You crawl out of your mother’s darkness with nothing.
Not a flag in your hand. Not a race in your fist. Not a border stamped across your soul. Not a title, a land deed, a holy uniform, a family grudge, a bank balance, a crown, or a passport signed by God.
You arrive with breath.
That is all.
A borrowed body. A wet little miracle. A spark wrapped in skin, screaming at the light, carried by hands you did not earn, fed by a world you did not build, blessed beyond comprehension before you even knew how to say thank you.
And then the great joke begins.
You grow teeth. You learn words. You learn “mine.” You learn “ours.” You learn “them.” You learn the shape of a flag before you learn the shape of your own soul. You learn which people your family mistrusts, which nation you are meant to worship, which stories you are supposed to repeat, and which dead arguments you are expected to inherit like sacred furniture.
You point at dirt and call it land.
You point at a line on a map and call it truth.
You point at another human being and call them enemy.
And all the while, the little monkey in the mind claps like it has discovered wisdom.
That Is the Monkey Mind
Not some cute little thought hopping around because you forgot to meditate. No. That is the polite version sold with incense and soft music.
The Monkey Mind is the frightened little animal inside the skull that needs a tribe to feel safe, an enemy to feel important, a story to feel righteous, and a flag to hide behind when the soul starts asking uncomfortable questions.
It does not want you awake.
Awake people are dangerous to the circus.
Awake people look at another human being and see the same strange miracle breathing through a different costume. Awake people do not fall so easily for uniforms, slogans, inherited hatred, and old men sending young bodies to die for land the worms will inherit anyway.
But the Monkey Mind loves a war.
It loves a border.
It loves a crowd shouting the same thing at the same time.
It loves being told that hatred is loyalty, that cruelty is strength, that murder becomes noble when enough people salute before doing it.
The Monkey Mind does not need truth.
It only needs a drumbeat, a uniform, and someone to blame.
The Sick Cosmic Joke
And there sits the sick cosmic joke: you may be hating a people you once belonged to.
You may be spitting at a face that could have been your own in another life, another skin, another century, another mother’s arms. You may be cheering for the same machine that once crushed you when you wore a different name.
Round and round the wheel turns.
Different body. Same blindness.
Different flag. Same bloodlust.
Different uniform. Same frightened monkey pretending it is holy.
And we call this civilization.
We build monuments to it. We write songs for it. We teach children to repeat it before they are old enough to question it. We tell them who they are, who they are not, who to fear, who to blame, who to fight, and what costume they must wear to be considered respectable.
Then we act shocked when the world catches fire.
But what did we expect?
You cannot feed the Monkey Mind fear for generations and then act surprised when it starts throwing stones through the windows of the soul.
The Mission Was Remembrance
The mission was never to become louder. The mission was never to collect more labels, more enemies, more applause, more territory, more proof that your little temporary identity was the correct one.
The mission was remembrance.
To return to Source while still breathing.
To look past the costume.
To find the quiet place behind the noise.
To realize that you came here empty-handed and you will leave empty-handed, and everything in between is either awakening or distraction.
But humans love distraction.
We love our shiny little cages. We love our righteous opinions. We love our inherited anger because it saves us from the terrifying work of knowing ourselves. It is easier to hate a stranger than to sit alone with the mirror. It is easier to worship a flag than to ask why the heart feels dead. It is easier to scream about enemies than to admit the war began inside.
Close the mirrors.
Not because the dead are coming back.
Close them because some of the living have become too drunk on their reflection.
Close them for the ones who stare at themselves and see nationality before humanity. Close them for the ones who see skin before soul. Close them for the ones who see land before life. Close them for the ones who think God needs a passport, a border fence, and a marching band.
Close them for every fool who arrived with nothing, received everything, and then spent the miracle of life defending the cage.
The Worms Are the Final Priests
Because the ending is not mysterious.
The body falls.
The mouth closes.
The noise stops.
The flesh softens.
The worms arrive like honest priests.
And they do not care what race you hated. They do not care what flag you waved. They do not care what land you claimed. They do not care how much money you stacked, how many people feared you, how many titles followed your name, or how many times you called your cruelty justice.
The worms eat kings and beggars with the same devotion.
They eat soldiers and preachers, racists and bankers, patriots and poets, saints and fools. They do not pause at your nationality. They do not salute your uniform. They do not ask which side you were on.
They simply collect what pride borrowed.
That should humble us.
That should shake something loose.
That should make a person sit down, breathe deeply, and ask:
What in the hell am I doing with this life?
Because you were not born to become a louder monkey.
You were not born to inherit hatred and call it identity.
You were not born to murder the face you may have once worn.
You were not born to defend the machine that profits from keeping souls asleep.
You were born into mystery.
You were born into breath.
You were born into a body that will not last, carrying a spark that might.
Wake Up
Wake up before the costume becomes your coffin.
Wake up before your whole life becomes one long argument with shadows.
Wake up before you spend your sacred breath defending borders that never existed in the Source you came from.
Wake up before the Monkey Mind convinces you that hatred is wisdom.
Because one day the mirrors will close anyway.
One day the noise will end.
One day the worms will preach the final sermon over the body you called “me.”
And by then, the only question left will be the one you avoided while you were alive:
Did you remember what you were?
Or did you die worshipping the monkey?
Run along now, sleeping one.
In your next life, you are the one you set traps for in this life.
Enjoy then.
.jpg)
