8 Billion as 1

It’s a peculiar feeling, isn’t it? To be one of 8 billion. To surely be the one and only soul to have unique experiences, immersive suffering, triumphs— Ha. A peculiar feeling to be sure, to be Completely Unoriginal In every conceivable way, to be one of infinite incarnations; swirling among a mass of consciousness, each entirely whole yet mere specks in the fabric of existence. You and I are strangers Inexorably sewn together; each a lone stitch, immeasurably apart but unwittingly and essentially overlapping We might never know how each of our breaths ripple the air and brush the necks of strangers We are cloth. Sewn not by hand, but rather by perfect machine design; each stitch revealing itself as precisely the same size, perfectly spaced, of equal importance Each an integral part of the fold And what of a rogue stitch? The resulting jam is, if not irreparable, then vastly consequential; Un Doing. It’s a peculiar feeling. To be so completely immersed in one’s own trials and triumphs; independent and ignorant and indifferent, yet utterly dependent on those of others. You and I breathe separately, but the earth breathes as One.