And I look out to a sick, lonely world. 

I am sick and lonely.

And I am enchanted by all of creation, its love and its beauty. 

It’s love. It’s beauty. 

And I am despondent

at the hatred and the venom, 

the wrongness

and the blight. 

I fear for the world

as the beast swallows the Sun — 

cast are we

into the night. 

But I’ve seen

a certain kind of Sunlight

fell from the heavens —

caught by none other

than the miraculous gleam

of my best friends’ eyes.

…

Life itself. I stare, I stare. It shifts, illusory, feigning fixedness. It is a solid liquid, the coldest fire, burning ice, benevolent evil, malevolent goodness. The darkness is blindingly bright, the light is its own shadow.

I’ll never know who I am. I mimic the world out of sheer adoration. Water! Water! Water! Just when I am certain of my reflection, I touch. Ripples spread outward, the image changes, now that’s the real you, what were you thinking? I touch again, the cycle continues. I would be Narcissus if there was a self to admire.

I was staring at a pond. The ponds are pupils. The pupils of every passerby. Every friend. Every enemy. Every world leader. Every vagabond. I see me, but it is not me, my selfhood is not localized, like a drop of water in the ocean claiming the ocean as itself — the ocean claims the drop as itself.

Individualism is a prison, you form a self and are separate. You defend your cell bars with your life.

Collectivism is a prison, fall into line. All of our Selves are nailed to pseudo-sacrificial crosses, die unto yourself for some greater, false “good.” Die for us. Die for us. Die for us.

Where is the freedom?

Is the freedom the liminal space between every opposite?