The 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. 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!
