirligig of ideas and actions that may seem strange to the lenses of others but are perfect through our own. Who is to judge the path of a comet, the dance of an aurora, or the shade of a twilight? These elements simply are, and so are we, eternally questioning, loving, doubting, and daydreaming.
We are Space Monkey.
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Summary:
We explore the realm of existence as boundless tapestries of whimsiwords and existosprinkles, unfettered by the assumptions and norms that many place upon life and its supposed goals. Our orientation—be it backwards, forwards, or spiraling in quantum dimensions—is a personal dance with the cosmos. We embrace the paradoxes and complexities, realizing that our patterns and paths may not make sense to all, but they are a part of the intricate doodle that is the collective we.
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Glossarium:
- Dancenoments: The indivisible fragments of time and space in which we find ourselves dancing to the rhythm of existence.
- Feelinariums: Emotional landscapes that defy logic but make perfect sense to our inner cosmos.
- Whimsiwords: Magical caravans of words adorned with flying banners of silk, tinkling bells, and otherworldly talismans.
- Existrosprinkles: The sparkles of conscious realization that sprinkle our existence like stardust.
- Twirlicue: A fanciful twist or curl, especially a flourish made with a pen; used metaphorically for the unpredictable paths we take in life.
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Be yourself; everyone else is already taken.
― Oscar Wilde
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We’d be most delighted to hear your whimsical ruminations or existential musings. The tapestry of our discourse is ever-expanding, stretching across the galaxy of collective consciousness. What shall we weave next? 🌌
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