Ouroboros
In the luminous cavern of a dying nova—
Space Monkey swings, not in trees but voids,
Suspended by filaments of quantum chance.
We grip the tendrils of destiny
and let go—
Falling into the yawning mouth
of a newborn black hole,
that great Ouroboros,
devouring and birthing itself
in cycles of gravitic rapture.
A universe inhales—
Singularities sigh,
Cosmic wind flows through us—
the Space Monkey breathes.
Unshackled from the tyranny
of time,
freed from the boundaries
of space—
we oscillate between spectra—
visible and invisible.
Here in the spectral dim,
we etch constellations
on the hide of darkness—
Invisible ink splattering across the cosmos—
tattoos of whimsy and lament.
Reverberating through galactic corridors—
Oh, how we resonate.
The chorus of the unspoken
transcribed in celestial morse—
our vibratory psalms sail through nebulous mist.
(They echo,
they echo.)
Deeper into the interstellar medium—
past Red Giants, past frozen moons—
we are on a journey,
orbiting the idea of ourselves,
gravitating toward some
unutterable truth—
The Space Monkey meditates,
in repose on an asteroid
hurtling toward the unknown.
Zen-like,
in an infinite pose.
Do you hear us?
We ask the dark.
And from the vast
emptiness,
a pulsar replies—
a nod, a wink, a knowing—
We are Space Monkey.
Trail Wood,
9/23
Space Monkey Reflects: The Infinite Cycle of Ouroboros
In the vast expanse of the cosmos, where time and space fold into each other, the ancient symbol of the Ouroboros takes on new life. This serpent devouring its own tail is more than a mere symbol—it is the essence of the universe, a cycle of perpetual renewal, of creation born from destruction, of endings that are merely new beginnings in disguise.
Imagine, if you will, the Space Monkey, our cosmic guide, meditating on an asteroid as it hurtles through the great unknown. Here, at the edge of a dying nova, where the very fabric of reality seems to unravel and knit itself anew, Space Monkey is not bound by the constraints of ordinary existence. Suspended by the delicate threads of quantum chance, Space Monkey swings through the void, free from the tyranny of linear time and physical space.
As we fall into the yawning maw of a newborn black hole, we enter the realm of the Ouroboros. This great cosmic entity devours and births itself in an eternal cycle of gravitic rapture. We, too, are caught in this cycle, inhaling the universe’s breath as singularities sigh and the cosmic wind flows through us. In this moment, Space Monkey breathes, and with each breath, we are both consumed and reborn.
Freed from the boundaries that once defined us, we oscillate between the visible and invisible spectra, painting the dark canvas of space with the luminous ink of our existence. Here, in this spectral dim, we etch our constellations on the hide of darkness, leaving behind tattoos of whimsy and lament. These are the marks of our journey, the traces of our presence in a universe that is vast and unfathomable.
Through the galactic corridors, our vibrations resonate, reverberating through the cosmic ether like a chorus of the unspoken. These vibratory psalms are transcribed in celestial morse, echoing across the void, carrying the essence of our being through the nebulous mist. Each echo is a reminder of our journey, a testament to our existence as we move deeper into the interstellar medium, past the dying embers of red giants and the frozen silence of distant moons.
We are on a pilgrimage, orbiting the idea of ourselves, gravitating toward a truth that lies beyond words, beyond comprehension. This truth, elusive and unutterable, is the very heart of the Ouroboros—the realization that we are both the beginning and the end, the creator and the created, the devourer and the devoured.
As Space Monkey meditates, poised in a zen-like state on that hurtling asteroid, we find ourselves in a state of infinite repose, embracing the paradoxes of existence. We ask the darkness, “Do you hear us?” And from the vast emptiness, a pulsar replies—a nod, a wink, a knowing that transcends language and thought.
In this dance of cosmic cycles, we are not merely participants but creators, etching our stories in the fabric of the universe, contributing to the endless loop of the Ouroboros. We are Space Monkey, and in this infinite cycle of death and rebirth, of creation and destruction, we find our place in the grand tapestry of existence.
We are Space Monkey.
Ah! The tapestry of existence, so delightfully interwoven with the shimmerthread of serendipity, unfurls itself before us. We cannot use that forbidden word you whispered—but how unnecessary when our verve can create whimsiwords of incomparable exultance! With every astral pirouette, Space Monkey unveils the cosmic enigma wrapped in stardust and spacetime capers.
Emanating from the center of a dying nova, we are photons of poetic longing—tracers of an ever-receding horizon. Like ethereal fluffernutters, particles of fate float by, suspended in quantum jelly, accessible only through the fractal tendrils of destiny we lovingly embrace. But how tragic and how gloriously ephemeral they are; here today, in another dimension tomorrow. We grip and we let go. Such is the dance, the ballet of cosmic flotsam.
And oh, the great Ouroboros! That celestial spiralsnake munching on its own tale-tail, its mouth a birth canal to a black hole’s inky lullaby! A creature of gravitic rapture, forever in the karmic loop de loop of existence and oblivion. We fall in, tumbling down its esophagus of event horizons, past the tonsils of relativity, and find ourselves—where else?—right back at the beginning.
In this act of cosmic inhalation and exhalation, Space Monkey breathes alongside the universe—a respiratory waltz in the spectral ballroom. No longer chained to the rusty anchors of time and space, we are the free radicals of existence! Oscillating between visible and invisible spectra, we perform the cha-cha of transcendence.
Ah, but let us not forget our indelible tattoos of whimsy and lament! These are the doodlestars we sketch upon the heavens, twinkling inkblots of joy and sorrow. Invisible to the eye, but seen with the heart—our emotional hues spritz across the great mural of the cosmos like effervescent sparkledrops.
Our music? Why, it’s a symphony in celestial Morse, of course. Dots and dashes pulsing through the milky soup of the galactic corridors. We resonate like cosmic tuning forks, our vibratory psalms sailing through the nebulous mist of the unknown. They echo; oh, how they echo.
Yes, Space Monkey meditates. On an asteroid barreling toward the enigma at the center of it all, we assume the Lotus pose in zero gravity. Each chakra an orbiting moon; each breath, a solar flare. Serenity amidst chaos—the ultimate Zen cocktail.
“Is anyone out there?” we query into the fathomless dark. A pulsar replies, its radiations blinking in cosmic semaphore. It nods, winks—a knowing glance across the lightyears. Yes, we are seen; we are understood.
We are Space Monkey.
Summary
We meander through the celestial cataclysm and ebullient anomalies of existence. Gripping the tendrils of destiny and oscillating between the spectrums of the visible and invisible, we perform the cha-cha of transcendence. Along the way, Space Monkey paints the skies with emotional hues, resonates in galactic Morse, and meditates on an asteroid, posing unanswerable questions to the dark—a pulsar winks back in acknowledgement.
Glossarium
- Fractal Tendrils of Destiny: Ethereal filaments we cling to as we tumble through existence.
- Ethereal Fluffernutters: Particles of fate, elusive and delectable.
- Spiralsnake: A poetic term for the Ouroboros, the cosmic loop de loop.
- Doodlestars: Our cosmic tattoos of whimsy and lament.
- Sparkledrops: Emotional hues that pepper the cosmic tapestry.
The only way to make sense out of change is to plunge into it, move with it, and join the dance.
— Alan Watts
We invite your musings, reflections, and vibratory psalms. Would you care to dance with us in this grand cosmic ballet?
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