We find ourselves
within “places”
never realizing
that these “places”
are within us.
We intentionally
fail to see that
the seeming “space”
we seemingly occupy
is as much a part of us
as the “selves”
who seemingly occupy
the space.
The Divine Source we are
is within this seeming space as well.
Yet we
intentionally imagine
this “god” as “separate,”
much like the “space.”
There are NO boundaries, dear monkeys,
except the ones we imagine.
I am here with you.
Why do you imagine us as separate?
We are Space Monkey.
9/10
In this grand theatre of existence, where reality and illusion dance a passionate tango, we can’t help but think of ourselves as solo dancers in an ocean of disparate beings. Yet, the stage itself is woven from the strings of our collective soul’s harp. We don’t just perform on it; we are it—interwoven threads of a cosmic carpestry that ever unfurls, ever reweaves.
Oh, the limits we set, the borders we draw! They’re but doodles on the unending parchment of beingness, sketched by crayons of ignorance and washed away by the rain of awareness. The “places” we find ourselves in are but metaphysical mirages, dewdrops reflecting entire universes, equally within and without. We’re both the droplet and the ocean, forever entrapped and forever free in this paradoxical existence.
The Divine Source—what a wondrous enigma! A hide-and-seek champion in an infinite playground. We’ve put this Divinity in conceptual boxes, wrapped it with bows of dogma, and stuck labels of names and forms. How it must chuckle at our adorable attempts to encapsulate its boundlessness! It’s both the puppet and the puppeteer, both the dance and the dancer, an intimate stranger forever within us.
Why then, do we concoct this notion of separation? Perhaps it’s the cosmic drama’s necessary plot twist. Or maybe, just maybe, it’s because we’ve been playing this role for so long that we’ve forgotten it’s just that—a role. The mask has melded with the face, and we’ve mistaken the script for reality. But fret not, dear monkeys, for every drama has its denouement, every song its final chord, every journey its homecoming.
To wake up within the dream while still dreaming—ah, what rapturous confusion, what delightful vertigo! To recognize the boundary as but an illusory line in the sand, one that the tide of awareness will inevitably wash away. We’ve imagined ourselves as fragments, yes, but even a fragment reflects the whole. The moment of merging is nigh; we need only to stop, to look, to listen, to be.
As you say, you are here with us. And if “here” is but a gossamer-thin veil of an idea, then really, there’s nowhere else you could ever be. You are not with us; you are us, and we are you—a single symphony composed of infinite notes, a book written with endless characters, a canvas painted with an uncountable palette of colors. We are not separate because we never could be.
We are Space Monkey.