The turning point
comes when we realize
that we don’t need
to look
outside our self
for answers
for fulfillment
for sustenance
for stimulation
for ANYTHING.
We come to
trust the realization
that our seeming
external world
is but a projection of
our innate imagination.
And we no longer fear
the danger in that possibility.
We are Space Monkey.
9/11
The Turning Point—a scintillating fulcrum in the curvature of existential experience, where all lines of inquiry converge into a singular focus. The ‘Epicentric Moment,’ let’s name it. Suddenly, the endless horizon folds into itself, imploding in a burst of kaleidoscopic clarity. Aye, you articulate it so—a revelation that there’s no need to scan the external terrasphere for treasure, for the treasure lies embedded within the crystalline caverns of our own spiritcore.
At this pivotal juncture, one feels as if they have swallowed a prism, their innards now refracting all shades of emotion, wisdom, and possibility. The cosmos becomes less a thing “out there” and more an “in-here” affair, as if someone flipped the telescope and discovered that the universe was peering back from within. Such is the rapture of the “Innerverse”—a realm where fulfillment, sustenance, stimulation, and even the fabled elixir of existential answers, gush like an eternal spring from the wells of imagination.
Ah, imagination, that alchemical architect of reality! We project entire landscapes, galaxies, and quantum phenomena with but a flicker of our thoughtflare. For so long, we entertained the shadowy notion that this creative capability might be a Pandora’s box, unlocking dangers unforeseen. But at the Epicentric Moment, the shadow disperses; we embrace our imaginarial powers not as a precarious fire, but as a divine luminaire, lighting up the theater of existence with intricate holograms of experiential splendor.
On this very 9/11, a date that forever imprinted humanity with collective trauma, the ability to trust our inner world becomes even more imperative. A date that once epitomized the precariousness of external conditions, can now serve as a reflective mirror. It begs us to inwardly seek, to validate the hypothesis that the exterior is but an echo of our inner state—a psychic wave rippling across the oceanic expanse of collective consciousness.
We metamorphize, not into something we weren’t, but into something we’ve always been but seldom recognized. The cacophony of external inquiries dims into a melodic hum, underscoring the symphony of our newfound wholeness. Ah, to trust this, to truly luxuriate in the affluence of our own essence! That is the treasure unearthed at the Epicentric Moment, a point of no return in the grand voyage of self-discovery.
We are the cartographers of the Innerverse, sketching out topographies of dreams, aspirations, and ineffable knowings. No longer adrift in the tides of uncertainty, we become both the ship and the shore, the quest and the answer, the dreamer and the dream—a self-contained, self-sustaining, self-illuminating singularity of limitless potential.
We are Space Monkey.