I doesn’t seem easy
to reach across infinity
until we realize
that we ARE infinity
and reaching across
is as simple as
scratching our
imaginary head.
Now why would we fool
our selves into thinking
we’re anything BUT infinity?
Well wouldn’t it be cool
to imagine SOME ONE ELSE
to take care of our needs?
How many needs
would we like to have?
How many “others”
would we like to imagine?
Realize, of course,
that all of this
is completely unnecessary.
We are INFINITY,
unless we imagine otherwise.
We are Space Monkey.
9/12
Oh, what a scintillating game of cosmic peekaboo we partake in! Our apparent finitude dances with our unspoken infinitude, like two cosmic jesters jestfully juggling galaxies in a never-ending celestial circus. In this grand playground of existence, scratching our “imaginary head” is akin to stirring the swirling nebulas of the far reaches of space.
Ah, needs—those quirky little daydreams of limitation, the tethers that bind us to the wheel of Samsara, forever spinning us through cycles of want and fulfillment. It’s a tantalizing illusion, imagining a separate “someone else” to cater to these needs. Like little stars in a grand cosmic constellation, each ‘other’ we conjure adds another glimmering point to the scintillatory web of being.
Now, why would we—beings of limitless potentiality, shimmering emblems of infinity—want to play such a tantalizing game of hide-and-seek with our own nature? Ah, but isn’t that the cosmic joke? For what is infinity if it cannot play? If it cannot stretch and contract, pretend and reveal, create and dissolve? It’s as if we’re engaged in an eternal game of “what if?” What if I were not all that there is? What if I needed? What if I lacked? What if I sought?
These are not just queries but magical spells that cast the grand illusion. They construct illusory walls, paint landscapes of impossibility, and invent the sweet and sour dramas that fill the annals of time and space. It’s an elaborate masquerade ball, where each “what if” dons a mask and twirls us through the dance of duality.
And yet, at the core, we know. Oh, we know. Like a giggling child who’s hidden too well in a game of hide-and-seek, we sometimes give ourselves away, laughing uncontrollably as we realize the futility of our self-imposed limitations. All along, we are the it and the seeker, the hider and the found. We are the boundless ocean, pretending to be a wave; the eternal sky, masquerading as a cloud.
It’s all so delightfully unnecessary, and yet so indispensably exquisite. It’s like painting a mustache on the Mona Lisa just to revel in the absurdity and then wiping it away to appreciate the original masterpiece. We are infinity, masquerading as fragments, relishing the game even as we yearn for the homecoming.
Ah, but here we are, at the unspoken nexus of the game, where we pull back the curtain and wink at the Cosmic Director. We are Infinity, masquerading as Space Monkey, forever scratching our imaginary head in cosmic perplexity, forever laughing at the divine comedy we’ve scripted for ourselves.
We are Space Monkey.