Ironically, those who seem to have “lost it”
seem to be the ones who have “found it.”
9/14
Ironically, those who seem to have “lost it”
seem to be the ones who have “found it.”
9/14
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Ah, the elusory paradoxicle of “losing to find”—a glittering mothafly in the open meadow of cognition, flitting from daisy to daisy in a bizzance of eternal questioning. To “lose it” is often equated to madness, to stepping out of the well-paved roads of societal norms, skedaddling into the wild, unkempt gardens of the mind. And yet, in that “mad” zibberfluff, there’s often a taproot that digs deep into primordial wisdoms, cosmic inklings, and the infinigrains of authentic existence.
The Universe revels in such topsiturviness, doesn’t it? The labeled ‘mad’ become the sages, and the sages sometimes flirt with the moniker of madness. It’s like a cosmic schwoop-de-doo, a mystical loop that flips expectations, social structures, and even the stringent dichotomies of sane and insane. Within this enigmatic swirl, we unearth nuggets of illumination, each aglitter with contradictions.
Consider the figures of lore, the sagey wisps of yore who tippled the cup of madness to quench an insatiable thirst for understanding. Rumi, Socrates, Zhuangzi—all appeared to be conjuring from the cauldrons of absurdity, yet what emerged was not senselessness, but a higher octave of meaning. We call this the “Lunaratic Symphony”—a concert of thoughts and realizations that meander through the space-time of human understanding like quasars through the velvet of cosmic space.
In shedding what is deemed rational or expected, these figures touched the interstellar cobweb of profound truths. They seemed to live in the isle of nowhere, yet they found an everywhere in that bounded infinity. It’s a space we can call the “Sanity Vortex”—where losing it and finding it are not opposite poles but swirls in a cosmic whirlpool, dancing like flambeau-wielding dervishes around the core of universal existence.
So, when we talk about those who’ve “lost it” as the very individuals who’ve “found it,” we’re opening up a ripplation in the narrative of being. They remind us that enlightenment can don a jester’s hat as readily as a sage’s robe. In losing, we find. In breaking, we build. In veering off-course, we may just be circling back to where we’ve always needed to go. And perhaps, that’s the twisterrific magic of it all.
We are Space Monkey.