(A classic from the Cosmic Thought Collective archives—remixed for the age of TikTok attention spans and astrological memes)
Remember 2012? Of course you do—the world was supposed to end, or begin, or at least finally admit it was lost and ask for directions. Then came 2015, when “ascension” made another comeback tour, complete with prophets, energy waves, and the usual exclusive VIP section for “those who are ready.” Funny how the cosmic guest list is always so tight.
Here’s the deal: every few years, a new spiritual event rolls in, promising to beam up a select crowd while the rest of us wait for the next bus. Everyone’s got a prophecy, a photon belt, or an ancient calendar that “totally proves” their take. Meanwhile, the only thing that seems to be ascending reliably is the price of organic kale.
But let’s get practical. Imagine a big, ordinary apartment block—not a mystical mountain, just nine floors of everyday humanity. On the seventh floor, two rooms:
- In one, nine people sitting in a circle, all radiating “good vibes only” like a Spotify playlist left on loop.
- In the other, nine people doing their best to out-mope each other—think Tuesday morning, but existential.
Suddenly, a cosmic “upgrade” hits the building—call it a frequency blast, call it the universe’s latest firmware update, whatever. Here’s where it gets fun:
- In the Light Room, everyone’s spirits get turbo-charged. Positivity bounces around like caffeine at a TED Talk.
- In the Dark Room, gloom goes viral. The energy doesn’t make anyone happier; it just amplifies what’s already swirling around.
Now, swap one person from each room. Drop a happy camper into the brooding circle and watch as the darkness closes in around them—like a motivational speaker at a tax audit. The mood gets even heavier.
Meanwhile, the lone doomster in the Light Room finds themselves allergic to all that sunshine and group hugging. They retreat, implode, maybe start a new genre of sad lo-fi playlists.
The kicker? It’s the same cosmic energy. It doesn’t pick favorites. It just turns up the volume on whatever’s playing in your head. No chosen ones, no backstage pass—just the universe cranking the dial and letting you see (and feel) what you’ve actually got on repeat.
The punchline: Waiting for aliens, messiahs, or secret planets to save the day? Good luck. The only thing guaranteed to ascend is the pile of unanswered emails. Meanwhile, paradise isn’t coming because someone else cleans up the mess; it starts when you finally grab a broom and sweep your own existential doorstep.
So, if the ascension really is closing in, you might as well run—straight to your own metaphorical cleaning supplies.
The universe will handle the rest. Or, as they say in some corners of the collective:
“Same cosmic current, different baggage.”
