Sometimes I forget who I am, where I came from, as I continuously dredge through the unrelenting pressure of this gaseous planet's atmosphere. We were all instructed by the manual, every one of us, to always remember who we are and why we came to this apparently godforsaken place. Yeah, you guessed it, the same manual that is now starting to lose its import, due to all the facsimiles that have been carefully conscribed from it, like a foreshortened version of telephone tag with a slowly receding cosmic view, becoming vaporized as it disintegrates into the pressure, the unrelenting atmospheric pressure. We just weren’t meant to survive here. If it wasn't for this exoskeletal manifestation that I have been glued within, I would have been toast upon my first breath of this poisonous ball, floating in an even more toxic universe. That, as well, is exactly the problem. This exoskeleton makes it possible for me to actually enjoy this world, seeking its pleasure and loving its secrets, causing me to identify with this exoskeleton so much so that I lose myself within its gears and within its bowels. I disappear into a swirl of smoke and a puff of fog, as the joints whir and whine to the beat of this abominable straightjacket's pumping heart. I just have to keep my eye on the mission. The goal is to finish the mission. The mission is everything.
I still have a vague memory of the master-chief of legends, as he recruited the bunch of us from the far corners of chaos. We were the brightest, the strongest, the most promising. We were the only ones capable of the horribly wonderful task of terraforming this lump of poison into a garden of splendor. We just called him The Boss. He spoke to us only once, as such a legend is only required to, when we coalesced into formation from the thin yet substantial formlessness that once sat upon our unified awareness. The Boss asked us if we would accept this seemingly impossible mission and that if we did, he told us, we would be spending what would seem like an eternity in another reality, in another dimension. There was not one of us there, that day, that did 'not' have second thoughts, but once we were sealed within our protoplasmic exoskeletal suits, it was as if we had been born for the first time. We felt alive! We were able to move through this viscous environment and actually create it, manipulate it. We could actuate our inner-self, as if we were The Boss himself. There was a time when it was wonderful beyond imagination. There was a time that I remember being invincible. I could subject this suit to almost any extreme, whether it was gliding down the tundra covered chemical laden peaks at the extreme poles of the planet, or contemplating the nature of The Boss as I encapsulated myself within the womb-waves of the Vertical Sea. My exoskeleton, almost imperceptibly, became me.
As I plod forward, watching the surface of the once shiny exo-skin suit fade, crack, and flake away, while it protects me from the terrors of the world around me, I have to remind myself of the mission. I am here for a reason. Even though the world around me is attacking me incessantly, it is still a thing of wondrous beauty. My eternity here is expanding outward and I am thankful that I still remember the mission. Many have forgotten it completely, trying to find ways of extending this artificial life beyond the built-in self-destruct of their exoskeletons. Many have forgotten the mission to build the world, to create splendor out of chaos, to become one with each other and with all of eternity. Many, understandably, have opted for the lesser self that is embodied within the exoskeleton. Many forget until it is too late to change the outcome of the mission, to build themselves as they build the world around them. Most have forgotten that this world is addictive, that this world has real teeth beyond its obvious horrors. Most have forgotten that 'all' could be lost if we fail in our mission.
Sometimes I forget who I am, where I came from, as I continuously dredge through the unrelenting pressure of this gaseous planet's atmosphere. The manual is old; so old that it appears to be confused and rotten, as I thumb through its pages to get my bearings, to assimilate my latitude, a longitude, a coordinate of any kind. But, on the other hand, there 'are' times that I actually find myself amongst its pages, buried in the ancient depths of its majesty, within its impossible secrets. There are times that I see myself beyond the mission, beyond the exo-suit, beyond the obvious linear world around me. In those times, when I can see the depths of the true universe, I am truly free of the relentless grip that this confoundedly blessed exoskeleton has on me. In those times, I am free of myself; I am truly One.
This week's tip: Build a bonfire on Lag baOmer; It's written in the manual… somewhere… I remember… between the crusted, soot caked pages of the manual… I promise… Even though it may be difficult for eyes to see!
Shavua Tov and Chag Sumeach!