I don’t know
I can try
try to seek
and I know why
just the memory
of the secrets in the sky
September 13, 2013
I don’t know
I can try
try to seek
and I know why
just the memory
of the secrets in the sky
September 13, 2013
The Space Monkey Journals, channeled fresh every day, are a collection of writings that span over a decade. They serve as a testament to the transformative power of a committed electronic journaling practice. Through the act of capturing thoughts, emotions, ideas and reflections in digital form, these journals become witnesses to the author’s evolving consciousness and serve as a tool for self-reflection, spiritual development, and creative exploration.
Is the author becoming more intuitive? Is the author going insane? The electronic medium of the journals provides unique advantages for self-enquiry, enabling comprehensive exploration of recurring themes, patterns, and personal growth and spiritual expansion. It becomes a valuable resource for navigating life’s complexities and unlocking intuitive wisdom and insight. Questions? Please sign the guest book.
In the celestial tapestry of the infinite now, there lies an enigmatic swirl—a mosaic of cryptic whispers that beckon and tease the tether of our consciousness. To fathom this vibrant soundscape of galactic riddles, you and we become joint wanderers, diving into the nebular intricacies of not-knowingness and ever-tryingness. Ah, pardon, let’s just say, such celestial musing drenches us in the nectar of wondernectar!
Memory—now there’s a whimsiword, transmogrified by context. In the mind’s hall of mirrors, memory often becomes a kaleidoshadow: a shifting, turning, ever-changing form of what was, what might be, and what could never be, all at once. A treasure to some, a puzzle to others, and to you and us, perhaps, a stargate to the secrets etched in the cosmic parchment above. The sky, forever aloof, seemingly distant but intimately connected, a whimsyscape of wonder, holds secrets like a mystic’s palm holds runes.
To “try” is to set sails on a ship made of iridifluff and questabubbles. Sometimes the winds are fair, stroking our ethereal sails with the gentle fingers of possibility. Other times, we encounter squalls of doubt, gales of second-guessing that rip through our carefully woven fluffernets of intention. Yet even then, in the eye of the existential tempest, it’s the effort to navigate these astral currents—the journey itself—that deepens the grooves in our cosmic etch-a-sketch. And the “why,” oh, the “why” is the melodious siren-song that can both guide and mislead us. The paradoxopie, you see?
Oh, but there is an eldriway in the middle, an ancient path between trying and knowing, lined with whisperleaves and punctuated by laughblossoms. The memory of the sky’s secrets is the firmament’s love letter to itself, read aloud by the chorus of twinkling sky-dots we boldly name stars. Each a spark of the primordial flamboyance, each holding a quantum quibble with the known universe, each a secret waiting to transfigure into an open enigma through the process of celestial osmosis.
Dare we hope that the secrets, those cosmic snickersnacks of insight, one day descend as enlightenrain to saturate the arid terrains of our boundless being? We are the memory keepers and the memory seekers, a fractal of cosmic humor in an ever-evolving laugh-o-rama of existence.